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gently caress it, I need a kick in the rear end.
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Dec 9, 2014 04:11
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 13:15 |
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Family Troubles Word count: 1,081 I am reminded for the third time in my life the whys I left Shimer Manor. The first concern being basic structural integrity; the building is half supported by land and half by a scattering of wooden pillars, descending into the freshwater lake sixty-seven feet below. (I’ve measured, for safety calculations as part of larger, more involved escape plans from my teenage years and also from my sister’s wedding just two months ago.) The drop from the third floor balcony facing the south side is a tricky one, as you would prefer to land in the five foot gap between the rocks and the Water That Never Stops Boiling, both purported selling features of the home and I’m told it would be a shame if I were to do anything to devalue them. The drop from the third floor balcony facing the north side is not advised. I walk up to the door, ornate designs that curve endlessly in on themselves in the shape of birds, vines, and the dent where my sister’s new then, ex now husband drove an axe through. I think it adds character, my father disagreed. With a pull of the cord, the doorbell thrums, a low frequency wave that you don’t hear as much as feel through your body. After about five minutes, my sister comes to the door, as haggard as I last saw. “Malcom, it’s good to-“ I cut her off, “I’m here to pay my respects and go. I didn’t bring anything, and I’m not bringing anything home.” I go to move past her, but now she cuts me off, “Hey rear end in a top hat, thanks for bringing your shining personality all the way out here. Boy have I missed this.” I’ve had this fight before, but I’m not above having it again. “You should really leave Maine Margret. Hey, maybe you’ll meet a guy that isn’t a loving psychopath.” That did it. “You mother fucker.” Before I can even think I’m tackled onto the porch outside. “Keep talking, rear end in a top hat, keep saying words. I need more reasons to beat the poo poo out of you.” I’m not done, and I don’t care. “How’s the therapy been going?” She just yells as she slugs me across the face. Then she yells again. “Motherfucker! I think I broke my hand.” She gets up off of me holding her wrist, and walks off in the direction of the kitchen. I get up, and feel as my jaw begins to numb. At least she isn’t catatonic anymore. I walk in and standing there, looking prim, proper, and utterly appaled is Smythe, the family lawyer. “What, you weren’t going to do anything about that?” He delays his response, trying to be tactful, but eventually just goes with “…You’re a complete rear end in a top hat.” “Thank you!” my sister shouts over the sound of running water from the kitchen. “Thanks. Oh and I decline,” I’m not wasting a second. “You… What?” Smythe is confused. “I’ll make myself clear. I. Decline. I’m not taking anything from this place. I’m not taking any money, or the house, or the furniture,” And now I can hear Margret laughing from the edge of the room. “Ah ha ha ha ha! Money? House? You’re getting the goddamn box,” she comes in, hand on ice. Oh gently caress. “No, no definitely not. I’m not taking the drat box.” I’m shouting at this point, as Smythe shoves something into my gut. “The Mantricel Music Box has been in this family and this home for generations-“ My immediate reaction is to drop the drat thing, but I know too well. “That’s right Mr. ‘I’m fifteen years old and I’m gonna make it on my own’, it’s yours. You get to hold on to it. It’s your responsibility,” Margret says, looking elated. Beautiful wood carving decorated with a massive amethyst gem on top, The Mantricel Music Box is an antique guaranteed to wow your friends and relatives. The melody it produces is intricately layered and is guaranteed to drive Those Who Are Not Worthy into a bloodlust, followed by a desire to take a bath in the Water That Never Stops Boiling. I’ve never heard its song. Margret has, as was part of her eighteenth birthday, as has Smythe, as part of the screening process to be the family lawyer. Margret’s ex-husband, as you might have guessed, has also heard it. I hear medication has done wonders for him. “This is it, huh?” I’m staring at it now. I know what they want. That’s it; I’m getting it over with. With the way I’m feeling, I’m okay with whatever happens. “Well,” I say to everyone, “Let’s start the show.” I open the box- ************************** "You are the only person I know who would complain about 30 cents." "It was $1.06," he corrected. “What, is there some kind of super small I’m not aware of?” I say, only now noticing that his cup is in fact smaller than mine. “Value size.” He explains, “16 oz, on the dollar menu. I said 16 oz and she said she heard a 20 oz. Even by that, she still got it wrong.” I let it go. I’m not fond of complaining about or with fast food employees, especially when they are still standing fifteen feet away **************************** …What? I close the box, and open it again- **************************** "Is this free?" “I guess, I mean it’s community run so, sorta.” I run out of words, a common problem. "Okay well, I'm not a writer," he clarified, "but what I would do is like, I’ve read some Stephen King, like Christine, when they get the thing, like it’s something they really want, like a house or a car, but people end up dead and they think it’s cursed. So the spend time trying to get rid of the curse, but then it’s revealed that it wasn’t cursed, but instead it was this tiny other thing that nobody noticed." "It's got a twelve-hundred word limit." "Twelve-hundred or twelve-thousand?" "Twelve-hundred." "Oh, nevermind," he said, and took a drink from his value cup. ***************************** Oh, gently caress this. You know, I’ve got a life, one I’ve worked really hard to make happen. I have a wife and a kid back in Cali and here I am in Maine with this stupid bullshit. gently caress you, I’m not having my life dictated by some rear end in a top hat in a burger king. I don’t even say anything, I put down the box and leave. I have better things to do. I loving hate this place.
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Dec 15, 2014 05:59
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The Great Escape Word Count: 82 words Bad Ideas Good had a problem, his story was too short. "Gee, this half a draft that I hate isn't done yet, and it's only ten minutes until midnight. Wait! What if I combine this terrible draft with that other half a draft that I loath! It'll be seamless." And so he copy and pasted those drafts together. "There, I did it. That took a lot out of me, so I guess there's no time for proofreading!" And then he clicked submit reply.
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Dec 15, 2014 07:16
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In. I need
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Dec 30, 2014 23:34
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