I'm not entirely sure if this is appropriate for here, however I am currently writing a book of short stories based around a tower block, situated on the outskirts of Glasgow, in Scotland. It will tell the tales of the god forsaken souls that have been forced to wallow in the buildings cruel predetermined torment.
This is the prologue, let me know what you think ;]
------------------------------------
It was an abysmal building. Through a labyrinth of unlit, damp-ridden hallways, doors lined against the compact walls serving as gateways to an array of people and worlds beyond any reasonable contemplation. Simply strolling from one end of a corridor to the other served as a perfect opportunity to grasp the variance of emotion and existence that was confined within the cracking plaster and mortar that held the fragile building together.
The building itself was cast in grey render, further heightening the sorrowful screams that the structure’s foundations had been set upon. Faded navy blue paint lined the parapet of the roof and plastic runners that lay vertical on the corners of the building in a pathetic attempt to implant a feel of happiness to the depressing hollowness that the building forcefully portrayed.
Standing twenty-two floors high, block 12A of the Ramsey estate was born into a culture of violence, abuse, and turmoil against civilised co-existence. Artless graffiti dirtied the walls both inside, and out. Endless needles, cans and used condoms littered the entire landscape of the estate - the hallmark of the area’s cultural regression. Signs of mental degradation, Neanderthal-like domestic status, it was a sight for sore eyes.
Outside, broken and abandoned cars filled the spaces that were once intended for young, prosperous first time buyers during the modernisation of the country. The underdevelopment of this dream, these aspirations, was almost heart breaking - the painfully apparent deterioration of what was to be a rose of architecture, trampled on the ground.
The two hundred foot village stood tall, but seemed weak. It’s stained facade exuded an unsuppressed aura of malice. No longer was this structure a mere building, but a living, breathing monster – capable of scorching any hope of pleasure or affluence the moment it’s fortifications were crossed. Beckoning it’s victims, offering shelter from the piercing conditions of the outside world. By entering, you belonged to the building.
However, confined within this beast, encased by the daunting walls that surrounded them, people of all creeds and colour resided and lived their life’s, ignoring the common denominator that that archived their pearl. These people’s stories, though twisted, were the reason this building lived. They were the blood that flowed through the building’s veins, the DNA that structured it’s ambiguous genetic code; the very life source that encouraged it to predetermine the fate of every living soul that had become subject to it’s games. This is their story.
