Writing the wrongs.

Esoteric ramblings from the abyss.

Month: September, 2012

Wednesday Write In 6 – The drowning.

The bay window acted like a one way mirror in the dark. From the outside you could see us sitting, hunched around the television drinking lager for what seemed like an eternity that night. From the inside we saw blurred versions of ourselves, our outlines shimmering against the imperfections in the glass. Outside was pitch black, storm advancing, waves crashing against our garden boundary wall. A flickering light in the distance. Inside, we were warm, entertained and pleasantly bladdered.

I hadn’t looked at my watch all night, that’s how much fun I was having. My mates screwed about, killing each other effortlessly on the television. I’d taken a break to down another shot. My arse was well and truly settled into the flea ridden settee. My eyelids started to close slowly, an impetuous poke in the ribs later and I was back in the room.

The jolt disgruntled my settled state and I decided to get up and open the bay window, which could creak far enough to let you out if you bent low enough. The whoosh of sea gale proved only a short lived annoyance for my friends, who were just about to reach the zenith of their killing spree. I climbed out, clicked the window back into place and waited for the darkness to freeze over me.

My face felt paler, but as twenty units circulated round my blood stream I felt a strange barrier of invincibility. I could sense rain on my nose, bitter cold on my finger tips, but my whole, my whole felt impenetrable and superhuman.

I also felt drawn to the ocean. This was no primeval urge, no ancient siren singing sweet serenades to bring me to my doom. No, this was the alcohol talking. Walk over there. Have a look. There is no big wave coming.

I trudged across wet mulch and swampy lawn until I reached our wall. Spray lashed and looped over the top brick, I shielded my eyes intermittently. I saw the light again flickering out in the ocean. Some poor bastard was out there in this storm.

Hauling myself up I sat precariously on the wall. I looked down. I imagined drowning down there, amongst the rocks and waves, crashing violently with percussion and chaotic rhythm. You would fall, body mangled first, or perhaps an undercurrent would drag you down before you felt your legs break. What would that last gasp as you fell feel like? I found myself singing, alone.

Another light, this time higher up in the abyssal sky appeared. It went in and out of focus, as it swiftly moved between low black clouds. Perhaps this was a rescue? Was some heroic act being forged right now, just a few miles away?

I slipped slightly and scrambled back over the wall to the safety of my garden. My feet were sodden, my clothes covered in mud and my hair dripping in sea foam. I must have sat out here for an hour. My friends hadn’t even noticed. I could see them in the one way mirror still shooting each other up, laughing, joking, glorifying. I could have drowned.

—From cake.shortandsweet Wednesday challenge… I met the deadline by 5 minutes… go me.

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A thought about Thought

I’ve just posted my first short story in probably five years or so. It’s based on a cake.shortandsweet issue 6 challenge, which although I missed the deadline, I decided to stick with. As you can see (if you’re interested) I changed the story slightly from the first draft. Rather than being about the last original thought (for which I couldn’t think of a cool outcome in such a short period of time) I made it “his last thought”, probably before some momentous event. Let me know what you think.

Thought.

His last thought occurred at 6.35pm on a Tuesday.

The thinker had just finished his long commute home from a day at the money farm selling notes and buying rocks. His mind raced with pleasurable thoughts about his latest monthly sales figures, his bottom line and the inevitable pat on the back from his nearest and dearest middle manager.

As he neared his mock tudor mansion he mocked a small grey man striding towards his driveway, in his head at least. His neighbour, the interminable St. John Blockley, had just received news the previous week that his pension plan which was invested in oilfields in Nepal, had effectively become worthless. This was inevitable as there were no oilfields in Nepal. Oh how he chuckled when he heard the news at the local country club, one of many in the nearby nouveau-riche locale.

He accelerated past St.John and scooted up his driveway pushing the recently replaced brakes only slightly to bring his chariot gently to rest. The exhaust vomited a small cloud of soot as he turned off the engine, which floated its way down to the annoying grey man rapidly approaching his driving side window. He sighed wistfully at the thought of more precious seconds of his priceless life being wasted by the soon to be penniless wrinklepicker. The only consolation was the carcinogenic gift being dispatched from his vehicle and delivered up the old bugger’s nose into his decrepit lungs.

– tap tap.

The sound of arthritis ridden monkey knuckles clacking heralded the impending void in the ever decreasing life span of the thinker. More time, precious time, would be gone forever in yet another unwanted social interaction with his financially and hygienically inept neighbour.

-tap tap.

It was utterly, utterly pointless trying to ignore the hollow taps. Yet for a moment the thinker imagined the electronic pulses in his neighbour’s heart jolting suddenly, causing a sudden destruction of the aortic valve, collapse of the legs and therefore the cessation of the FUCKING TAP TAP.

Quickly he unwound the window.

– Yes, yes what is it now?

His dismissive tone set a new record for contempt; a local customer complaints officer callously abusing an elderly mole unable to reset her satellite system, suddenly cried out at losing this title. She proceeded to end the call, put down her headphones and spent the rest if the day crying in the toilet.

He turned to face the old codger, the wizened dingbat, the stinky eyed stalker, the outlet mall marauder; anything that came to mind. But instead of the standard glazed, lazy eye, sweaty brow, tuna sandwich for lunch in beard, he noticed a change in St.John the holy loss maker. Something subtle, so subtle it barely registered until the lurker started his latest pointless soliloquy.

– I’m glad I bumped into you…

Bumped? Chased and intercepted more like. The thinker had worked out a new purpose in his voice, a certain gusto lacking before. The beard was well groomed, strange for a man who hadn’t seen the inside of a bathroom for at least two months. The nearest he would get to a wash, he imagined, was with a creosote soaked rag in his tinpot shed at the end of his less than average acreage garden. Also, overgrown at best, scandalous in this neighbourhood at worst.

– …we really have to talk. I have the most amazing news…

The thinker had been here before, many, many times before. He quickly set his handbrake, took the key out of the ignition, opened his glove compartment, scrabbled around for what seemed like an eternity until finally, his hand grasped the cold dark metal of a colt m1911 semi automatic pistol. A family heirloom, returned from the jungles of Korea by his father in 1953. A gun stolen from the cold dead hand of a fallen lieutenant, a hand who had left it’s body one hundred feet away. A gun last fired at some scum ridden communist unpinning a high velocity grenade in one last act of nationalistic hatred. A fiery extension of death from the bearer to the victim. Last valued at ten grand. That was important.

– …I bumped into…

Speech continuing, in one fluid motion he pulled out the gun, thrust it into St.John’s forehead and with complete premeditation, pulled the trigger. In a blinding flash two things happened; firstly, this event deafened the thinker, leaving only a whining sound in his ears – although much more preferable to whining he was otherwise being subjected to. Secondly, a torrent of blood, cranial bone, brain mulch and a pair of ten year old designer spectacles, flew across the porch like wet autumn leaves in a thunderstorm. The body left behind knelt like a church congregational, except with a severed spinal column flapping back and forth without a care in the world.

******

– …your wife. It worked! She’s…

The thinker grasped an over-ripe banana. At least three weeks old, judging by the pulp leaking out onto his thumb. In one fluid motion, he pulled out the banana and with complete premeditation, placed it carefully into a small plastic bag.

– …well, has she not told you yet…

The words had been received but the thinker was concentrating on the mess his thumb had been subjected to. Some juice had escaped the thumb and landed right on his groin, near to the fly zip on his designer black trousers, just on the peak or ruff of material that occassionally looks like an erect penis when sitting down. This would cause inevitable embarrassment unless he could escape inside and fast.

– …She must have done, you’re miles away. Listen, being a father is a truly joyous…

The thinker reignited the engine, unlocked the handbrake, glanced in his rear mirror and put the car into reverse. Casually and without intention he issued to St.John,

– Thank you. I have to… drive.

St. John smiled longingly at his favourite friend and began his traipse back to his own mock Tudor Mansion.

The thinker drove on, mind blank, unthinkingly through a red light and onto the Circle roundabout. He didn’t choose an exit for twenty minutes.

 

 

Begin the begin.

I’m going to be posting regularly all my short stories for “cake.shortandsweet” which seems innocent enough. The Wednesday write ins have pretty tight deadlines which I will never meet. Issue deadlines seem fair enough. But I will try each weekly challenge to keep my writing going. Like I’ve said on facebook, I have an Ipad now, a 2 hour commute each day and fingers. There is no reason not to do this shit.

The short below is based on their Issue 6 challenge “thought” and I’ve taken it as a literal. The post is the first draft – I don’t really have a clue where it is going. I’ve also rather screwed myself over by starting out with a promise, a last original thought. I haven’t worked out what that would be yet – perhaps I don’t need to.

I’ve also got my novel on the go; for once my idea has structure, a beginning and an end and seemingly endless possibilities. At least in my head. Again, I’m making no promises to “do” nanowrimo this year. Nor will I be telling anyone about anything until I’ve actually done something. I’ve talked the talk, now it’s time to type the type.

Thought – first draft

The last original thought occurred at 6.35pm on a Tuesday.

The thinker had just finished his long commute home from a day at the money farm selling notes and buying rocks. His mind raced with pleasurable thoughts about his latest monthly sales figures, his bottom line and the inevitable pat on the back from his nearest and dearest middle manager.

As he neared his mock tudor mansion he mocked a small grey man striding towards his driveway, in his head at least. His neighbour, the interminable St. John Blockley, had just received news the previous week that his pension plan which was invested in oilfields in Nepal, had effectively become worthless. This was inevitable as there were no oilfields in Nepal. Oh how he chuckled when he heard the news at the local country club, one of many in the nearby nouveau-riche locale.

He accelerated past St.John and scooted up his driveway pushing the recently replaced brakes only slightly to bring his chariot gently to rest. The exhaust vomited a small cloud of soot as he turned off the engine, which floated its way down to the annoying grey man rapidly approaching his driving side window. He sighed wistfully at the thought of more precious seconds of his priceless life being wasted by the soon to be penniless wrinklepicker. The only consolation was the carcinogenic gift being dispatched from his vehicle and delivered up the old bugger’s nose into his decrepit lungs.

– tap tap.

The sound of arthritis ridden monkey knuckles clacking heralded the impending void in the ever decreasing life span of the thinker. More time, precious time, would be gone forever in yet another unwanted social interaction with his financially and hygienically inept neighbour.

-tap tap.

It was utterly, utterly pointless trying to ignore the hollow taps. Yet for a moment the thinker imagined the electronic pulses in his neighbour’s heart jolting suddenly, causing a sudden destruction of the aortic valve, collapse of the legs and therefore the cessation of the FUCKING TAP TAP.

Quickly he unwound the window.

– Yes, yes what is it now?

His dismissive tone set a new record for contempt; a local customer complaints officer callously abusing an elderly mole unable to reset her satellite system, suddenly cried out at losing this title. She proceeded to end the call, put down her headphones and spent the rest if the day crying in the toilet.

He turned to face the old codger, the wizened dingbat, the stinky eyed stalker, the outlet mall marauder; anything that came to mind. But instead of the standard glazed, lazy eye, sweaty brow, tuna sandwich for lunch in beard, he noticed a change in St.John the holy loss maker. Something subtle, so subtle it barely registered until the lurker started his latest pointless soliloquy.

– I’m glad I bumped into you…

Bumped? Chased and intercepted more like. The thinker had worked out a new purpose in his voice, a certain gusto lacking before. The beard was well groomed, strange for a man who hadn’t seen the inside of a bathroom for at least two months. The nearest he would get to a wash, he imagined, was with a creosote soaked rag in his tinpot shed at the end of his less than average acreage garden. Also, overgrown at best, scandalous in this neighbourhood at worst.

– …we really have to talk. I have the most amazing news, you know that investment…

The thinker had been here before, many, many times before. He quickly set his handbrake, took the key out of the ignition, opened his glove compartment, scrabbled around for what seemed like an eternity until finally, his hand grasped the cold dark metal of a colt m1911 semi automatic pistol. A family heirloom, returned from the jungles of Korea by his father in 1953. A gun stolen from the cold dead hand of a fallen lieutenant, a hand who had left it’s body one hundred feet away.