One Shots

[Rhoda]

It didn't take me long after I had drifted out to a sound sleep that I was awoken by a rude interruption. He sat square upon my chest, smoking a cigarette, almost trying to show me how his lungs felt after all these years. Despite the layers of sheets and a duvet, I could feel the cool leather of his coat. I wondered if he had just come in from the cold - then again, it was raining hard and he was bone dry. For about a minute he sat very still, almost as if he was waiting for the trickling rain to suddenly snap into audible focus and tell him something new. When that failed, he slowly looked at me.

 

"Got an ashtray?"

 

All I could do was eyeball the bin in the corner of my room. It was dark but I knew where it was. So did he, as evident by the well aimed flick of his cigarette.

 

"Thanks buddy," he said with a sniff, "you'd think I'd learn by now, the amount of times I pay you a visit."

 

I lay there, this dead weight on my chest that had more life in it than I had.

 

"Oh, I forgot, yeah, you can't move. This lucid stuff is a bitch, right?"

 

I felt nerves free in my neck. I wasn't sure if he was letting me move, or if my body was slowly crawling out of REM sleep. My finger twitched, and I regained the use of one my arms. I felt relieved and instantly went to scratch my nose. Blessed relief! Even in the dark, he chuckled and coughed heartily at my scratching. He swiveled to face me, his rear now digging firmly into my ribcage. For a thin man, he was quite the weight when he wanted to be. He had been visiting me in my sleep since I was 13, and he certainly wasn't getting any younger. Maybe his bones had sought sunlight and risen to the surface.

 

"What did you dream about earlier, champ?"

 

My voice croaked into life, words falling out in an icy tangle.

 

"The girl," I whispered, "the one down the street."

"Isn't she a little young?" he said, raising an eyebrow and reaching into his pocket for smokes.

I mustered a shrug. "Old enough."

 

This really made him laugh. He cocked his head back and let his jaw hang loose. With sharp bellowing laughter, he brought a hand down onto my shoulders warmly. I flinched, and wondered why the hell I didn't see that coming, even in the dark.

 

"You go back to it pal," he said, sliding off my chest at long last and heading for the door, "just remember to wake up. I'd hate for you to get locked in with a jealous sibling and an angry father. One day he'll get you. He knows you're dreaming of her. You seen that look he gives you?"

 

He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth.

 

"Not good."

 

-----

 

No idea where that came from.

 

The Internet

[Ziggy455]

 

Intelligent beings intellectually intellect through virtual portables with virtual names!

Nobody is at fear of being branded as no more than an anonymous nobody.

Transmissions of signals spread through wires in seconds.

Email, E-talk, E-food, E-Electronic and even E-Sex!

Real people post unreal statuses about insignificant things they think are real.

Nobody with a least half a brain uses it for the right purposes.

Electronic communication 24/7 but nobody is ever really conversing.

Thousands of interfaces, hundreds of thousands connecting simultaneously!

 

Interfaces behind interfaces behind interfaces that interface together!

So much time idly being destroyed over meaningless page flicks and curious quarrels.

 

Opposition from interface, day to day over mindless concepts and topics, it is virtual social war.

Underachieving central, full of understood underachievers hell-bent to understand to overcome their underachievement.

Reconfigurations, details, defragments and reconnection over a non-physical existence!

Life beyond the limits of physical existence, a land of E-Life and E-Love.

Indifferences mocked daily upon chat log after chat log, hatred flows through poor grammar.

Foolish lovers meet on virtual sites with real intentions at fake love in a virtual relationship.

Ending the pessimism of the one and only Internet, an impossibility.

 

 

Well, I had no idea how I wrote this but enjoy it, if you can.

 

 

The next theme?

 

The face in my signature!

Edited April 17, 2012 by Ziggy455

[Mokrie Dela]

That had a strange, wild flow to it. At first i though it was going to be a poem (can poetry be posted in here?) but, apart form some of the repitition, i quite enjoyed it. Like rolling in mud. It was different.

The next theme?

 

The face in my signature!

I've often wondered what that was. Here we go:

 

 

 

"Smile!" The voice said in a raspy whisper. "You should smile more. Life is so much better with a smile!" The figure twirled the six inch blade round in his fingers before taking it to his own face. "Daddy always said smile. Or was it mummy?" He laughed, an uneasy derranged laugh. "Might have been Uncle. With his spidery fingers. Stop it! It tickles! He was always cold. So cold. Not like mummy. Mummy was warm."

 

I am unable to speak. I stare at the figure in the darkness, trying to make out his face. All i see is a silhouette. That's when he leans forward. First i see his eyes, unfocused and untamed. He smiles, tilting his head. "See? A Smile fixes everything!"

 

I feel the knife on my skin, the cold nakedness unwelcome as it scratches against my stubble. A chill shoots down my spine and i feel the sudden need to urinate. I stretch my lips into an awkward smile, praying the knife will be removed.

 

And it is. "See?" The figure laughed, leaning back into obscurity. "Everything's better with a..."

 

I try to talk but no sound comes out.

"Don't Cry!" The man shouts out. I frown. what the hell? "When you cry the world drowns in rain. Mummy said you should always smile. I think... At least i think mummy said it. Or was it my aunt? My aunt with the tickley moustache? Crying's bad. Life should be happy! So happy! Everything bright, colours, sunshine. Not rain. I don't like the rain! The thunder and the flashes. It scares me, but if i smile, it all goes away!"

That's when i see the man's smile is false. That in turn makes me smile truly, marvelling at the irony. Is it irony? I'm not sure.

"Don't worry." I say. "It'll all be fine. See? I'm smiling."

 

Freddrick begins to sob. "I want it all to go away." He drops the knife and an ordely retrieves it. I wave them off and pull Freddrick to my chest. "It's ok," I say. "We're here for you."

 

Freddrick pulls back and smiles, a joyous one as opposed to the derranged on. I knew people could change at a flip of a switch here, but i'm in awe at the transformation.

"Do you think mummy still loves me?"

"Course she does." I stand and take the patient back to his room.

 

One hell of a first day, hey?

 

 

 

 

Twister

[Ziggy455]

Thankyou for taking the time to read it Mokrie, it was just something I wanted to do. Split off from conventional formation with the way the words come across.

 

As for this piece you've written, I like it. It's a good set up for a much wider story. I like how the the setting is unknown, dark like it is only the two characters and then suddenly we're thrust into some sort of asylum. A nice little piece man.

[El Zilcho]

It was that season again. A season that, observed or lived through, could not be ignored.

 

With it came the predatory howls of furious wind, crashing against the thin shutters and quaint post boxes of Antoin. Not a moment of piece had been afforded to the solitary prairie town since the twister had blown in that morning; transforming picturesque tranquil meadow into a swaying ocean of green violence. Relentless and fervent, opaque and unyielding. The sky was punctured by the cavernous cloud, easing itself smugly over its prey, the little ants below scurrying for cover.

 

Donnie wasn't like the rest of the ants. He sat safely inside the cover of his locked porch, finding harmony in the cacophony that raged beyond his plaster walls. Some people enjoy the sound of rain against the roof, others of ocean waves climbing up the shore. But Donnie found his inner peace in the metronome of his iron rooster on the roof, clanging rhythmically with each gust. This afternoon he was free of humdrum work; courtesy of the twister. He'd soak himself in the ambience, his eyes closed for the duration of the twisters visit.

 

Years of experience had taught him that this phenomena was far from panic worthy. The opposite in fact, for a man as distant as Donnie the twister brought change, a chance to be a connoisseur of the most non conformist of weathers. In his loneliest of nights he could almost give each of his windy companions a name. It was always an appropriate, characteristic one too. For in the 20 years of living by the outskirts of Antoin, Donnie had hear, felt, hidden from and been battered by them all. In a strange sense, he'd loved and lost them as tumultuously as a French bachelor in Paris loses his students of love. Each time breaking and forming anew.

 

As the winds subsided, Donnie's white noise dissipating with them, he felt empty once more. The sun sliced through layers of moisture, bringing it's forceful good nature with it. No space for the unusual appreciation of ominous weather. Back to routine and back to normality. Stifling normality. Donnie opened his eyes with disappointment at the quiet thought he held within his heart. His friend was gone.

 

 

First Class Edited April 17, 2012 by El Zilcho

[Mokrie Dela]

Not bad. I liked some of the description, especially near the beginning. Can be tricky to get adequate descriptions in without killing the flow of the story and I think it worked well especially as this is a no planning thread

 

I'll sit this one out to let others have a go

[Vercetti21]

I quite liked the imagery in that piece, Zilch. As he said ^, it can be hard to strike that balance between description and plot. I also noticed how the sentences describing the twister tended to be longer and more winding, but then as the storm subsided the sentences broke down to simpler details. Not sure if you were going for that or not, but I thought it was a nice touch.

[El Zilcho]

Thanks guys, and yeah, glad you spotted the rhythm changing slightly as it left. I really enjoy imagery in writing so I tend to fit it in when I can and this piece was perfect for it.

[Rhoda]

First Class

 

Luckily for Pamela, she had made the gate just in time. After stopping for a tall mocha and a romantic novel, why shouldn't the plane wait for her anyway? With the amount of money she'd spent in the place it's a wonder they didn't offer her frequent flyer miles for such stellar loyalty. Clutching her Prada purse, she slammed the baggage storage door shut, narrowly avoiding an elderly man's fingers as he gingerly placed an umbrella next to her. It was either blind ignorance or the fact her sunglasses gave her the appearance of a beetle with blonde hair. As her heels clicked down the aisle, constantly checking her ticket against the common rows of seats, she saw something that made her stomach lurch, and it wasn't the window seat - it was a black man.

 

From the looks of it, it had been a hard day for him. Sweat teased its way down his face and onto his polo shirt. The beat up trainers he wore had carried him swift and sure to the gate. Much like Pamela, he had almost missed his flight but he was just glad to have made the plane. Everybody else had been seated and he sat, content, even making a friendly face towards Pamela as she approached.

 

Neighbours for the next seven hours, but not on her watch. Pamela caught the attention of a drifting flight attendant.

 

"Excuse me," said Pamela, flustered, "but is there any chance I could have another seat or transfer?"

"I'm sorry miss," came the reply, almost as if being read from a script, "but we can't change seats as there aren't any available, and transfers are against our policy at this stage."

"Well, do you have any first class vacancies?"

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing, I want a transfer, I simply cannot sit next to him for seven hours."

 

If it wasn't for the large sunglasses, Pamela might have seen the crestfallen look on the man's face, not that she'd care.

 

"I'm sorry," said the flight attendant, doing her best to keep cool, "but there's nothing we can do."

"But you do not understand, he is black."

Her voice dipped, but not enough. A dozen people turned in their seats to clarify what had just been said. The flight attendant retorted well, with no change in tone, but obvious restraint.

"I'll see what I can do," she said, turning on her heels finally and heading to the front of the plane.

 

Relief swept over Pamela. That could have been very embarrassing indeed. The last thing she wanted was to land sharing the scent of him. Within minutes, the flight attendant was back, a pleasant look on her face.

 

"Ma'am, I've spoken with the captain. There is indeed a seat in first class, and while it is most unorthodox, we feel a transfer is the answer to this problem."

The flight attendant cast a glance at the black man, now sweating even more through sheer shame.

"Myself, the crew and the captain agree that you should not sit next to this gentleman."

Before Pamela could express her gratitude with a pearly smile, the attendant took a few steps towards the man and smiled sweetly.

 

"If you'd like to get your things, sir, I have a seat in first class ready for you."

 

---

 

"Farmyard Animals"

[Eminence]

 

Loved it, Craig.

[Mokrie Dela]

Loved it, Craig.

I concur

Although I saw it coming, kinda, it made me laugh - out loud. Even sickipedia only manages a chuckle every hundred jokes or so , this actually

Made me crack up

[Otter]

Great Craig, but I just read that story on Facebook the other day so the ending was sorta telegraphed for me. Regardless, you fleshed it out rather well. Snotty characters are so f*cking fun.

[Rhoda]

Yep, the concept is far from original, and I saw the email back in my Yahoo! days. I liked the idea though.

[El Zilcho]

Yep, the concept is far from original, and I saw the email back in my Yahoo! days. I liked the idea though.

I was about to point that out - lovely karmic tale, you wove it nicely with some good description.

[Eminence]

Geez, and there I was thinking you were being all original.

[Rhoda]

No, sorry. I'm not a complete rip-off merchant though!

[Ziggy455]

As I finished reading Craig's piece, I imagined an army of militant black men raising their fists and screaming victory. I absolutely loved this piece.

[Mokrie Dela]

i genuinely hadn't heard that tale before!

[Ziggy455]

Cynthia hated her chores. To be out in the barn milking the cows this early in the morning was a darn bother. Papa wouldn’t let her curse and so most expletives of hers were filtered by either ‘gosh’ or ‘darn’. She sat slumped on a wooden stool, only a pair of dungarees on her curvy frame. She had thrown them on in a rush with a little white T-shirt which showed more upper body than it hid. She began to squeeze Daisy’s teats carefully, each squirt of milk spurting into the metallic pan with a ringing echo of tin. She was to do this until the bucket was full, and she hated it all the same.

 

She began to daydream, she thought back to the first time Ryan Jenkins had come over and the two had fondled each other on the second floor hay patch of the barn. She remembered the distinct smell of manure and dampness in the cool summer air and the gentleness of his lips as he slowly slid his tongue all around her neck. As the minutes ticked on she found herself dozing. She continued to lazily squeeze the udders, the faint rhythm of the milk hitting the pan cooing her to oblivious sleep, she shot up and slapped her flushed cheeks faintly.

 

“Hey there missy.” Said a voice Cynthia found familiar. She turned her head quickly, her hands still on the teats. Ryan was in front of her. His eyes widened as he watched her squeeze the teats repetitively. “You look like you’re enjoying that.” He said wit a smile. It took no more than a few moments before he had slid behind her and was helping her tired hands milk the cow. It mooed obliviously. “Oh Ryan, just kiss me please.” She said with angst.

 

His tongue immediately began to lightly dab her cool skin, first lightly and then heavily. Suddenly his tongue became more flat and it was like Cynthia had turned into an ice cream. He moved around the front of her and began to wildly lick her face.

 

Suddenly, Cynthia opened her eyes in confusion. She looked ahead and noticed that in front of her was not the appealing appearance and touches of Ryan Jenkins, but Daisy the cow. Her tongue was dripping with thick stinking saliva that had salivated onto Cynthia with big lapping licks. “Oh gosh, oh darn!” she screamed in a fluster and slipped off the stool.

 

 

The Fairytale bar Edited April 18, 2012 by Ziggy455

[El Zilcho]

"I see you're new here." In the corner across from you sits a gentlemen carefully obscured by shadow and cigarette smoke. His Grecian nose is all that protrudes from under the titled Fedora that drapes his forehead.

 

"You could say that." You respond dryly, smirking at the cliché of this all. Turning to the bar tender, you blankly order a Scotch, "on the rocks."

 

"No, I stand corrected," His face raises slowly but with distinct purpose, light splashing his features instantly. Middle aged and sporting the sharpest pair of green eyes you've ever seen, he completes his glance silently. You note his five o'clock shadow and prominent cheek scar. "I don't forget a face." He says this while narrowing his eyes, brow ruffled venomously. You're both sat for a moment in stagnant silence, until the bar tender finally brings you your drink. As you spin the lowball glass, you listen to the background coughs and the clink of ice.

 

"Des Moines, 1946? Yes." There it is. Confirmation. You finger your collar slightly, before dropping your hand to your waistline. That trusty M1911 lays nestled beneath your pinstripe. Looks like it might save you from a tight spot once more.

 

"I'm sorry, I very much doubt that. I've never to Iowa." As genuine as your expression is, your voice crackles slightly. It's minor but enough for him to pick up on. He's a bloodhound for that sort of thing, and you've given him a whiff. Your index and thumb are now on the holster; itching...

 

"Boys! Play nice. Wouldn't want you get hurt now, Stranger." A young lady calls out from behind you and immediately you place the voice. A part of your life you'd swear you'd left behind. Yesterday's news, reprinted. Her tone is soothing but sharp, seductively assured. You turn ever so slowly. Most definitely in hot water now. Sultry water.

 

"Colette" You finally manage to mumble her name through gritted teeth. It's the most you can muster. Bringing the glass up, you take a hearty gulp and swallow the bile and scotch in unison.

 

"Hm, I'm flattered you still remember. I was convinced I'd never see you again." That last line hits you hard. Your hand envelops the cool ivory handle of your sidearm - it's a reflex almost. Colette flicks her auburn curls over her shoulder, bringing her wrist up in a smooth line. Always the theatrical, you recall.

 

"You know this chump?" The Fedora talks once more. Almost slipped your mind, that one.

 

"Unfortunately yes. It seems you do too." Colette smiles at you once more before deliberately turning herself, standing slowly and slinking along the piano she was perched behind. She reaches the Fedora man and drapes her hand slowly onto his shoulder, her red dress clashing with the darkness of the jukebox corner. He strokes her outreached hand, both villains framed perfectly. You wonder whether you can drop them before the bar tender has the luxury to reach for his Winchester. Halting those thoughts, you down the firey Scotch and slide the glass back across to the moustached attendant opposite.

 

"I know what you did. You should never have shown your face here, I warned you last time." the Fedora speaks again, this time with purpose. He's starting to tire you.

 

"Look buddy, I've really had enough of this joint. I'm not sure what your business is with that bitch" you gesture casually with your left while spitting your words "but make sure you've got a Plan B. She looooves surprises." With that last syllable you click off the safety and stand slowly.

 

"Where do you think you're going, partner. We're not finished with you." Colette smiles as two burly gorillas step out from behind the side exit, the front door now firmly out of reach. Damn.

 

"Oh, more friends. Joy." You smile, falsely defeated. She smiles back with a sting in her grin. This game of one-upmanship is one she thinks she's winning; the dramatic irony is just too delicious. "Care to dance?" With that, your trusty 1911 is out and snarling, barking without hesitation as you tear down your history, shot by shot. So much for a quiet one...

 

 

To Be or Not to Be

[Ziggy455]

Beautifully written Zilch'. You explain the scene with such vivid detail of normalcy within surrealism. And it all comes together really well, it had this kind of poetical cynicism to it which I found made it more intriguing. It kept me going til' the end and I found myself really enjoying it, the conflict, the two characters. I love Bar scenes, they're like one of my favourite places to write about. They're full of such vibrant diversification in characters any scene can instantly become a deep one. Brilliant detail, nice one.

[Eminence]

I didn't quite get what you were going for, Zilch. Its self-awareness doesn't really seem to lead anywhere; you point out how cliche the whole thing is, then pile it on tenfold. But there wasn't any twist on it, any sting in the tail. It was just cliche... and aware of itself. I think by specifically drawing attention to it it lessens its impact somewhat, unless it then does something to strike against all the archetypes, which it didn't. Unless I'm missing something.

[El Zilcho]

Thanks for the feedback guys.

 

It was quite disjointed, I was going for a quick piece at 2 AM so I wasn't sure where I was going with it either, if I'm quite honest. But my main intention was an almost satirical set up - I smushed in as many noir clichés in a cynical manner, like I was doing a sketch. Not sure if I got that across properly, but it was meant to be a little absurd, hinting at your characters past without giving anything away. An exercise in style, almost a catalogue of tropes.

[Ziggy455]

The hall was choc full of partying students. The haze of blue and red mixed with black mixed with the disco lights as well dressed kids all danced to the music of the last year’s prom. Jackson was sat perched on a heater in the back, the third vodka mixed punch in his system he began to bob his head to the music casually. His eyes were fixated upon a girl surrounded by the douches and girls who had not the time for anybody who wasn’t sporting muscles or cars. But Jackson’s eyes still fixated themselves upon the girl with flowing blonde hair, he watched her give the crowd fake smiles and laughter. The long flowing red dress blew lightly as she was rushed upon the stage with the rest of the ‘combatants’. Jackson thought this kind of sh*t was just as bad a mid day quiz shows. They get a bunch of stupid f*cks on display and one of them wins, they get some recognition but in the end nobody really gives two sh*ts.

 

The girl was with two other girls, several other men on the opposite. The music died down quickly and everybody turned their voices into low rasps and whispers of excitement. The prom king and queen announcement, terrific! Jackson finished his drink and slanged the cup away into the darkness. The girl in red gave a big smile as the lights cascaded onto the stage.

 

“Welcome to the annual prom’s King and Queen Ceremony!” yelled one of the indistinct teachers. As Jackson grabbed another cup of punch he peeked back to the stage and then returned to his previous position. “Our first couple is Sandy Jones and Raphael Edwards!” applause followed as the two modeled, the girl curtsied and the lad gave a kind of folding arms gangster stance which was met with praise from all the jocks and such. The second couple was the redhead. “Give it up for Alexis Destines and Adam Lawbridge!” more applause followed, but Jackson did not join in. His eyes stared at Alexis and he noticed a hint of sadness for a moment.

 

Alexis has first met Jackson a few months back. The two had become close, closer than people would expect and it was only now that those endless nights of friendship and talking were coming to a head. Alexis hated school, she hated her family and he so called friends. Jackson was not much different, he had family upstate which would gladly take him in and after tonight that was his plan. He’d already written a best selling book that nobody in school had heard about. Unless it was about pussy or MTV, then nobody really gave a f*ck about literature. But Jackson did receive some recognition. The teachers all found his work mesmerizing and upon receiving a three book deal, Jackson was ready to move professionally into his career. But Alexis, she wanted the same. She hated it here, and so after a romantic night Alexis has attempted to kiss Jackson to his dismay.

 

Alexis broke down, she showed the scars her father inflicted, showed the damage her family had causes and in return Jackson had shown the same. And that was when Jackson had given her a choice.

 

“Prom Night,” he said lightly lifting her head and wiping away her tears. “Prom Night, I’m catching a train upstate. I have family up there, if you want to come, you need to make a choice.”

 

And after that night Alexis had never spoken to him again. As she received the Prom Queen prize, she shared a kiss with the King and then more music ensued. Jackson left, his bags were already prepped in his truck and he was ready to get to the train station.

 

This late at night, the train would be running for the next hour and then it would be a three hour train journey until the next train, which wouldn’t hit upstate until sunrise. He scorned himself for actually thinking that Alexis would come. She had her life, he had his. He got in the truck and made it to the station in the nick of time. He paid his tickets, threw his luggage on and slumped down into a window seat; his eyes scanned the light dabbed horizon of his little town. He imagined Alexis getting drunk at some party with the King and maybe the two would share a bedroom and- No, don’t think about this sh*t. You’re free, look ahead.

 

Had she decided to come? Yes? No? Was she finally going to man up, throw off the pointless shackles and come and try and make something of herself and not end up a horny old housewife like the rest? That was the question. The train would be leaving in a few minutes, is she coming? Forget about her! Some part of his mind hoped, wished she would show up in her red dress, a suitcase with her. A flitting of red hit the corner of his eye but it was just his mind, or was it?

 

 

Love

[Eminence]

But my main intention was an almost satirical set up - I smushed in as many noir clichés in a cynical manner, like I was doing a sketch.

Well sure, I got that - but simply including cliches doesn't create satire. It just creates a collection of cliches. It's where you take it that can create the satire. I did think you were writing it with a satirical edge, but it was like a dull knife; nothing to it. It had a great set-up, but no payoff.

 

Ziggy - have you read Billy Liar? I caught that sort of vibe from this one, and there were a few striking plot similarities towards the end (not indicating copying, but a sort of awareness of certain narrative tropes).

[Rhoda]

That's the trouble with a one shot I suppose - is it in your head from the start that you know you don't have to build on it either way, or have you already mapped out a particular beginning and ending? I quite liked it because it's an example of how you can literally throw anyone anywhere without a second thought as to where they've come from and where they're going. A lot of emotion is lost because we don't know if it's been a struggle up until this point, but as far as punchy reads go, the floor is open.

 

I loved the gun description. Snarling and barking? Nicely done.

 

As for the prom themed piece from Ziggy, I like how you pretty much capture the imagination of everyone who's waited anxiously or anticipated something (or someone). Every glimpse of a relating colour sets you off, or a familiar voice. All too many times I've spun round on my heels because I thought I heard somebody's voice calling me in the distance. How many times have we thought "one more chance"?

[El Zilcho]

That's why I love this topic - I don't need to tediously plan, it suits my spontaneity perfectly. Glad you liked it Craig.

 

Ziggy, that peace was great. Bitter sweet, it carried me right to the end. It had that classic high school social frustration, the shallowness of it all. Really got that across nicely, I enjoyed it.

 

I've got a perfect set up for Love but I'll leave you fellas to come up with one. We'll make it a race; by midnight if no one has posted a response I'll post mine and then I'll give it a bit of a break. It's just the concept I've got is quite good but I wouldn't want to crowd anyone out.

 

 

Edited April 19, 2012 by El Zilcho

[Ziggy455]

Thanks for the feedback.

 

Eminence: I have never read Billy Liar, this was all just from my head onto page.

 

Zilcho: Thanks for the feedback man.

 

I was just trying to capture some maturity surrounded by the shallowness of high school, so I'm glad I got that across.

[Eminence]

Eminence: I have never read Billy Liar, this was all just from my head onto page.

I didn't mean it as if to say 'hey, you've been influenced by this!' - I meant it more in the way of saying that it has a similar vibe, and if you haven't read it you should check it out, you might like it.

[AceRay]

Dan was in heaven. Her sweet thighs rolled and he was lost in her lovely, tight skin. He tightened and loosened his arm, the way they both liked it. "Here comes the magic missile" he whisphered lovingly as their happiness together was cemented.

 

He then closed all the porn tabs on his browser and pulled up his pants, tissues at arm's length and a white liquid running down his left hand. Just then, Dan began to cry.

 

Why couldn't anyone love him? He'd never had anyone except Mama. She never let him down. Everyone else pushed him around and all the girls laughed at his pimply face. Tears rolled down his face and dripped onto the keyboard, Dan snivelling like a little girl. All the old 80s posters were laughing at his uselessness.

 

"What do you want!?" Dan screamed. Luke Skywalker just stood there, menaceingly staring into his soul. Dan jumped up and tore the poster off the wall, leaving a. Then he noticed a Tron poster, mocking him like Mama's boyfriends would. With that, Dan launched into a rampage against his own nature, destroying all the merchandise, frustrated with his how his loveless life had turned out.

 

Afterwards, he curled up on the bed with all the posters torn around him, wishing Mama was still around to love him, a loaded revolver cradled in his hand.

 

 

Miscarriage