Narrative

Warning: The following endeavor was spawned of boredom. Continue if you dare/must.

Ahem.

Hello?

Ah, yes? Is this working? I suppose I must put faith in my ability and work from the assumption that my narration form is in proper working condition.

Now, where the devil am I to begin...we have quite a bit of story to tell, so let us not dawdle. I will now assume a mode of discourse that I presume is familiar to you.

Thomas looked upon the wreckage with horror. It was a look that could only be performed by one who knew that what he saw was entirely his fault.

You may have noticed that in an effort to incite interest in what I have to tell you I have begun this tale in media res. Whether that has accomplished what I intended or not, the technique is more effective at striking attention than setting a story in motion. Thus, with your mind's ear fully captured for the moment, I will attempt to give things a proper beginning.

Thomas Blake was a young man of many talents. Art, literature, music, performance, any activity from the soul was his delight and forte.

What he was unmistakably terrible at was remembering to buy milk.

It's not as if milk crossed his mind every day. The rare occasion he ate at home his culinary ability was restricted to the realm Cup O' Noodles and instant coffee. So surely one could forgive his tendency to wait until the whole jug had spoiled and then unwittingly attempt to drink the bacteria-laden swill.

After mopping up the (shall we say) return appearance of said swill, Thomas wiped his mouth and smacked his forehead. He had a conundrum - go and buy a new jug, or give up on this whole milk business and commit to a life of calcium deficiency.

He decided on the former, and grabbed his hat. The usual routine followed - try to brush his teeth before leaving, get blindsided by a new idea for a novelette on the way to the bathroom, stare at the wall in thought for ten minutes, promptly forget what he was doing, and leave.

The morning had just begun.