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Yeah, go on then, I'll inflict some word vomit on you all.
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Jan 1, 2014 16:02
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 10:17 |
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We Don't Fight Anymore - 947 words Of course, Richard comes to talk at me while I prepare the meal. His beady little eyes are following my every move, so I turn to block his view of the food. He grunts slightly as he heaves his carcass away from it's resting place on the counter, and walks to the window. I turn back, blocking his view again. It's not the most elegant way to cook, this little dance of ours, but so very worth it to see his pitiful attempts at nonchalance as he repositions himself. Doctor Golding will be so satisfied with our progress; isn't it nice to share quality time with your loved one? And we do spend most of our time together these days, except when we sleep. Tonight's meal will be a little burned. We make polite small-talk once the meat is in the oven, and though it's a shame to spoil it, I can just picture his blood pressure climbing a little higher as I ignore the timer, feigning fascination with his prattle. He won't say anything, of course, because he's 'making an effort'. Wouldn't want to be the bad guy now, would we? I step around him as I prepare the vegetables, him always moving a half-second too slowly, and me never quite pointing the blade in his direction. A visitor, unlikely as the concept is, would see only the very model of marital bliss. We used to have guests, of course, but they drifted away over the years – my friends grew understandably weary of his shouted arguments, and later his gold-digging little band of parasites simply had to go. Not that we shout any more, of course. We don't quarrel at all. To bicker would require us to talk about anything more than the weather, to argue would require us to care. Instead, we both try to take pleasure in the little things. Placing the salt just out his reach, or maybe forgetting to replace the batteries in the television remote. The care home called, I inform him, making sure to thoroughly chew my mouthful of tough pork before continuing. Do his eyes light up a little, or maybe his reptilian mind is actually capable of caring about the old lady? Either way, he'll be disappointed at the news, or lack of it. As was I, to be fair, but I've always had more patience than him. As we tidy the dishes, his ungainly feet trip me a little, but I manage to make sure the leftovers land on his precious couch, so we'll call that one a draw. - "For fucks sake, Mavis, is that all you can think about?" Money. Always, it's loving money. Next she'll be screeching about bills and oh-so-urgent repairs, and I'll accuse her of being a soulless harpy. And then we'll both shout over each other, and she'll run upstairs, slam the goddamned door, and I'll be sleeping on the sofa again. It's a crap sofa at that, one of the few things left over from the 'old days'. Ugly as sin, and a few inches too short to sleep on. Maybe the card can take enough punishment to get a new one? It'll cause another fight, for sure, but I haven't had a decent night's sleep in a week. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that soon enough we won't have to fight like this, but then I feel bad for thinking of the old lady like that. This is the worst bloody feeling in the world, I'm certain. Not having money is poo poo, sure, but I'd go back to that any day over this not quite having money just yet. Not to mention the guilt over wishing someone dead. If only she'd never got the drat cash in the first place, and then it's time for another round of guilt. I think it's the guilt that gets me pissed off, more than anything. Maybe Mavis feels the same way really, maybe even worse given it's not her aunt, she always hated moochers. I wish we could have a sane loving conversation about it without it loving spiralling off into another flaming loving row. Who was it who talked about 'Jam tomorrow'? About how it'll keep you going a lot longer? It bugs me that I can't remember, I'd like to put a name to the phrase so I can imagine tearing their lovely little truism apart, making them realise just how wrong they were. Jam tomorrow just makes you feel hungrier today. I punch the cushion into shape, taking a certain spiteful pleasure at the noise, knowing it'll disturb her upstairs in her – our – warm comfortable bed. I want her to know how angry this whole screwed-up situation makes me, it's about the only way I can communicate with her these days. gently caress it, I'm going to the pub. At least I still have some goddamn friends left. - It started out pretty silly, and now it's kind of turned into a challenge. We couldn't afford much anyway, but the unspoken game is to see just how long we can go without buying anything. Three weeks since we got the place, and it's becoming a ritual – just us and our close friends, sat on the floor and playing boardgames, using the still-wrapped sofa as a mock table to eat. Never to sit on, because that'd somehow be breaking the rules. The leaky air-mattress borrowed from my dad doesn't count, we're not masochists or anything. It's a good game. We've had a drink or two and hot food, we have friends, we've got each other. And the sofa, of course.
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Jan 2, 2014 14:59
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B'aww, PP feeling all hungover and poo poo? gently caress that noise, princess. The second this week is over and I'm above the post of consent, I'm calling you out on actually writing something. e: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GvaIG_yA8E petrol blue fucked around with this message at 01:31 on Jan 6, 2014 |
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Jan 6, 2014 01:28
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Count me in.
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Jan 7, 2014 14:39
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Fanky Malloons posted:petrol blue: Oh, huh. Thanks, I'd always thought "it's" was the possesive. Duly noted,  , etc.e: It was a drunk challenge, but I made it all the same: Purple Prince, do I gotta slap some words outta you? 
petrol blue fucked around with this message at 19:12 on Jan 7, 2014 |
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Jan 7, 2014 19:05
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
 Business - 994 words My spine itched. Of course it itched, this job just wouldn't have been quite perfect without that as well - only the best for me and Jones, as always. Still, better to have it than to get dumped at sea by some rear end in a top hat with two brain cells to rub together. They never said how many had been stashed with Davey Jones before they put the system in place, and I was probably happier not knowing. “Homicide?” That same tone of voice everyone used when they saw the badge, somewhere between surprise and amusement. Wait for it... “Can't imagine you get much work these days?” I muttered my way through the usual banter, shut her down when the questions cut too close to the bone. No need to let on that we just as big a joke to Them Upstairs. Maybe I pissed the lady off, or maybe Toombs was just that big of a prick, but it was near half an hour before I got to see the big man. I passed the time using a glossy pamphlet to pick dog poo poo out of my shoe. Toombs' 'office' turned out to be the whole top floor, a hell of a long way up, and it was fitted out just as nicely as you'd expect, though possibly with a bit less elegance. The man himself was taller than he looked on TV, thinner, and the suit just made him look like a crow. Old, but who isn't? Once people hit their late 80s it was hard to tell. He didn't get up from his seat. “Officer. What can I do for you today? Interested in dying, perhaps?” “Sure. Who isn't?” He caught the sarcasm, seemed to take it as criticism of his work. “Well, true, it's not death per se, but it's the finest substitute human minds can create, and improving by the year. I should know, I spend most of my time dead. I... Well, I was dead until your appointment, but Sharon thought I'd want to talk to a colleague in person. Both in the death business, you see?” It was the same logic that'd got me put on the investigation. Didn't see it myself, but I let him prattle on. Never know when something important might slip into his sales pitch, and it gave me a chance to check the place out in more detail. Seems people would pay pretty well to not exist, and Toombs (“It's actually from the Aramaic for 'twin'”) just happened to have the right death wish and the cash to make it happen. Years of scientific research, near-total suppression of brain activity, yada yada. “So, does it work?” I hadn't really meant to interrupt him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. “Or your money back.” He grinned at that one. Practised, I could tell. “We offer the option of coming back after a set time, so you can decide whether to continue. You'd be surprised how few people take that option.” No, I wouldn't. I'd done my homework, spent far too long digging through excruciatingly tasteful black-bordered leaflets looking for hard facts. It had surprised me the first time, though. He carries on with his spiel, and eventually offers to show me around. More like it. As the elevatore doors peel open, first thing I notice is the cold - nothing too bad, but enough to be noticable. It's from the cryogenics, he says, shows me the long row of heavy doors like you see on meat fridges. I yank one open, mostly because he wasn't going to, and there's a slight pull to the action, like on your freezer. Inside, it's the size of a shipping container. Three rows of 'corpses' about twenty deep each, hung like suits on a rack. Tubes and wires stick out of them, nothing I can make much sense of beyond 'medical'. It's real cold in here, somewhere about freezing. Toombs confirms it, reeling off figures about how cold slows the regeneration, nothing that'd be news to a school-kid. I poke at a few tubes, but my heart's not in it: I wouldn't be able to spot anything unusual here, and the cold was getting into my old bones. Still, it confirms one thing – pricey. But the cost of dying... Well, I could afford it. I question him on it. “Economies of scale”, he claims, and goes off into science again. Smart move if he's hiding something, I'm too out of my depth to tell if he's bullshitting me. We go back to his planned tour, but he's too smooth to let anything slip. It's an hour after I arrived before we go back to his office. I pretend to be satisfied, and see myself out. Well, that's I tell him. I don't buy any of this poo poo, and I'm prickled by the way he treated me more like a potential customer than the law. I kill the elevator somewhere in the mid-teens, step into another corridor full of heavy doors. Huh. Could be this floor's not in use, but it's more than just 'not cold', it's actively hot in here. I pull open one of the doors, and the temperature hits me like a blast furnace. Not just that, the smell too. Meat. They don't hear me over the sound of their powertools, so I get a good long look at the real 'death' Toombs is selling. The rows of bodies are the same, hanging from rails, but there's bags over their heads. The rest of them, it's fresh raw meat, being stripped off the bones by the workers. I stumble retching back into the corridor, throw up on Toombs' shoes. Two goons grab me, hold me as he brags how easy I've made this for him. Later, as the needles go in, he plays me the footage: “Interested in dying, perhaps?” “Sure. Who isn't?”
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Jan 12, 2014 01:52
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FLASH RULE
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I think yours was #15, so yeah, a thou.
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Jan 12, 2014 02:34
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QuoProQuid posted:Death in Dorset This one gets my vote for tastiest meat. We kill this one last. e: Except for the slight anachronism in implying they weren't already covered in poo poo.
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Jan 13, 2014 18:34
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e: 
petrol blue fucked around with this message at 19:14 on Jan 13, 2014 |
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Jan 13, 2014 19:11
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Crack the Sky - 99 words Across the valley the priest's chanting echoed, supernaturally loud, drowning the wind's howl. He raised the ancient relic above his head as the incantation peaked. The roc plummeted from the sky, striking the ziggurat hard enough to crack the stone. Neesha rolled free, adding the momentum to the speed of her tomahawk. Breath smashed from his chest, the elder staggered, dropping the painted skull to shatter on the blood-slicked stone. Panting, she raised the gnarled staff the shamans had gifted her, spat at the dying man, and her single blow shattered the altar into dust. "Your god is dead."
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Jan 14, 2014 19:27
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| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 10:17 |
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Crits are what I'm here for. What doesn't (quite) kill me, etc.
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Jan 16, 2014 02:50
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