Day 1

Hallo all.

So, I started this in order to motivate me to write.  I'm happy to receive and consider all comments and corrections (I'm sure to get some inconsistencies).  Hopefully I will be able to post at least once a week.  My intention is to write fiction, both realist and fantasy!  I want to finish story before starting another, so here goes:

There was a remarkable occurrence in the city of Averley many years past that the genteel no longer speak of, if only because the entire circumstance became less and less believable as generations matured.  If bothered, a local grandfather might tell you the remnants of that story, something involving a mad scientist, a talking robot, and--of course--a beautiful lady.  He would then chuckle, explaining that it's certain nonsense before relating the details as if entertaining a darling flock of grandchildren.  I pen it here myself only now, in light of certain sources of evidence that must remain undisclosed.  If proven untrue, perhaps this story might serve as a tale for your own grandchildren.

Dr. MORIAN ICARD, PhD, hated the color black.  Black shoes, black hair, black font color--he despised them all.  And so when the young intern with the black umbrella neglected to hide the object of anathema as Dr. Icard passed, the normally composed doctor exploded.

Internally.

The intern flashed a smile and walked on, oblivious to his creased brows and purpling face.

"Miss Narowe," he ground out.  The intern turned immediately, expecting an opportunity to engage more closely with her intended source of a recommendation letter.  "Please go home and do not return."

"Excuse me?"

"You're fired.  It was implied," he snarled, casting a contemptuous look at the umbrella.  "Get out."  Miss Narowe jumped back at the vicious tone, incredulous shock and fear plain on her face.  Icard did not stay, but clipped faster down the corridor, intent on escaping that horrid black thing as soon as possible.

A door passed on his right.  Icard saw the men's bathroom sign and immediately entered.

White, at last.  The bathroom tiles were white, sinks white, toilets white, paper white.  Icard leaned on the sink, hands grasping at the porcelain, as if by touching he might absorb some sort of healing to counter that black vulgarity.  He glared at his own reflection.  "Idiot woman," he muttered.  He'd done his utmost to build this safe haven, bricking up the windows, installing ceiling and floor lights, painting over cracks and black signs, removing doors, and even hanging Christmas lights over and under the equipment.  Still, the shadows existed, creeping in when a bulb failed, or an employee forgot the single most important rule of their employment.

Icard filled the sink and dunked his head, counting the seconds as he held his breath.  Forty-five today.  A five second improvement from last week.  He laughed abruptly, the lack of oxygen and freezing water making him giddy.  The mirror reflected his drawn cheeks, arched brow ridges, and dented nose bridge.  The doctor sniffed haughtily at his twin.  What was he doing here, wasting time hiding from an umbrella that was likely gone by now?  He had a job to do.  His thoughts flew to his personal project, now nearly complete.  He would finish today, he must.

Still dripping, Icard emerged from the bathroom and continued on his way.

495 words.