Written as my contest entry for NaNoWriMo 2015.

Many thanks to my friends and family for their support.

Special thanks to Seth Corbett for always being a great friend and wonderful GM and storyteller.

Special thanks to Anna-Maria Ninnas, my 2015 Writing Buddy.

Currently working on chapter 6

Prelude  

Looking back on his life, Morton is satisfied.  Having helped so many people, over the course of so many years, he is content.  Recalling the fire that once burned in his heart, the desires of youth, and the folly of man.  At the end of his life, he takes in the splendor of this place, how resplendent the chains that bind him temporally.  It is only through conflict and hardship, he decides, that life can truly be experienced and joy derived.  He has lived longer than most people can dream of being, and his fond memories will die alone with him.  Recorded herein is the peculiar chain of events that led to his ultimate longevity.  

Morton recalls well his first love, the stable security of a mundane existence.  One event made him question his circumstance, though, and that’s how he found his second infatuation: adventure.  Looking back those many decades ago, he could see his only regret, losing his third and final true love, a woman named Lauren.  With fondness, even in his old age, he recollects the events that transpired, long ago in a time he’s nearly forgotten.

The alarm goes off at five in the morning.  Morton snoozes it once, and gets up on the second warning.  Slowly, he makes his way to the shower, to wash off the night’s sleepiness.  Turning on the water, waiting for just the right temperature, he cleans himself efficiently.  Morton was not the sort to waste a lot of time here.  Concluding his activity, he slides the curtain open and grabs his towel, drying first his hair and working his way to his feet.  

He changes quickly into his clothes for the day, then heads to the kitchen to start the coffee pot. Morton lives alone, you see, and he enjoys the quiet darkness of this time of day.  The sound of running water, the squeaking of the soapy towel on the ceramic dishes as he finishes last night’s mess.  The crisp air filling his lungs this fall morning, reminds him that he’s once again in his favorite time of year.  

Upon finishing his dishes, he pours himself a cup of coffee, black. In this way he prepares mentally for the day ahead.  Morton checks his pockets to make sure he has all the necessary things.  Wallet, keys, phone, all accounted for.  Finishing his coffee after several minutes, he puts on his shoes and grabs his tool bag, ready to head off into the dark morning.

Morton slowly heads to the bus stop, where he will catch the 6am bus.  Sometimes it’s a few minutes late, never early.  Today it’s arrives on time, and Morton waits for the doors to open, entering the familiar doorway.  The same driver he’s met for years, he swipes his card and takes his seat.  Since it’s going to be a while, Morton picks up the book he was working on and keeps reading, intent on finding out what the protagonist will do today.

Arriving at work early as he always does, Morton drops his toolbag at his workstation, and then uses the bathroom.  Night shift has left already, and a few folks from day shift are starting to trickle in.  It’s always so quiet this time of day, he thinks.  It won’t remain for long.

As the shift begins, the sound of various machines starting signals the beginning of production.  The bell has sounded, and it’s time to work.  Two hours he labors, then time for break.  Another hour and a half, then lunch.  Another two hours, another break.  The final few hours, then it’s time to gather his things and head to the bus stop.

The sun is shining brightly as he makes his way down the street, and it’s warmed up a bit since he first arrived eight and a half hours ago.  This makes for a nice ride home.  He always catches the 4pm bus back home, and today is no exception.  The bus arrives and the doors open, and he shows himself on.  Swiping his card, he finds his usual seat, and cracks open the book.  

The novel he’s reading is some popular high fiction.  Dragons assailing a village, maidens in watchtowers.  The plot is unremarkable, the same sort of plot he’s read a hundred times before.  Crisp ink on bright white pages, the smell of the paper, it brought him joy.  The tactile sensation of the turn of a page, the sound of the paper moving to and fro.  Even a bad book was still a book, but mediocrity is what really kills a story.

Today had worn him out more than usual, however, and the print of the book became a blur as his head became heavy.  After only a few minutes, Morton was unable to keep his focus, and slid his book back into the bag.  Propping himself up against the window, he stared off into the distance.  Sleep quickly overtook him, and this was most unusual.  The last thing he remembered was looking at the corner a few blocks from the factory, the sun feeling good upon his head…