Fun Stuff > CHATTER
Writtin' Thread
jodizzle:
Hi writtin thread! I am trying really hard to write more lately! I apologise for filling you with my crap like a giant write whore, but it helps keep me motivated! Anyway, Han was talkign about people in gabbly giving her three random words to use in a story and said that Roddy once gave her 'lemon, tax fraud and mountain' and she had never worked out a way to use them. I thought I would give it a shot and this is what you get! (thanks Roddy!)
You were that kind of father. You know the kind, always too busy making money (to give us a better life you said) to spend ‘quality time’ with your children. I didn’t need your quality time; I got by just fine fucking boys on your bed while you were on your business trips. ‘When life gives you lemons, fuck in your father’s room’ I used to tell the faceless strangers I invited into our home. They would smile and nod and pretend to understand while they took off my underwear. I marked the headboard with a nail file after each encounter, if you noticed you never mentioned it.
The ‘better life’ my brother bought with your money was mountains of cocaine. He didn’t need your quality time, he got by just fine doing lines on the coffee table while you fucked your secretary in an overseas hotel room. We buried him in the plot beside my mother; you hadn’t noticed him hemorrhaging on the lounge room floor. If you noticed, you never mentioned it.
When the police finally caught up with you I toasted their vigilance. The words ‘tax fraud’ were thrown around and you found yourself out of your depth. When you were convicted I celebrated in your favourite bar and took home the kind of young business man you hated most. ‘When life gives you lemons, fuck in your recently incarcerated father's room’ I told him as he lit my cigarette. He smiled and nodded and didn’t understand
Tom:
Charlie woke up to get a coffee and in the gloam he could just make out the tiny little stone wheels and burnt out fire pits on the Kitchen table top. He chalked it up to his body-clock being all hay wire, this was his second night working the graveyard at Richie's. He opens the cupboard and feels around sleepily for some coffee. He finds the foil packet hopping for some real coffee but it's empty. He swears under he breath and stumbles off to shower, crunching something underfoot.
The taps squeak as he turns them on, the water isn't going to get any warmer than luke-warm, it's summer so it doesn't bother him. The pressure is so high that every droplet is like a hailstone. The sound it makes as it hits the floor and walls of the shower recess is loud enough to prevent him from hearing the stray cat on the lawn caterwaul as it gets mortally wounded by a thousand tiny spears and carved up while still barely alive.
He gets changed into his uniform and locks the door as he leaves not wanting to notice the tiny little fire pits are alight.
ZJGent:
--- Quote from: jodizzle on 25 Oct 2008, 04:10 ---Jodie marry me or at least write me every now and again
--- End quote ---
This is fucking ace
jodizzle:
Thanks Roddy
(you owe me writtins)
(I havn't forgotten)
Eris:
Challenge: Tea, Skipping, Juggle
It was days like this that made me hate my job. I should have taken the hint when I woke this morning greeted by a hangover pounding behind my eyes and called in sick. I probably don't have any sick days left anyway.
I stood just inside the doorway of the dingy room and looked around, taking in the sparse furnishings and tried to not make comparisons to my own apartment. The windows were so completely covered in grime that the sunlight coming in through was heavy and tea-stained, sluggishly making its way through the air. The room was tinted in brown; I was walking in a sepia photo. Maybe on another day I would have appreciated the effect.
The woman was laying on the threadbare carpet, in the middle of the small space. I examined the scene, eyes skipping over the knife in the victim's back, and decided to have a closer look; hoping the smell of death wouldn't be too much. Stepping around the large patch of blood I knelt next to her head and looked at her face, wondering about her last moments.
Her eyes reminded me of Emily's. Emily, the latest woman in the revolving door of my love life. She made the best pork chops I have ever tasted, but apparently my jaded cynicism was too much for her to bear. I wasn't that surprised; it was the same with all the others.
I have never been very confident in my ability to juggle my various lives - social life, work life, love life. I can never quite work out how to keep all three in the air; it always seems to end with one still moving while the others are left in the dust at my feet. My friends and lovers don't pay the rent, so my job is the single ball spinning from hand to hand as I go on with my days. I could be a better son, a better husband, a better friend, but instead I try and be a better detective. I'm not sure why.
I reached over and closed her staring eyes, muttering a small apology to the person she never was, and walked back outside; away from the sickly stink of regret.
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