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J-cob9000:
I was stuck at home this weekend without internet. Ew. I was bored.


--- Quote ---   Henry was the kind of person who could just sit at his desk and think. Not about anything in particular. Perhaps he would think about his job, perhaps his wife or kids. Perhaps he wouldn't think about anything and he would just stare into space.
   He was happy with his life. He had a beautiful wife and two wonderful kids, Brock and Eileen. They were each 12 years old and twins. They, and his wife, were his favorite thing to think about.
   This desk that he sat at and thought was in his office, which was on the forty-third floor of the Heimlich building. Henry's job was to make sure that all the computers in the building were running and that the network was in good shape. Henry got quite stressed sometimes but just going home and seeing his family calmed him down and let him forget about his job.
   Henry rode the elevator down all 43 floors with no interruptions. He went out the door and used his key to unlock his brand new company car. He turned they key and engine began to hum. He loosened his tie and began the drive home. The radio host was talking about war and about the economy. He changed the channel.
   Pulling into the driveway always cued his two kids to come running out of the house to welcome him home. They wrapped their short arms around his waist and tried to climb up his body like his arms and legs were branches on a tree. Henry had learned to walk while dragging two kids. That's how it was. Gradually, they stopped coming out to meet him. Henry knew it was because they were getting older and didn't find it necessary anymore. They were still happy to see him after his long days at work.
   “Honey?” Henry called for his wife every day when he got home. Every night she answered him with an, “I'm in the kitchen!” or a, “Back here!” And then she would walk out into the foyer and hug him and tell him that she missed him.
   Dinner would almost always be ready when he came home. The family would sit down at the dinner and have a peaceful family meal. They each discussed their day. The kids talked about school and what they learned that day. His wife told him what all she did that day.
   Henry was glad his family was normal.
--- End quote ---

schimmy:
Don't die, pretty thread!

-

I have been to Italy only once.
Twice more, but three people I will discuss were only together on this trip.
The other two trips were with my family.
One of which was uneventful
and one of which is a story you probably already know.

So, it's the school trip I'm going to talk about.
We went on pseudo-educational sightseeing trips during the day
and at night, we drank, the people I no longer like or never liked at all.
I drank, with one of the people I shall discuss, whiskey:
Jack Daniels and something with what might have been a cockrel on the label.
Though not in exact words, I remember why I drank it,
he's never told me why he did.
I wanted to be one of those cool, handsome, clever, sexy, people
who know all about whiskey or whisky, or even bourbon.
A connoisseur.
Who still doesn't know what the addition or lack of an 'e' means.
I am friends with him, though just barely I think sometimes.
He hasn't changed a bit. And I like to think I've changed completely.
I brought a box of condoms on that trip.
I hoped more than I claimed: "Just in case."
I think he's still focused on that and
though my girlfriend might tell you different, I'm not.
I think he's still using intimacy as a tool
to find love, and I hope he finds it
but I know he won't,
not this way.
He treats sex and drinking and drugs as more grown up than really they are.

Now, the other person I am going to talk about,
I was only starting to realise it then, is amazing.
I was still sort-of-interested-in-her in the way that I always was with new friends
I was apparently the first guy to know about her new boyfriend
who went on to break her heart a few too many times for me to ever forgive him.
But back then I was full of hope for the two of them.
She and a mutual friend were amongst the ones who didn't drink.
They had early nights.
I didn't know how, but they enjoyed the trip.
I was told no guy could get close to her.
I never did, and I never wanted to,
past our initial meeting.
Whenever I think about her she is happy and so am I,
and our lives are almost-perfect now,
and I'm still not quite sure why.

ZJGent:
Yaaay sci-fi that has no actual direction! One day I will actually write something that actually goes somewhere. p.s. did I post this on the forum already? I don't think I did, so here you are:
---

The apartment was a grid of fractured half-thoughts on architecture, the bottom level coding borrowing thoroughly from old London maps and half-sketched diagrams of piping. Still, the internal descriptions were a comfort to S Ellis 52*, known better as Sellis by her networkers, and she again decided not to sell the place. She reclined in a barrel of old texts on relaxation, via antique dialogues on bathtub ornaments. There was an old lavender subroutine behind the tub somewhere - dangling over the porcelain-written edge she poked her hand around the tile-code, finally grasping for a cylindrical length of purple numbering. Finding it empty and devoid of thought, she sighed and sank back into the bubbles. Realising relaxation would come easier among company, she dried the idea of her torso (a fairly original one - though modest, Sellis got attention) and slipped into a faded grey discourse on fashionable little numbers from twentieth century pop literature. Dry and dressed, it was a short walk from the apartment to LOL|RICK|ROLL, the new irony bar on the corner of her information street. The bartender didn't recognise her, so she ordered a double meme on the ricks, and sat silent at the stool to the side. A couple of spam lads came up with tawdry offers they'd bought from unoriginal sources, but she sent them on their way. Even with Sellis' modesty, a girl has to stay unique, you know?

I apologise, kind reader. I forget your own uniqueness - but let me let you catch up. Your brain, boggling at these 'abstract notions' of things, is no doubt having a bloody hard time of things. I will attempt, therefore, a little history for you. A touch of... explanation, in as clear and succinct a fashion as is allowed by the current state of... well, we shall get to that in a moment.
In the clattering and grime-soaked dying years of the human race, a solution was required to just about everything. Poverty was rife, disease pandemic, the environment a dirty great fuck-up of catastrophically unhealthy proportions. The further we advanced with our cure-alls and health gadgetry the more our own dirty marks would catch up with us. A pendulous cloud of guilt began to be heaped upon our statesmen and women, our Great Neon Leaders… nothing was working! Where would they find their voter confidence now? Humanity, in its short span aboard the earth, had shat on itself so many times that it seemed there was no hope.
Then, a miracle. It has to be said, whilst your comic-book frazzle-haired mad scientists were hard at work, it amounted to nothing. Yes, a solution did present itself. There were no funds involved, no mutated rodents, no bangs or fizzes. The man behind the escape from our own detritus wasn’t particularly clever, nor did it take him a great time and effort when the solution was formed. Look, the saviour of our race was no electric afro science whiz.
He was Clive, an accountant from Barnstow.




also: Gilly Thunder aka I HATE IT WHEN MY BRAIN COMES UP WITH IDEAS FOR SHITTY ROMANTIC COMEDIES.

Gilly Thunder was chronically single. Not just ‘chronically’, actually: the adjective couldn’t quite cover precisely the scope and width and breadth of all the whirlwind romances and torrid affairs she never really experienced. There was her ‘first time’ which was really no time at all. It had ended rather abruptly with a phone call to her father in shaky pubescent tones, one Valentine’s evening. The phone call was from a young love completely besotted with Gilly. Unfortunately, he had also been beset by nerves. The night of their first and only big date, Stephen Gandley of Class 7B, had stood her up via her father. Her father, being equal parts doting and incorrigible as all good Yorkshire-born fathers are, had only said “Oh well, love, better leave it ’til you’re older, eh?”
This had infuriated Gilly then – why wasn’t she allowed to bonk boys behind the bike sheds like all the other seventeen-year-old girls? Not that it looked particularly fun, and it was exceedingly messy, but the feeling that she was missing out on something hovered over her.
Gilly had hit thirty last year. She had, after the prophetic remark of her father that fateful evening, “left it until she was older”. Then she’d left it a little longer. And then, just to make sure, she had absented herself from the idea of falling head-over-heels entirely.
She wasn’t particularly bad-looking, though…

Barmymoo:
You didn't seem to think it was too much of a good idea last time either, so it's probably fairly masochistic to be trying again. Hey ho. No harm in being optimistic.

I sit across from you and try to make conversation without really knowing what to say. You're not listening anyway. There's another woman across the room, with short black hair and sophisticatedly bare ankles, and she's caught your eye as I never could.

I consider the scene before me. There's a hole in the tablecloth, a single fault in the white expanse between us, and I idly tug at one of the loose threads as my sentence dies on my lips. I've already forgotten what I was talking about. No use asking you.

Suddenly there's movement from the other side of the table and I look up to see that you've finally torn yourself away from the arresting sight in the corner. A smile skips between us, although it doesn't make it past the eyes. And just like that, I've found another glimmer of hope that will keep me chasing smoke and stardust.

jodizzle:
I don't want the thread to die so I am posting this unfinished piece of something.  I was trying to write something with substance but I never got past the first paragraph, surprise surprise.  I will maybe build on it one day, but until then, it can be a happy fragment in the thread.


“The past never stays in the past” my mother said, gripping me intently with her eyes across the kitchen table.  I watched as she filled her water glass to the brim with scotch, and grimaced when she drained it in several quick gulps.  “Don’t ever forget Janie, the past is a prick who returns to fuck you up when you’re at your lowest”.  She was talking about my father of course, the king of the mental mindfuck.  Her hand shook a little as she filled her glass again.  “It will always fuck you up Janie”.

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