Fun Stuff > CHATTER
Writtin' Thread
ThePQ4:
Man...I don't think I could write something in the ballpark of 400 words if I tried...
Most already know about my blogger due to some excitement that occured about a year ago... However, I've moved completely past the Harry Potter Slash fiction and most recently have been dabbling in Original Slash (because saying I write gay fiction is weird). BUT, for a fiction contest in a local arts paper (which I think it is keen to point out that I did not win... but I did win 2nd place in a campus arts paper w/ a semi-gay coming of age story...), I did write a short hetero-romance piece. Two actually --one from the POV of a girl, and the other of the guy in the same relationship at different periods...
Anyway, this piece is a LITTLE longer then recommended, but I figured it would be OK.
Edit: I just read over it again...goddamn, that was horrible. I am never writing het-romance from a male perspective again. Ick. ...Also, I think part of it is missing...Hrm.
__
I walk into the kitchen for a soda. The can makes a cracking sound as I pull the tab forward. I lift the can to my mouth and the envelope on the fridge catches my eye. My eyes narrow. What is this? I wonder silently. I put down the can on the counter, and pull the envelope from the fridge. The paper doesn’t want to come out, but with minimal ripping, it finally comes free.
My eyes scan over the piece of paper. I can’t help but narrow my eyes. I knew this was a long time coming…but I hadn’t expected it so soon. I wondered when she had done it. Why hadn’t I noticed her absence?
It seems she has left me. After threatening it for weeks…even months. She finally pulled it together and left me. She doesn’t say why –just that weak “It’s Me, Not You” excuse that everyone uses. I knew we had our problems, but…why now? Things were just starting to improve, weren’t they?
My hand moves of its own accord, and suddenly the can of soda I had just opened splashes everywhere. The tin clinks against the linoleum floor and rolls under the cupboards. I feel the dampness soak into my jeans. My knees seem to give out, and I sink to the floor. The paper crumples in my fist, and my forehead presses onto the floor.
I don’t cry. I can’t. She was just a girl. A girl that I loved. I thought that she loved me too, but if she was so willing to leave me… Why does this hurt so much? My fist aches as I pound it into the floor. The letter falls from my hands onto the floor as I pull myself back together a moment later. I stare at the dirty envelope that fell to the floor somewhere between the soda splattering, and the collapse to the floor. Her handwriting…the perfect formation of the letters to my name. I want to hit her. I want to make her cry. I want to hear her laugh –even if it is cruelly and at my own expense.
I get up off the floor. The first thing that I think is Shit, I should clean up this mess. But I turn my back on it. It isn’t like it’s going anywhere. I walk back up to my office, and go back to work like nothing has happened.
I work steady until I simply can’t anymore. I have tried to push the fact that she is gone, from my mind. I walk down the stairs, and throw myself onto the couch. She would usually be home by now…I wonder when she’s going to come and get all of her stuff. I look around the room and see that there are large gaps in the movie collection, a few pictures missing from the walls. Her ottoman is gone. How did I not notice? When did she take them?
I want to act out. I want to hit something. I want to find her. I want to find her and hurt her as much as she has hurt me.
jodizzle:
I guess I will contribute! I have a thing that i started that I will probably never finish because it is ok buit not very good and I am lazy. So it is not a full story, just kind of a...beginning thing.
The Whiskey Pit
I was always just one of those kids, you know? The kind that had their life planned out by everyone else. Usually that means graduating high school, then university, really making something of your life. That wasn’t how it was for me. Everyone who should have been there to encourage me was instead trying to shove me back to where they had decided I belonged. Apparently there is no place in the world of success for someone of my background.
My family were not the most saintly bunch. In fact, I came from a rather long line of non-saints and I was expected to follow in their less-than-holy footsteps. We had no great scandal, no murder charges or dramatic affairs, but we had vices, and that was enough. The most common was whiskey. Beer didn’t get them drunk quick enough, too much liquid and not enough substance my father used to say, although it often came out slurred. The drinking was not so much the issue I suppose, as the results of the drinking. Broken furniture and bones, bruised faces and spirits. When I was in primary school I would often arrive with conspicuous injuries which everyone ignored. Not once did a well meaning teacher ask me if there were problems at home. It was simply accepted that was my lot in life, that’s what you get for being a Flynn. As if I had somehow done something before conception that made me deserve being thrown into the whiskey drenched lions den, expect broken bones before dinner.
My mother was a woman with few talents, but the one she utilized most was fucking. Sex wasn’t her vice, it was her job. Each night she would go out, screw a few, and return with cash for food and booze. I didn’t resent her for her chosen occupation, I resented her for distaste of me, the unwanted only child. I wasn’t an accident, I was a planned baby with parents who had no idea. It didn’t take my mother long to realize that having children isn’t like owning a dog, and that this planned baby was nothing but a goddamn burden. I grew up surrounded by resentment, abuse and whiskey.
Eris:
Immolation
He wasn’t sure how long she’d had it, the gaping hole in her chest; the edges were puckered and uneven, framing the view into the black space in her chest where her heart should normally reside. It was obviously an old wound, but even though the question pricked at the edges of his mind, he knew not to mention it. She never told anyone about it, covering her chest and pretending everything was normal; he was amazed he had seen it at all. But for all her acting he could still tell that it hurt her. She tried to cover it up, but the little flinches and winces that others didn’t notice were all too obvious to him.
Nights were the worst. When she was asleep she couldn’t control her reactions, and her whimpering was almost too much for him to bear. He would sit, watching her sleep, and try and work out a way to help her. He couldn’t just let her keep living this way; she deserved more. She deserved to be happy. So he considered his options, unable to sleep, until finally he came up with the perfect idea and newly energised, he went about preparing everything. Of course she had no clue what was going on, but that was kind of the point. It had to be secret, otherwise he knew she would protest and the gift would be ruined.
She woke, confused, in the middle of the night and wondered what had caused her to stir. That was when she saw him. His hands were resting in his lap, the knife held loosely there. The tears running down his face dripped onto the stained sheets, mingling with the blood seeping from the cut on his chest. He looked into her eyes helplessly and almost pleaded to her.
“I just wanted to help…” he gulped, shuddering as he sobbed. She bundled him up in her arms, his blood soaking into her nightgown, and murmured reassurances into his hair. “I tried, but I couldn’t do it. It just hurt too much…” The insistent explanation was muffled against her shoulder, but she understood that he had to tell her.
Using the ruined sheet she cleaned up the worst of the mess on his chest and kissed the tears from his face. He latched himself onto her and as she rocked him, still whispering comforting words, he finally slept.
jodizzle:
I like that one Han.
Ok Hannah told me a writing exercise that I decided to give a whirl. Basically you choose a sentence of something you have written, then use each word of that sentence to start another sentence to make a paragraph!
Mine became somewhat...abstract. I probably chose a silly line, but I have always liked it.
“I’m God’s most fuckable angel” She’d told me
I’m surrounded by pieces of her. God’s little black sheep, the lost lamb finding her way with cocaine and cigarettes. Most of her evenings spent bathed in vodka and smelling of sex, ‘Satan’s Paradise’ she called it. Fuckable mysteries in smokey bars would chat her up and take her home, another conquest on her heavenly mission. Angel eyed innocence long since stripped from her, now replaced with a Devil-may-care attitude to rival the big man himself. She’d had a glimpse of paradise and gave it up for the taste of cigarettes and sweat on skin. Told by heaven to go their way, she carved her own path through the vices of the city and reached her chosen destination. Me, left to sit by the window and watch her, descending in flames from the sky.
Now I know why I never got accepted into that creative writing degree so many years ago.
jimbunny:
Your prose is beautiful! "She’d had a glimpse of paradise and gave it up for the taste of cigarettes and sweat on skin." Awesome sentence.
Also, I really liked Allison's. I think you paced yourself really well.
I don't have anything just yet, but I don't want this thread to die!
Navigation
[0] Message Index
[#] Next page
[*] Previous page
Go to full version