Apparently nobody wants to comment on the second part, so hopefully I'll get some comments (hint hint) on this before turning it in. This is the last installment of the story. I still think I like the first part the best, because I feel like it was the most successful at portraying Joyce's style of writing. This is a bit (a lot) shorter than the other two.
Upon reaching, he slid his way between tables, inconspicuously making his way towards his corner table, at which no single other person dared to sit. Upon seeing his face, a tall glass of ale was immediately delivered to the table, as if he were a respected member of the community, rather than himself, Donovan, who spent his time polishing silver and limping along with no aid. He allowed himself a few extra minutes at the pub that day, taking his time with the drink that soothed and burned its way into his familiar system. Tipping the last drops of ale into his awaiting mouth, he gathered himself up, sucking in his drooping cheeks, rubbing his hands together, and leaving a penny on the table. He slowly turned the lapels of his coat the correct direction, and stepped back onto the frostbitten path towards his house.
Loosened by drink, he slid about, uncaring, on the icy streets. Night had crept upon him, casting sinister shadows over everything in sight. Upon reaching his door, his walk having been uninterrupted by any passerby, he fumbled for his key for some time. Finally, he managed to ease his way into the home, and crumpled into his rocking chair, suddenly breathing heavily. The small of his back stood slightly away from the surface of the chair, although the rest of his body sagged towards the comfort of a seat. He closed his eyes. Immediately against his lids he could see the bearded figure that he had scorned so. The face of the man was not unknown to him. It was the face of a visitor at the pub. No, it was the face of a man whom he had known years ago. No, it was the face of his son.
He opened his eyes and padded over to the window, not bothering to remove his mustard socks. The background glowed a blue-black shade. In that moment, he felt that if he stood still for long enough, unseen and unheard, he might simply dissolve into his surroundings, hopefully never to be seen again.
Yeah, so I think this is collectively pretty much the best story I've ever written, because it had some semblance of plot in it, and it got finished (gasp!). Hopefully you liked it too. Comments and criticism welcome and...yeah, I'm dying for comments, guys. With that thought, goodbye for now. Don't expect posts for a while, I'm really busy. Early Decision is due in 3 weeks guys! Good luck!
