Short story

[mixed]

I'd like to share a short story with all of you. Me and my girlfriend decided to both write a story which was about a page in length. This one which I wrote took about half an hour. I'm not the most amazing writer and I'm sure my sentence structure and stuff is bad in part. But read it and hopefully take something from it. Then write your own short story and we could have a neat little thread going here.

Scratch, Scrape, Long Sleeves and Jumpers

A scratch, a scrape, up down, then again, down up. A seesaw, a crude masturbation motion. With a knife in his hand, Callum was cutting, ripping his flesh open. Scraping fervently, the flesh from his right arm was falling off in little gooey slices, a blizzard of skin accompanied by little squirts and trickles of blood.

Callum was a professional. Self harm had become his big thing. His face was poised, concentrated on his savage habit. He had even placed newspaper beneath his arm, big news becoming covered in crimson, with its little skin fragments it looked like poorly pulped blood orange juice. Callum now stopped scraping, his satisfaction level apparently reached for that day. He reached out for the bandages on his bedside table, which had been placed their beforehand and began wrapping them around his bloody arm which looked like an eaten chicken drummer, rough and ragged flesh.

Now wrapped, Callum breathed a sigh of relief. He lifted the blinds in his room and proceeded to the kitchen, down a short flight of stairs. He has come to the kitchen to cleanse the knife. Callum was careful to wash to knifes red handle well, being sure to get rid of the darker congealing red newly upon it. The knife was clean and Callum placed it back in the drawer amongst the clean cutlery. The parents would be cutting pork, perhaps beef with that knife, maybe as soon as tonight. They would never discover what Callum did though.

Callum limited the harming game to winter so as not to arouse suspicion or have to reveal his arms and other places which he would sometimes scrape. He would look normal wearing a woollen jumper or a long sleeved tee-shirt. Appearing normal was becoming harder though as the scars were deep now. So very deep. In summer Callum generally took to wearing long clothing also. He claimed that he was easily burnt or some similar excuse.

Callum was really a regular 15 year old boy. He wasn’t unhappy but harm has become his compulsion, a dirty hidden habit. People had no knowledge of it as Callum spoke and communicated little. His appearance was tired, sullen, numb. The pain did not hurt him. It simply was. No pain and no pleasure. Callum was just as numb and lifeless as the flesh which used to be a part of his arm, hardening on a sheet of newspaper in some bin, somewhere.

A story by Ross

So it isn't quite a page, it was when I penned it...

[mixed]

I sort of try to incorporate a little bit of Kings style with Palahniuks. I say TRY

[agentknight]

It was very, very similar to Chuck Palahniuk's "Guts" but good nonetheless.

[dontdigonswine]

---not for sure if this copy has any typos... if so, i apologize---

LAST THOUGHTS OF AN ADDICT

My cadillac prances like an elegant beast, its wheels feasting on the pavement with every stride. It's been over two hours since this sultry lady sitting next to me and I broke free from the chains binding us to this monotonous lifestyle. We are driving with no destination; searching for a serene and cool stream to cleanse us of our sorrow and making sure its as far away as possible. But no matter where or how far we go, or future will cling to us like a scab festering with regret. So I keep driving and won't stop until we've found what we've been looking for: peace.

She's been drifting in and out of sleep the last hour. Hypnotized by the endless string of solid and dashed highway lines into a quiet dream. Then, as if being shocked with fifty volts fo electricity, she bolts straight up in her seat with a silent scream. It must be some frightening dream that deprives her of sleep. Her tired eyes remain open a third of the way and she's staring into the trees that surround us as if in a trance. As if the answer to all our problems floats in the distance, or if it even exists at all.

She juggles her wedding ring between all of her fingers on her right hand as if by habit, thinking and trying to decide on what to do. Her diamond-studded ring is worth more than I am. Its glimmering crystals burn its sharp, dagger-like glare deep into my pupils. How could she toy with such a valuable subject?

All this stress and confusion today has taken its toll on me, tearing away at me like a blood-thirsty parasite, eroding my sanity. I reach across the beautiful lady's tender lap and pop open the aged glove compartment. It's stuffed with the various essentials for the survival of a man from Long Beach; wallet with a fake id and stuffed with $20,000 in cash, cigarettes, car registration, and a loaded 9 mm. I grab the pack of cigarettes, just grazing the lady's lap with my arm. Her lovely emerald eyes immediately snap open. Good, now I've got company.

I lift the opening of my cigarettes, pull one out with my teeth, and offer one to her. She nods and gently pulls one out. She puts it in her mouth, pulls out her metal Zippo, pops it open, and reaches over to my face and lights my cigarette. I inhale slowly and let the toxic fumes circulate my lungs. Drugs- one of God's devilish temptations. How can something that brings such relief and pleasure, be so deadly?

We reach the motel at dusk. The sky above is a cool and calm magenta. The approaching skies roar menacingly; we're in for a stormy night. My car's brakes squeal our arrival loud enough to wake up the motel occupants, if there were any.

The motel room is dark and perfectly silent. As she slams the door and reaches for the light switch, thunder bellows as the storm has finally arrived. My eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, sees her every move, graceful and smooth, is like music to my eyes. Her sensual outline bursts into a glowing angelic white with the flick of the switch. The definition of beauty.

She sets her suitcase next to the perfectly-made bed, then calmly lies down on its ironed sheets to rest. The furious clouds of the angry storm have completely engulfed the night sky so it appears as the ceiling light spotlights her. Her face glows and her dark hair flames light brown.

I move towards the bed to join her in relaxation as I get a horrible feeling in my stomach. Something is wrong. I stop in my tracks and look around the room in suspicion.

"What's the matter?" she innocently asks.

My eyes land on the ivory drapes and see somthing that shocks me with the same fifty volts of electricity that hit her in that evil dream. Lightning cracks and draws the outline of a thick man standing behind the illuminated curtains. She also sees this and screams. As thunder shakes the ground and my soul, the figure's hand pushes through the curtain bearing a silver gun pointed at her. My feet are cemented to the ground like a statue. The figure slowly pulls the trigger, like the speed of his index finger could increase the passion in the bullet being released. The barrel explodes with fury, echoing the room like a blood-curdling yell. He drops the gun to the ground with accomplishment. I go deaf with grief and my stomach sinks to my knees. Her husband got his revenge.

I leap at the still figure in anger. I crash into his legs, tearing them out from underneath him and his head bashes against the window pane on his fall to the carpet. As soon as his head lands on the ground, my fists become a servant to my rage, landing one heavy blow after another and forcing several unhuman, bloody groans. I stop when I realize he isn't groaning anymore. I lift my bloody fists and look down at his face. It is a demon's face, swirling with red, purple, and blue; impossible for anyone to recognize.

I sit back against the bed to try to catch my breath and piece together what just occurred. Where am I to go now? What in life is there to do? But I know the answers: nowhere and nothing. I caused the death of the only one in my life worth living for. The police can't help me, not with $20,000 in cash in my wallet, a fake id, and a stolen car. There's no point in trying to conceal this mess, the blood-stained carpet in front of me. There's no hope in running away; no matter how far I run I can't outrun guilt and my conscience. There's no one else to blame. Revenge- man's foolish and selfish attempt at justification.

I peer over the edge of the bed at the bloody corpse. I reach and pull the pack of cigarettes and lighter out of a blood-slimed pocket. I pull a cigarette out with my lips and light it myself. I slowly inhale the toxic fumes and let it circulate my lungs. Drugs- one of God's devilish temptations. How can something so deadly bring so much relief and pleasure? Then it hits me: she was toying with me, just like she was that diamond-studded ring and her husband. I let her control me every step of the way, I was just to stupid to realize it. She got what she wanted out of me, and I got what I wanted out of her. I used the beautiful lady's love as a drug, refuge from my pitiful life; something to ease my pain. I reach across the floor and pick up the gun. I grasp its leather handle. I put out my cigarette on the carpet floor and look back at her beauty once more.

[criterionmaster]

Fantastic, I get a Sin City feel from it that I like. Great job.

[mixed]

Now that is excellent, very noir, love it!

[mixed]

Heres a really short piece of writing I did yesterday, not really a story:

I grabbed the first glass my hand came upon and filled it with water. I took a mouthful. The glass, sometime in the last week, had been home to milk. I'm talking full fat here. The dry crusted milk stained to the bottom of the glass was loosening. It peeled away and floated eerily to the waters surface and then remained, bobbing up and down, as if inviting somebody to join it in the circular pool. It gave me the creeps so I placed it down on the lino floor, making a curt slap. Then went in search of a glass, a cup which hadn't contained something so dairy.

True story there people

[dontdigonswine]

Thanks, twas inspired by both Sin City and Double Indemnity.

[dontdigonswine]

BEING LIKE THE DUDE

"Maybe if I was more like the Dude..." thought Bob, pouring himself another White Russian. And he definitely was not. But for some reason unbeknownst to all, some miniscule hormone set off that made his marmot-shaped brain assume that being like the Dude was a very possible goal... and could solve all his problems.

For those who are not aware of the Dude, your being out of your element will be forgiven. The Dude was a man, in so many words. But he was a man, and a man in his time, well, he was the man. He lazily lived his life like a vacation. Some thought him a bum, and he was. But he was also the Dude. He smoked much Thai stick and bowled religiously. And he only drank White Russians.

So there stood Bob at his minibar, mechanically mixing and pouring like an over-worked and unenthused chemist. He stared blankly at the naked basement wall in front of him, projecting upon it his unrealistic fantasies of Dudeness.

Bob imagined waking up at 10:30 in the morning, downing a White Russian for breakfast, then lounging in his Lazy Boy for a bit. He imagined not having to worry about his hair or wardrobe. He imagined living an entire day without a care or worry and when he ran out of things to occupy his time, he imagined sleeping. And in those featherweight dreams, he would dream or soaring to the heights of the world. He would dream of bowling.

Bob jerked himself back to reality, back to his minibar, back to his pathetic, normal, very un-Dudely life. He looked down at the glass of mixed substance idly waiting in front of him. He raised it to his lips and took a long, romantic, deeeeeep sip.

"Mmm, " he thought. It tasted terrible. It tasted of sour swine sauce or a glass of egg nog ignored for days. It tasted of a bitter reality he couldn't accept. He slowly began to sob.

Then he went to work.

--THE END--

[dontdigonswine]

Big Lebowski Haiku:

Quintana can roll,
Seein him in the semis,
But he's a pervert

[mixed]

I carefully flicked the switch for the kettle plug on, then depressed the button upon the top of the yellow appliance. I stood next to the kitchen stool, which I had moved to the kitchens centre, away from the door so it could be closed. Muffling the sound. It was 1:00am and nobody would want waking. I didn’t sit down, just stood. I needed this coffee extra strong, I had no desire to sleep, despite my eyelids drooping meaningfully.

The kettle clicked off and I lifted it from its base, concerned that the boiling noise would wake anybody. When the noise stopped, similar to how a flushing toilet sound stops, I grabbed a mug, put some instant in and poured the boiling water about three quarters up. I then stirred gently, trying not to skim the teaspoon against the sides. I detested the noise it made.

I added a few teaspoons of sugar, filled the cup full with cold tap water, stirred and added in cream. I watched with some pleasure as the cream swirled and spread out, dancing and blending with the coffee. I put the drink to my lips and it was tasteless. Their was a transparent ring around the coffee. I tried to save the coffee from being a disaster.

I poured in more cream, still tasteless. Still the transparent ring. This was no fucking cream anyhow, closer inspection reveals that its ‘creamer’. Chemical shit, no cows involved. I bet many people don’t even realise this. I was still hopeful of fixing this appalling cup of coffee. I added sugar, lots, tipping the bag up. It was still no good, slight flavour but no good. I added more coffee. Hell this shit probably isn’t even coffee anyway. The television adds are a trick and this is probably chemicals as well. The coffee adding did little, it found it hard to dissolve in the watery mix which was cooling quick.

The coffee whirled like a family of ants drowning in a thimble. I was annoyed now and out of patience. I settled for the crappy chemical composition. I went in my living room and took up usual seat. I didn’t turn the light on. It was nice sitting in the dark. A comforting shroud of black. The silence was a rare pleasantry. I looked at all the little LEDS on the television plug and the phone, sitting in its curvy base. I drank the coffee really quickly and to this day remember it as the worst I ever made.

The coffee had awakened me though, served its purpose. It made me feel sick. I considered going outside. I knew it was cold and I thought I’d fit right in. Becoming numb. I was having a gloom moment. Sometimes I feel like this, no huge explanations, I just think I have scattered depression. Not a great wonder, considering the many downfalls my persona possesses. Laziness at the top and miniature respect at the bottom.

This evening has realigned my sense of life. Balancing is the hardest thing. I don’t want to be a clown. Though I still want to be funny. I want to feel respected, I want people to seek my advice. I need to sculpt and remould and rebuild status. Without being unfunny and boring, just a tone down on the weird OTT factor which I cannot contain.

Where is my fucking outward maturity?

This may be very boring for anybody that isn't me....

[dontdigonswine]

Here's my two cents. Not criticisms, just suggestions from one writer to another.

Use a different word besides "noise" in the second sentence of the second paragraph. You use it in the previous sentence and it makes it sound sort of repetitive.

You could end up turning this from a reflection, which becomes apparent in the last two paragraphs, into a symbolic event of your life. Instead of the reflection at the end, you could try fitting in these thoughts of your life into subtle metaphors regarding the brewing of that terrible cup of coffee. That's just my opinion, though. Nice work, overall.

[mixed]

Thats some really good advice, thankyou. I did write it quickly and totally understand your point about repetition and the style.

[mixed]

I wrote that when I was a bit down, I always write when I feel like that now. I find its a great release.

[dontdigonswine]

UNTITLED SHORT STORY

I find myself in another situation where I’m holding a revolver to someone’s temple and aching to pull the trigger. Fight the urge, the anger, the pain. Fight the sadistic yearning to witness the splattering of brains against a tile floor. Set your mind on the purpose, let it guide the way, and don’t let anything get in that way until you’ve reached the end. Don’t give in to desires you don’t understand. Her fate lies in your hands, your mind, your finger.
Then our eyes meet again; the man on his knees in submission, the corrupted victim, the villainous scoundrel who never cherished life or death until he was confronted the issues himself. Yes, a man undeserving of life. His eyes; his unremorseful, staring eyes. And mine. Mine. My eyes, picturing the once gleeful face of my female counterpart, remembering her untainted innocence that brought consistency to a life filled to the brim with false hopes and memories of a haunting past.
“What are you doing?” her sweet voice inquires from outside the shack we’ve scavenged, “He’s just the muscle. Leave him go.”
She’s right. I uncock my gun and lift the barrel from the scum’s face, but smash the butt of my handgun onto his cheek, leaving a gruesome abrasion. Just the muscle.

Everything fades away, she once told me. Why, I’m not certain. But I’ve felt it the last few days; the fading, slowly, quietly drifting away from her. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, I know. And I’m not so sure I believe anymore in what I’m doing. But I’m too deep now to quit. My hands are covered in red paint.

We emerge from the worn-down warehouse into the midnight mayhem of the metropolis, but not empty-handed. A brown paper bag. She walks five feet ahead of me as to avoid conversation. I get a good view of her figure; slender, smooth, a capering colt of a woman. She strides nonchalantly. What courage. I think back to the nights when, as a child, I peered out of my window scornfully at the criminals crawling and infesting the streets in which I played. Now I’m one of those cockroaches. I thought I’d escaped from the insects. But here I am again. The only reassuring thought I have is the good intentions: redemption. Or maybe that this woman, this goddess of obscure elegance, could save my life, and revoke these last 48 hours of uncertainty and distance. Ahead of me, her swift legs change direction, down a murky alley. Our next destination?
I turn into the alley, following my mistress. I spot a filthy homeless man, crouched sleepily in the somber shade. He drowsily attempts to lift a Styrofoam cup to us, but his lack of strength prevails. More unnecessary scum, I think. He probably blames luck for his ragged life. He just didn’t take advantage of life’s opportunities. Too bad, life only comes around once. And I’m out of change.
My woman hesitates noticing the bum, and deposits half a handful of mixed coins into his aged cup. Does she really desire to help the poor, like some modern day philanthropist without a purpose? Or is it pity? Guilt? Maybe she is more the beneficiary from this act of kindness than he; but why would she need false self-justification?
We continue. My voluptuous lady, still a few feet ahead of my path, trips on pavement and collapses to the cement. I extend forward, and pull her up. Broken heel, she shows me. Pothole. Paper bag in tact, protected under her arm, no injury done, we proceed again towards a now visible titanium door at the end of this urban passageway.
We arrive at the entranceway, and she intimately turns towards me, eyes like broken shards of glass. She transmits a passionate pollution from her oceanic optics, an intense rush of turquoise, an obviously over-affectionate farewell. She seizes my hand with cold confusion and commands, “Come with me. In case...”
I immediately comply.

I wallop the door twice, and wait for an answer. She grips her paper bag tightly, like she’s protecting a valued, rare treasure. The door is swung open, accompanied by an ear-splitting creak. We enter, un-welcomed.
The house is devoid of light, an unlit cave, except for a far away corner with a man sitting soundless next to a window bright with lunar luminosity. We approach him closer, until he speaks.
“Do you have what I want?” asks the man in a deep, snake-like voice.
“Yes, right here,” she answers.
“Detain the man then, will you?”
Two strongmen appear out of the shadows and clinch each of my arms. The sitting man tosses my lady a briefcase, she catches, opens it, and begins to count, presumably money.
“What?” I ask, exasperated with disbelief.
“I’ve got a one-way ticket out of town, and you’ve got too much baggage to carry-on. I’m sorry.”
My past. My haunted past. She contacted the men that have been looking for me ever since I tried to cleanse myself of such a lifestyle. The paper bag- a ringer. Maybe an excuse to dispose of some enemies of hers or someone she knows. I stare for a while into that ocean of turquoise and search for words to respond, but only one thing comes to mind.
“Just the muscle.”
I reach down deep for those shunned emotions, deeper than the furthest away corners of the universe; for the urge, the anger, the pain, the false hopes, the haunting memories.
The power of savage ferocity numbs my mind for a few minutes. When I come to, I realize there’s four corpses in the room and four less bullets in the handgun on the floor. I kneel down to the corpse in front of me, knee touching the icy ground. My woman. I stay knelt for a couple minutes, striving for that feeling of passion and acceptance, and salvation. It never comes.

Sirens! The cops. I grab the suitcase, on the ground beside my female’s corpse, spring up and sprint towards the door, still open. I’ve come too far, I tell myself. They won’t catch me with this red paint all over my hands, even though it is now dripping from my fingertips. I dash down the alley, even faster, approaching the homeless man, faster, even faster… THUD!
The pothole. I’m airborne for a brief second, until my head collides with the solid asphalt. My neck painfully cracks, enough to echo in the silence of the night, and my spinal cord pops out of alignment. I can’t move. I can see the homeless man to one side of me, watching dazed against the brick wall. Help! I try to yell, but no sound is audible. Help! Help! Nothing.
The homeless man dizzily elevates himself to a standing position, and walks towards me. He hovers over me for a while, thinking. He chuckles. One of his filth-covered arms reaches and obtains the suitcase, still in my hand. Taking advantage of life’s opportunities, finally.

The homeless man leaves, after a few minutes of rummaging my pockets for more valuables, and then it’s just me. Just me, and some thoughts not worth a penny. Thoughts of regret, remorse, and her face. Her face, her once gleeful, innocent face. Eventually, everything starts to fade. The thoughts, the memories, the life. It all starts to drift away, slowly, quietly. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

[criterionmaster]

I had to describe something in English class today, we only got a few minutes so this isn't great. I started thinking about a scene in Man Bites Dog and went from there but really it is just a mix of different things.

It was one of the most dark and disturbing scenes I have ever seen. It was like being trapped, so claustrophobic and eerie. Watching the scene I couldn’t even breath, the acting so intense, the scene so real; like a documentary the killings took place. The “actors” having fun while committing such a horrific crime, it was unbearable. I was so into the scene I was about to explode with a shriek of terror. The scene was so dark that the images could barely be seen, quick flashes of the blood, the darkest red I had ever seen on film, shown through flashes of darkness. The crime so horrific I couldn’t even explain it in words, so masochistic. I couldn’t bare it any longer; I had to turn it off. But I couldn’t, I was so absorb in the bizarre massacre that was happening on the screen. My eyes locked on the screen like a dog eying food. The scene finally ended, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty for watching it, watching such violent images should be a crime.

[captainofbeef]

You know Man Bites Dog is growing on you. You can't say its not if you wrote a description about it in class.

[criterionmaster]

I said it was just the film that gave me inspiration and besides I never said I didn't like it. It's probably in my top 150, its a very good movie. I just didn't feel it was top 20.

[mixed]

This si just something I wrote spontaneously. Just an opening, unfinished, i'll probably return to it in a while.

The alleyway was dark and it smelt revolting. The vast walls which formed the alleyway seemed to have a transparent sludge smeared upon them, as if a giant, all out of tissues, had rubbed the remnants of his sneeze against the once red, now ruddy brown brickwork. Brushing the tips of his huge fingers back and fourth until the wet, stickiness was off. Approximately 4 metres wide, black bins were up against both building sides making walking space, if anyone desired to walk this way, about 2 and a half metres. Each bin was lidless, made out of tin, and spewing waste onto the already filthy walkway. Sloppy old cat food, speckled with mouldy grey fluff sliding down week old newspapers to pizza boxes containing slices so decimated by mould that they looked more like they were triangles of sushi lettuce topped with hummus than pizza. Towards the end of the alleyway, which was about 75 metres long the sun flitted and sparkled. Now and again it reflected against the viscous substance of the walls giving it a dour yellow colour and further enhancing the possibility that a giant had deposited his or even her snot here.

Silence in the nicest alleyway in the city was compromised when a figure appeared at the alleyways far end, ‘sludge, sludge,’ his feet contacting what looked to be a small mound of fat dead rats. Their guts spilt long several hours ago, toyed with and then torn open by cats maybe. ‘you know it smells worse down here than the public crapper back across the river,’ Said the front figure to the man behind him. He was a tall man with a strong jaw, clean shaven, bald headed. His jaw contorted in disgust as he lifted his red Nike trainers, which looked tragically new, to wipe away the colourful sludge of rats guts, yellow, purple and pink. His left shoe had lucklessly impaled a rats body, which empty of guts, appeared like a tiny, furry sock. As the rat sock was kicked away it left a darkened mark on the scarlet of the new looking trainers. As he found ground space which wasn’t so gross to step upon his companion spoke. A smile, evident in his voice. ‘Paul, you know what they say, that there ain’t nothing wrong with taking the back streets in a big city.’ ‘Exactly, the back streets, not the back alleys Mart,’ a cold edge to his voice. Mart was a smaller, less muscular man who has a greasiness about him which Paul was unable to place. Whereas Paul was casual, Mart wore a suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the surroundings of a dinner party for intellectuals. The retort seemed to hurt Mart and his voice had lost its smile as he asked, ‘are we moving?’ With a brief hesitation, Paul’s eyes had wandered up one wall, turned his head and replied gruffly, ‘yeah, we’re moving’ He slowly started forward and pulled his white t-shirt up to shield his mouth and nose like a man escaping from a smoky burning building. The parallel in his head made Paul think he would prefer to be moving through smoke than this alleyway smell concoction of rot, faecal matter along with the unidentifiably weird transparent sludge.

[mixed]

Heres another short bit, fairly off the cuff. Again an unfinished intro. I keep getting all these ideas and am starting writing different pieces but not completing them. Well, I plan to but just dont

I’m standing in the corner of this concrete parking lot. It is dark and I probably seem quite creepy, just standing here, quite still, in my long trench coat. Outside its raining fervently, the din sounds like the noise billiard balls make when you knock them off the table and they clunk against the floor. If you look carefully one of my pockets bulges. In there is a knife that I am going to use to slaughter the very next human I set eyes upon. I’m not sick, well not in my opinion. I am just a bit bored. Work is out for the day, it was a lull, mindless repetition of tasks which lost there joy many a day gone.

When I have one of these days at work, everyday actually, unless I’m to tired, I go out and kill at least a few people. Really its no different from those fat middle aged men and teenage boys who come home tired and slump into their favourite chairs and play videogames where he who kills most wins across the internet. Me, I’m just the same, its just that my internet connection expired and now I have no team-mates to play slayer with. I am a one man army rather than a team player. Yet in the real world, rather than virtual.

I admit, this real world killing takes a little more effort. Similar to how playing poker for real, rather than virtually is in that you have to shuffle and deal yourself. You get real blood, sometimes people will run and your real life legs have to pursue them. Once somebody knows you want to kill them, they aren’t very likely to keep that to themselves are they? I confess, it is rather fucking exciting though. The buzz you get when you catch up to Mr office and cut him down, maybe puncture his kidney or slash his neck above that knobbly round bit of bone, the top of the spine is that? I enjoy this method a lot. The final death throws of a person always sound most intense and pained and you are guaranteed to see some amount of blood spurting fourth, covering their Armani shirts.

At this mention of Armani shirts do not think I just kill the rich. I’m open to suggestions. Since my internet connection expired I have killed lots of different people. Poor and rich, women and children. It was very funny, the other day I took my chances with a leashed poodle. He was leashed on a bike railing outside of one of those metro supermarkets. His green lead extended and I coaxed him around the corner where we could be a little more private. When we were alone I went to work. Truly amazing how easily the little things head slid off. Cutting butter.

Back in the parking lot I see an ingenuous human. Brief case in one hand, coat draped across his arm. He seems headed to the beamer parked between two beetles which both happen to be blue. I can see his remote unlocking device coming out of his breast pocket. A grey suit, a garish tie which he probably thinks makes him unique. All bright stripes, lime green, scarlet and turquoise. You can hear the cloonk sound of the beamers locks opening. I scurry across behind him. Making pitter patter sounds in the puddles as I go. I’m now a couple feet away. I open the knife up, it’s a little crusty from that poodles blood yet its still good and sharp. I sharpen it every night. I lurch forward and slash! Got him right in my favourite spot, back of the neck. Crunch! I drive the knife into his head. I’ve never tried this and it feels so good. So spiteful but fresh. You gotta keep things fresh.

The man falls to the ground but disappointingly doesn’t make much noise. A good amount of blood has comes out though. Ooh especially from that stab to the head, I’ll have to do that more often! Blood has run down his back, drenching it like a joggers sweat. In the darkness it looks black. Now it is a good slice of luck that nobody else was here to see me. That was rather naughty! I chuckle, an unintentional pun, how funny!

I’m rather to tired to hide this man, I mean why bother, its more satisfying to leave them out in the open. At least to me. I enjoy seeing the fruit of my loom. The days work. At home I even have a notepad where I have this list of people I’ve killed. Just their gender. Sometimes if I’m in a cheery mood and have time for that matter, I snap a photograph. The give me a sense of nostalgia. I like to remember.

[dontdigonswine]

THE ULTIMATE HOLLYWOOD SATIRE!

2015 Academy Awards Ceremony

ANCHORMAN IN STUDIO- Another year has passed again, and it’s everyone’s favorite time of the year. No, not Act Generous and Give Presents Day, but the Academy Awards. This popular ceremony, once used for silly purposes like giving awards to movies/people that deserve them, is now a celebration of the films most controversial or political. Here is a reminder of the Academy Awards divisional attributes:
1) Biographies; or any film that tells the story, inspiring and/or disturbing, of a deceased or diseased popular American icon. Memorable films from the past include: Ray, Walk the Line, Dubya: Hero, and Letter of the Alphabet; Stingray Homicide: The Steve Irwin Story, and last year’s winner: Fearless and Ballless: Stories of a 7-Time Tour de France Winner.
2) Movies that confront racism; or any film that has an Iraqi male in it, really. Such movies include: Crash, Schindler’s List, Amistad, Spike Lee’s Screw White People, and the five-part television series entitled “Five Hours of Purely Coincidental and Ironic Stories with People of Different Races,” or the shorter title, “Crash II.”
3) Movies that exist purely to stir up controversy. Famous nominees are: Brokeback Mountain, Chicago (for being a musical), Samantha: The Transsexual Kitten, Life and Career Death of the Saintly Dixie Chix, and Snakes on a B-Movie (which was also the first film ever to win Best Picture at the Academy Awards and Worst Picture at the Razzies).
4) And the last category: Any film without a good or original script, or any movie not involving Charlie Kaufman.
This year’s nominees look to make quite an interesting award ceremony. The nominees for Best Picture are: African-American Racism directed by Steven Spielberg, Pilgrims on a Boat directed by Steven Spielberg, Lots of Snakes on a Plane directed by Steven Spielberg, and Apocalypse Tomorrow directed by that one Godfather director. Nominees for Best Actress include: Hilary Swank, Dakota Fanning, Dakota Fanning, and Tom Cruise. Best Actor nominees include… Sean Penn.
We’ll now take you live to Susa McDonalds, who is standing by on the red carpet. Susa…
SUSA MCDONALDS- Hey there, Dan. I’m standing here with 18-time Academy Award nominee Martin Scorsese, who has never been involved with a movie that has gotten anything better than a Best Actor win. It seems as if this year you’ve taken a break off from fame. Have anything special in the works?
MARTIN SCORSESE- Yes, um, Susa, I’m actually working on a new, um, movie that should really, um, provoke some deep thoughts by the, um, audience. It’s a story of, um, corruption and evil and murder and revenge and, um, stickin’ it to the man. It’s called Death to the Academy. It’s, um, of course not based on any personal experience.
SUSA MCDONALDS- Sounds terrible! Well, it’s been nice talking to you… Oh, well look who it is here! It’s Paris Hilton! Now a 40-year old, 300 pound alcoholic, Paris still attends any party she possibly can, except now she has to roofy herself up. How’s it goin’ Paris?
PARIS HILTON- It’s *burp* good.
SUSA MCDONALDS- Well, I would ask you about your career, but considering the fact you don’t and never had one, and that you smell like burnt cabbage, I’ll just move on to someone else. Whoa there, guess who we have here! It’s some guy! Enjoying the party?
SOME GUY- Yeah, I guess. I’m actually just here with the guys who bring the red-carpet.
SUSA MCDONALDS- Ahaha, that’s marvelous. Oho, here’s the most over hyped director in the history of Hollywood: Steven Spielberg! Steven, last year you became the first person to receive both awards in a co-Best Director hand-out. This year, you’re nominated 3 times. Why do you continually use Tom Cruise, a known demon-worshipper, as the hero in your movies?
STEVEN SPIELBERG- Umm… democrats rule! Hee haw!
SUSA MCDONALDS- Well, okay then… And here’s one of the most surprisingly successful business partners in Hollywood of the last five years: Michael Moore & Mel Gibson! Co-directors of the documentary series “Yelling at the Top of Our Lungs About Our Beliefs.” How does it feel to break those political boundaries and collaborate with someone of a different species?
MEL GIBSON- It’s really great, Ms. McDonalds. We’re showing everyone how great politics can be when both parties put aside all potential sharp objects and celebrate their similarities.
SUSA MCDONALDS- Similarities, really? Like what?
MEL GIBSON- Well, for instance, both democrats and republicans are liars. And we both have an animal as our symbol. And we both have minds, although one party’s is obviously bigger.
SUSA MCDONALDS- That’s terrific.
MEL GIBSON- It sure is. I mean, representatives from both parties have problems. Look at me, Ms. McDonalds! I used to be a drunken, raging Jew-hater. Now I’m … sober, at least.
MICHAEL MOORE- Did someone say McDonalds?
SUSA MCDONALDS- There’s Michael Moore for ya- always taking things outta context. Well, the time for the beginning of the ceremony is upon us, so we’ll go inside to our commentator for the evening: Dennis Miller.

A FEW HOURS LATER
ANCHORMAN IN STUDIO- Well, now wasn’t that an interesting award show! Who would’ve thought that after Tom Cruise’s acceptance speech for winning Best Actress ran a total of 7 seconds too long and CIA representatives came to escort him away, that he’d summon his deadly religious posse to attack and in turn cause riots which could very well end up as a holy war, which could very well end up being the destruction of humanity! I suppose the moral of this entire sad but mildly amusing end to mankind is… that in a world where all morality is extinct, trying to sustain rationality is impossible. There is nothing left for us to do. I strongly encourage all of you out there watching to go to your nearest Walgreens, purchase an excessive amount of duct tape and relaxation-inducing narcotics from under-the-counter, and get back home before the broomsticks and battle batons start swinging. And when you get home, sit on your sofa, and think. Think about all the things you could’ve done differently, but didn’t. Regret it all. And when the twelve caplets of Tylenol PM begin kicking in and you begin fading into a hazy dream… make sure you stay tuned to the only channel with 24-7 analysis of everything Hollywood!

[criterionmaster]

HAHA! That was great, the only thing I had a problem with though was that Spielberg is too easy to rip on, you should have used someone like Eastwood. Great anyways.

[mixed]

Thats very funny
Any feedback for my writings...I promise to post something complete one day

[criterionmaster]

I just read the first one out of the two and it was fantastic. I love your writing style and now I am really wanting you to finish it. Loved the describing of the snot from the giant, very good stuff. I will read the second story your posted soon.

[dontdigonswine]

This is an attempt to blend the dialogue of film noir with the style of spaghetti westerns. Not for sure if this is the polished finished version, but here it is nevertheless:


THE DUELING CUSTOMERS
The jingling glass door swings open and sends an icy chill towards the ankles and spines of those cozily conversing. A man in a grey felt hat takes a step through the entry, then stops. One leg in, one leg out, he thinks. He catches a wicked whiff of a Brazilian brew, and knows there’s no turning back.
Another normal customer? The other customers know different. They’ve seen him before, a regular to this cove of mochas and lattes. Everyday he comes in, sets down his hat, his mind wallowing in self-pity, and indulges his taste buds in a java. But today is different, and everyone spots why instantly. The beads of sweat dripping down his brow, his eyes fidgeting like two hummingbirds in flight. Today this mysterious man pays his dues; this Man with no name.
He walks in. With every step, his wooden-soled, leather Converses pound a harsh heart beat into the coffee shop floor. With every step, the electric lighting grows fainter, the brewing machines behind the back counter groan slower, and the heroes and heroines on the 1950’s B-movie posters straighten their smiles. The more he approaches the front counter and his signature seat, the closer he becomes, the more the restaurant shrinks.
No one speaks.
He arrives at his destination and sits, but no waiter dares to approach him. They would not dare be the one to serve a man close to death his last espresso.
SCREECH! CLANG!
The entrance door flails open again, this time violently smashing into the wall and through the silent tension. No customer needed to look to realize who made their arrival, but they all did.
A colder wind blew in this time, singeing the hair off everyone’s necks with a slick slice. A bronze Timberland boot hammers the entry step into the shop, like a heavy mallet in a courtroom, judging. The broad figure stands motionless in the doorway for a brief second, with the silence of the heavens during the apocalypse.
The nameless Man, sitting unusually snug in his seat, softly squeezes his lips together and whistles the beginning tones to a sorrowful song. He stares, meditating on a memory, at the counter in front of him; his back facing his grim reaper. Dwelling in desolation, he recalls the years of nostalgia that froze his heart as cold as a frapuccino. He whistles the song that, in the early years of his life, cured his infantile fright, and, in the latter years, coaxed him to cry until his tears ran dry.
Another Timberland boot whams into the crimson tiles and the villainous silhouette of a man in the doorway explodes into its bleak color. “Key Chain” Kenny- they frighteningly referred to him in stories. A scum-eating scoundrel who was notorious for stomping on dreams as easily as exterminators squash cockroaches. But Kenny never just stomped on them. No, Kenny dug his brick-hard heel into the very core and foundation on which the dream existed, twisted and pressed repeatedly until one could confuse the dream with a chainsawed-watermelon, picked up the dream and sucked its slimy bones. No one ever stirred the temper of “Key Chain” Kenny, for the consequences could be fatal.
Today, Kenny came to receive the payment for a minor debt owed. But the Man with no name refuses to succumb to fear. He has grown accustomed to the concept of death, and embraces its inevitability with a somber enthusiasm.
His whistle never ceases or slows in the growing suspense of the café. Kenny reaches the front counter and halts his stomping directly behind the Man. Kenny lifts his arm, the under part of his jacket bearing a column of golden key chains, and reaches into his back pocket of his rugged jeans.
Terrified, the customers all sprint for the door at once, fearing a sudden shoot out. When the rush of pattering footsteps dies away, Kenny takes out the object from his pocket.
“Care for a sucker?” asks Kenny in a grizzly voice.
“What kind?”
“I have Outrageous Orange, Ridiculous Raspberry, and a mystery flavor.”
“I’ll go with the mystery,” answers the Man, quickly.
“Nice choice…”
Kenny hands the sucker to the Man, who snatches it out of his palm, tears off the wrapper and sticks it in his mouth.
“So… do you have what you so rightfully owe me?” Kenny harshly questions.
“No.”
“So, why did you even show up?”
“Maybe I like the setting. The warm safety that steams from the casual chatter of regular people. Maybe I have nowhere to hide, or maybe I don’t want to.”
“Oh… and maybe your depressing confession of helplessness will inspire sympathy. Hell, maybe I’m not in the killing mood today. But maybe is just a form of speculation. Maybe won’t pay off your debt.”
The Man removes his grey hat from his head and sets it upside down on the counter beside him. He reaches inside his hat, pulls out a golden key chain, and plops it on the counter. The Man sends a gruesome glare towards Kenny.
“Maybe I have a debt of my own to collect.”
He crunches through his newly opened sucker with ferocity, and begins whistling his melancholy melody once again. Kenny takes a bewildered step back, attempting to sort out his thoughts and make sense of the present situation.
“Maybe you’d best stand still and start thinking, before your brain lies spilt on the floor,” says the Man, still staring into the eyes of his debtor.
“Though it’s been years and years since your face has appeared before my eyes, you’ve always been lying beneath the surface of my mind, lurking and haunting.”
“That’s a boy. Now you’re thinking.”
“I suppose I know what you’ve come for. Do you really believe killing me will satisfy your hunger for vengeance?”
“Killing you? I wouldn’t need to. All I demand is that you leave town. Think of it as an opportunity to partially redeem yourself, though doing so completely is impossible. Just leave town, and find another place to live in contempt of your inability to cope with past transgressions. And besides, you give the people here another reason to be scared. Life is enough.”
Kenny stares in disbelief at the Man, unable to decipher his mercy as a form of forgiveness, or as a ruse to get his back turned towards him so a murder would be easier.
“Go.”
Kenny slowly turns around and begins his walk towards the exit.
“And don’t forget your key chain.”
Kenny approaches the Man once again, their hands meeting in the reclaiming of Kenny’s most dreaded ornament.
As Kenny makes his way towards the door, successfully exiting with everything he entered with and more, the coffee shop owner finally addresses the Man.
“Anything I can get ya?”
“I’ll take a frapuccino.”

[mixed]

Cool dialogues you've written there, paints a vivid picture in my mind.

I'm reviving this thread somewhat, i just wrote a shrot thing. Not a story as such. Hope anyone likes it.

When I read

Fatigue came about me as I lay in bed, reading. The bed covers raised over my midriff, my knees raised and my book grasped between ring and index finger in my left hand. I read with the accompaniment of natural light flowing through the window where a striped brown blind was pulled halfway between up and down. The light was trailing off fast and darkness was settling into the room.

My retinas noticed this quickly, as retinas will and the hand not grasping my novella reached out, searching down the lamp on my sock drawers cable for the click switch. All the while my eyes continuing to read and inject the story, images being displayed, imagined vividly in the cinema of my mind. With the little lamp on the conditions for my eyes were rather better. I believe that you always enjoyed a book more when you could see the words clearly. Just one factor of ones enjoyment of a piece of writing. Other important factors being the fluidity in which your inside voice reads the words and the pace at which your mind grasps them.

My eyes were now sagging though. Or flitting as I like to say. Flitting like a long horses eyelashes may as he tries in vain to combat gnats or flies from blinding. A serious enjoyment disruptor. To begin reading is to me a perfect gauge of tiredness. I did not realise that I was tired until I began ingesting words. After only 12 pages I had to close my eyes.

Another observation I have is the daytime dreams. When you dream and sleep during the day it is different from night. Consequently I awoke every 10 or so minutes, like bizarre clockwork. Awoken from a new dream. These dreams also, you choose when they ended and indeed when they continued. One dream, of which I no longer recall the story, felt happy. I opened my eyes, my mind making a little blurry judder as my eyes opened to the real world. I thought that this dream was good so I closed my eyes again. Like a television set on standby the dream came back on, almost as my eyelids touched.

Within the period of about the next hour I woke and fell asleep again in a clockwork cycle or roughly 12 minutes. I woke up, my lips pressed against the pillow, always with a little discharge of drool. It became instinctual for me to wipe the drool from my mouth, rest down upon a dry part of the pillow and let my eyes fade and close again. Some of the dreams were scary, some happy, some strange. I now find myself unable to account for them though. I remember the thoughts or emotions they brought with them yet not of what they told. These miniature tales which I simply do not get when I sleep normally. Through the night.

[mixed]

Why isn't anyone posting anymore? I liked this thread
Just a little memoir on sometihng from my day today:

“Ross?” I turn away from my computer screen and looked at my tutors face. He looks skittish, agitated, his face its usual red. At a guess I’d say he was on some speed related drug. Perhaps just coffee. Gallons and gallons of it, my guess, judging from the stench of breath that emanated from his ugly, hairy mouth. “go upstairs and wait outside my office”. I close the page which housed the game line-rider, belatedly so and got up to leave. Obediently. Wordlessly. I was angry inside knowing full well that I wasn’t the only person in this class procrastinating. I was being rounded on, unfairly. I felt in the back of my mind that he had a certain fear in addressing me. I can make people walk on eggshells.

“Charlie, this ones been playing computer games, he’s going upstairs for a verbal warning.”. My tutors words to the actual teacher for this lesson. A doddery old man who reeked of pretension and didn’t give a rats shit what people were doing in class.
He chose his words well. Concise and condescending. As I passed for the swingy door I glanced at Charlie. Already back in a conversation he was trying to derive some ‘art’ from. He was wearing the same awful shade of pink sweater that he wore the previous Monday. I walk the few feet out of the class, considering, as I often do, whether to take the stairs or the lift. Thinking on the one hand that the lift is a lazy option and that I should make use of my legs to climb stairs and be grateful for this pleasure. A pleasure not afforded to the paraplegic within our class. A token. Just like the black guy, the slut and the fat girl I thought, a wry little smile aching across my face as I stepped into the lift.

I took my hat with the Nintendo mushroom on off of my head and shook my hair, observing myself in the mirror, a vanity in lifts everywhere. I watched the red led lights change from, 1, 2 and finally 3 and bing, a soft, comforting sound. The doors opened and I stood poised, almost expecting somebody with a disability to want in, or the delivery guys in the little blue overalls who deliver the water. Nobody was there and I walked out and stood by the double doors. Observing the sign tacked to the staff room door. No students permitted without the accompaniment of a tutor. A sign I felt was patronising, reducing the student to a piece of meat and making the accompaniment of a tutor comparable to horseradish or mustard.

I hadn’t expected to be waiting for very long. I waited 10 minutes and then, feeling silly not to have realised sooner, proceeded towards one of the seats past a few filing cabinets in the narrow hallway. A narrow and long hallway with that oh so cheap green, thin carpet along its length. At a glance the chairs, waiting room chairs, looked comfortable. Wide seated with padding. 3 were blue, 3 were red. They were old. I sat down on the end blue, not as comfortable as it appeared. In fact no more comfortable than flat out plastic chairs.

20 minutes had gone by as I sat, my pulse growing ever slower. I figured this might be a scare tactic yet I began to realise that lessons didn’t break until 11 o’clock. In actuality it seemed likely that my dear tutor would finish tutoring his class before coming up to talk to me. I was growing less afraid and more purely annoyed as the time went by. Ahead of me was the disable toilet. A toilet I often used for I enjoyed the space. An amber light about the size of two postage stamps side by side was affixed to the wall next to the wide entry door with a green placard beneath which read, if lit, please summon assistance. This brought to my mind some humorous problems a disabled person may have in the bathroom.

Secretaries swanned past the chair I sat at, the waiting time ever stretching. “Hi Sue, want a coffee?”
“Hello Diane, yes I’d love a coffee,’ speaking her words slowly, enunciating accurately, ‘I don’t have any milk though.”
“Don’t worry, we have the technology.” This took the prize cake for cheesiest dialogue exchange I’d heard of the year so far. It was like watching a television movie unfold before my eyes. More and more secretaries and other official looking people walked by. Many of them glancing at me as many of them walked back and fourth more than one time. A Spanish man named Roxston, who actually taught French, walked by about three times during my wait. He walked as if leaning on a walking stick, his teeth bucked out. A strange man to be sure. A lady with terrible large red spotted tights walked past several times also. Then there was an old lady, grey straggly hair, wearing a dreadful jumper with spiral pattern on it and red shoes to mismatch.

I was getting incredibly bored as the clock I saw high above me, standard issue for educational institutions, yawned towards eleven o’clock. I was no longer fearful but annoyed for being made to wait for such a foolish amount of time. I had considered going down and asking if he was coming up a number of times but this seems ill advised.
Eleven o’clock is break time and when the clock hit 11 I went for a break as I believe is well acceptable. I waited until five past the hour, no lecturer so I went for my break.

When I go back into my next lesson with him, I asked if he still wanted me waiting upstairs. He simply said know. His earlier skittishness was now gone. A man of strange moods. I sat down and listened to what he droned on about and the lesson continued as normal. I didn’t get a verbal warning, it was as if nothing had happened apart from me missing my first period of the day.

[mixed]

Lots of smart people post on this forum. I hope that at least one smart persons reads this short. I've shown it to a few other people who had some comments about POV and the ending. Maybe the guess at what he saw being unnecessary. You'll see, have a read. I look forward to some constructive criticism

The Vegetable that hated my Friend too
I hate mushrooms. Revile them in fact. Everything about them, from the way they’re shaped to their slimy texture, smell and colour. To even hear people talk about how good their mushroom platter was the night past fills my head with disgust. I even have some trouble looking at magazine pictures, like those ones you see in fancy cookery magazines or being in the same room as a mushroom. It’s at a stage so bad it’s close to an obsessive compulsion of hatred. I am not alone though. Being the creature I am I’ve perused the internet and found others who share my extreme prejudice toward the vegetable. We talk in forums and some of the organisations founders send strange and angry pictures to mushroom distributors. I didn’t quite realise the cult I would unearth simply by typing a few keywords into Google. The internet is a most powerful tool for extremists.
Tomorrow is the first day of a new job for me. I need a job or I might not have anywhere to live except the streets. Aside from my hatred of mushrooms I am a big fan of fruit and vegetables and it so happens I’ve gotten a job in the produce department of a supermarket.
Todd fell asleep after a reasonable time, drinking his regular pre-sleep smoothie and falling into a dream that was all about a colourful universe adorned with crop, bush and tree of every variant of fruit and vegetable imaginable. At least within the expanse of Todd’s mind. Tomatoes, a favourite of his were animated characters that talked and walked around on green prongs. They had all the power and gave the death penalty to a great number of disgusting vagabond mushrooms who littered around this little pariah, making the place untidy and filling their surrounding area with a disgusting smell which was worse than the piss of cats to the nostrils. Needless to say, Todd enjoyed a happy and restful eight hours before his alarm woke him up. He was a strange boy. He really was.
The sound of the Kink’s ‘Tired of Waiting’ woke Todd up at a quarter past 8. He had chosen to wake several hours before he was required to be in work so as to enjoy a filling breakfast, fully expecting a hard day’s work. Showering quickly he made a quick fry up of eggs, smoked bacon and beef tomatoes. He read a while after this before leaving, shutting the door quietly so as not to wake his unemployed friend whom he shared the house with.
Outside it was raining. The type of rain wasn’t particularly heavy, just very constant so by the time Todd arrived and clocked in with the number he’d been given on a prior training day his coat felt heavy as if weighted down or caught upon something. The head of produce greeted him distractedly, rather rudely in his opinion and went on to pair him up with somebody. ‘Follow what Matt does and he’ll teach you what you need to know.’ Then she was gone. Todd half listened as a guy with glasses and a loud cocky voice began listing the basic duties of the job. ‘Make sure the stock is even, potatoes and onions are here, broccoli is in fridge 4 because it needs storing at a different temperature’ and so on. This guy left Todd to get on with it after this and he began.
Weeks passed and Todd was enjoying the job as much as one can enjoy repetitive mundane tasks. Things were easy and he loved being around fruit and vegetables so much. Todd loved to caress and admire each piece of produce. In a manner not unlike love. Once a popular fruit was sold out, such as the pineapples Todd would secretly mourn what was to him the loss of a family member. He was an odd boy.
Another week went by and Todd continued the job. He was close to the end of a month long trial and hoped with all his heart that the manager, a god in some circles of the store, would grant him permanent employ. Unbeknownst to Todd, in his own little world of moving produce back and fourth people were whispering. A Russian member of the produce staff would be talking to another employee, gesticulating with his hands, shaking his head and sighing. Some of the ‘senior’ staff would huddle together in the lunch room. Of course didn’t Todd notice any of this. When lunchtimes arrived he liked to sit in the room beside the canteen area, formerly a smoking room, and think about all the wonderful fruits he had caressed in the morning gone. Sometimes he thought about how many tomatoes and mangoes he could buy with his first pay check. These little thoughts made him smile until it were time to go back and work. Todd mainly went into this room so he could be alone with his thoughts and fruit salad lunchbox. Sometimes the room was occupied with other staff members though, who were on the stores home delivery team. One of the men, lanky with glasses and a fiddly looking style of facial hair always seemed to be the centre-point when Todd arrived, always telling a long and amusing story which had surrounding people captivated. ‘You ring the bell, wait and hear somebody climbing the stairs. A moment later a kid is crying. Then these women come to the door with baby in arms and they say, oh I’m ever so sorry, could you take it all through to the kitchen?’ This raised a loud laugh from everyone and an especially dumb sounding snicker from a thick bearded ginger man adjacent to the storyteller. Todd smiled at this as he slipped a pineapple chunk into his mouth.
The afternoon went smoothly by until Todd arrived back in the produce stock room. A high stack of mushrooms has somehow toppled over. Spontaneously perhaps or perhaps done and left by somebody else. Todd narrowed his eyes. What a huge fricking state. And those, why those? Loose mushrooms were strewn all over the floor and other larger mushrooms had burst from their sellophane packaging from the impact and were crushed. It was like the mushrooms had performed a prison break. As if they had had enough charge to knock themselves down but were too stupid to realise that without legs the plan was very half-baked. Stupid fucking mushrooms Todd thought as he crouched, hurriedly gathering them and placing them back into crates with frequent nervous glances towards the plastic flip door entrance. If anyone sees this I’ll be buggered.
The store manager picked his moment of all moments to arrive. He was a big man and his belly had slapped the plastic doors open before his feet had caught up. ‘What is this mess?’ he demanded, the expression on his face was one somebody else might have worn when terrorists diverted a plane into the north tower. ‘It’s, well, before I got here-‘, having heard enough he cut across Todd like a clumsy hare cuts across a road without looking. ‘Yeah, I see what’s happened here’, an amateur Holmes, ‘you’ve made the mushroom stock unsellable and it’s no bloody surprise. I’ve heard back from section manager and she says that you never put the mushrooms out. Do you know that they contribute to 0.3% of daily sales in our produce department? You are also working far too slowly and handling the produce too much. It needs to be in top condition for sale to our customers. We can’t afford to have them go elsewhere to fill their fruit bowls. I’ve seen enough and I’d like you to leave. You aren’t the sort of person I wish to have employed here.’ The manager had seen enough, apparently, and Todd stood up, glared at the manager and walked past him, pushing out of the doors.
Todd hates mushrooms. He hates them more than I hate running out of things to smoke. I learnt about this when we first moved in together. I was still unemployed but was fortunate enough to have been able to pay my side of the deposit and rent with money I’d stashed away from my weed dealing days. Todd had another job then. I think it was the one in the petrol station. Memory fails me. He worked funny shifts so I was often cooking for him too. He paid the bulk of the rent so I cleaned the house up and cooked for him to compensate for this. One night I was making a stir fry and he comes into the kitchen when I’m just adding the sauce to the chicken and noodles. I greet him and at once he is all serious sounding. ‘Oh no’ he says and goes toward the chopping board. ‘Yup, you put mushrooms in.’ considering this a question I reply ‘well sure, they’re good.’ He stepped out of the kitchen and said in a sombre tone, ‘I can’t eat this Gavin, I loath mushrooms.’ From then on I knew. I’d made a real big stir fry that night and because it had mushrooms in it, Todd wouldn’t touch it. He rang out for pizza. I remember eating it all to myself and washing it down with a couple of beers. Unsurprisingly I was up in the night sick. The large portion washed down with beer was unacceptable to my stomach.
His hatred is certainly obsessive and a mite weird. I could understand because I hate tuna but not so much that I go on hate forums about it like he does with mushrooms. I found out all about this niche habit when I was installing some new virus software on his laptop. When Todd lost his job it was like the beginning of the end. He got home this one afternoon, I think it was Thursday and he instantly got talking to me about how he’d lost his job and that mushrooms were conspiring against him to fuck up his life. Really mad, he was. I made him a cup of tea and went in the garden for a joint. I offered him some but he wasn’t into that sort of jive. Swear he needed it though; he was real agitated about the whole thing. He left his tea to cool and got onto the internet. I presumed he was going to the mushroom hate forum to post his conspiracy theory. Later on one of my mates who live in this flat was having a party cum rave. The weather was great and it was going to be held on top of his flat block. Against regulations you’re right in assuming.
‘Todd, come to this party with me, chill out, few beers, get your mind off of this business.’ Todd didn’t seem that convinced but his agitation had broken a little from earlier and he murmured, ‘maybe.’ He was dressed and ready by the time I’d said to be so we ended up going together.
It really was a decent evening and the flat blocks rooftop was covered with an assortment of umbrellas, some of which looked very like the ones you see poolside in foreign countries. No doubt stolen on drunken missions. A barbecue was going in the rooftops corner and loads of people were huddled abound smoking, talking, laughing.
Todd went right for a table set up with alcohol. Saying a few passing hello’s to people he thought looked familiar. Whether they were or not it probably didn’t matter, the party seemed to have been going for a while and most people appeared merry. They were walking Spanish back and fourth from the alcohol table. Teetering back and fourth like new walking babies. Some people came by with sausages precariously balanced on blue paper plates. Sausages and burgers had already been dropped on the concrete ground, mostly under chairs it appeared. Todd grabbed a beer and one for Gavin, who has already settled into a deck chair beside a girl with dreadlocks and a nose ring. Todd approached them in mid conversation. ‘And I was like fuck it, ya know, not even worth my time mate.’ She had a scratchy voice Todd instantly disliked. Nor did the opening sound of conversation seem especially eloquent. He sat down, passed a beer to Gavin who seemed enthralled by her common dialogue and reached for his key ring which had a mini bottled opener attached.
The evening passed averagely and Todd kept wishing he was at home, damning mushrooms on the internet. To quell the voice of the girl and the smell of her marijuana Todd drank more. He gulped beer from every continent, ideally free of charge, until he was fully exceeding the limits of sober. Basically he was quite trashed. His head was lolled and he had long since given up trying to participate in any conversation. The nose ring girl had been talking for what seemed close to forever and Gavin still seemed so interested. To Todd what she was saying was irrelevant. In his drunkenness her words were reduced to the raw cadent scratching of her voice. He could no longer understand what she had been saying for the last decade. Other people had come and gone under their particular pepsi cola parasol but now it was just the three of them.
They were laughing. ‘Hey Todd, I know, I know you think mushrooms have ruined everything for you but Kiera has some you might enjoy.’ Gavin was quite drunk also and he giggled, punching Kiera’s arm playfully. She giggled back and Todd looked into their eyes which were very hazy looking. Todd didn’t understand why but his voice spoke and said, ‘what the fuck’ in a welcoming tone. More laughter was followed by Kiera reaching into her cardigan pocket and bringing out three shrivelled up things. ‘Mushrooms’ Gavin announced. ‘Enjoyable goodness.’ He took one from Kiera who then leant across and placed one on Todd’s knee. They laughed more and counted down from 5 before eating the mushrooms. Todd didn’t join them on the countdown but slipped the mushroom into his mouth, tasted nothing and returned to staring at the floor vacantly.
Five minutes went by and the laughter had stopped. If a sober person had seen this they would have seen three people staring into space looking as if they were lost in the countryside. Blank faces, faces which were likely seeing the effects of mushrooms. Gavin’s eyes were fixed upon the parasol which to him was now a large orange snake that was pivoting up and down in slow comforting motions. Kiera’s eyes were to the sky and she was watching a battle. The clouds had come alive and a fierce black cloud was trying to blow a kind looking white and fluffy cloud away.
Gavin knew what Kiera had experienced from a conversation they had shared some months later. He never found out what Todd had seen. Maybe it had been mushrooms with pointed implements coming toward him or a big smiling tomato in the night sky. For several minutes after he had slipped the mushroom into his mouth he stood up from his chair, ran a short distance to the buildings edge and without hesitating hurled himself off into the night.
In a bizarre area of the internet, inhabited by strange radicals who hated mushrooms, they may have speculated that the mushrooms had hated Todd (forum handle killthemushrooms54) too.
END

[mixed]

sorry the paragraphs aren't split

[sacrilegend]

Hmmm... Besides some punctuation mistakes (which I'm sure were by accident) there isn't much technically wrong. Some sentences could be mixed around a bit, some words exchanged for ones that sound better... Grrr! I had a whole lot of examples but I can't remember now, and forgive me, but I'm not reading through it all again to find them...

Have you read through the story a few times yourself? When you do that, you sometimes find little places that seem to "snag" your tongue slightly. The words seem to drag and catch at your brain and that messes up the flow you've established. Do you understand what I'm saying or not really?

The writing was really nice, but the short, simple sentences you chose to put the piece in bothered me a little... It's a great style but it didn't suit the content or the language you used (in my mind it didn't sound right, I'm no real judge).

All in all, this story kind of let me down after your other writing, I liked it less... Don't know why?