Category: freewriting


The Confirmation


His scream echoed and gave him hope. There was something in the featureless landscape he’d trudged for many sightless weeks, without a response, to confirm his existence.

He screamed again turning his head from side to side. To his left the echo came back hard and fast. He ran at it. The loving echo, the confirmation.

AAh, AAh, AAh, AAh he screamed in time with his rapid footsteps, on and on until his voice faded, his energy was spent and he fell down.

Face down his mouth opened and closed seeking the echo until his death.


It was clear to Carstairs that he would need to do something pretty soon to add a bit of zest to his life. He’d mentioned this to Carruthers last night and they’d reminisced at length, about the old days.

Carruthers had got that look in his eye, that old look he used to have when they’d gone hunting or carousing.

‘You know what old boy, maybe a bit of carousing is just what I need’ he said to Carruthers.

Nothing wrong with a bit of carousing, even at his ripe old age and Carruthers was certainly in favour. He may have lost his marbles but he seemed to be intact in the trouser department, at least, so he insisted.

‘Like a steel rod old man, never fails me’.

He’d started to unbutton his trousers and seemed intent on demonstrating how marvellously he was able to rise to the occasion. Fortunately the matron woman came in at that point and one look from her hatchet-face was enough to dampen any man’s ardour, even old Carruthers.

In his day of course, he’d been a notorious swordsman, all the women seemed to flock to him and he would come to the club many a Sunday lunchtime bragging about his exploits, how he’d managed to satisfy 2, 3 or one time 4 women in one night.

The very idea of it now made his nether regions ache in protest and the more he thought about it the more he thought he’d find a more relaxing pursuit to spice up his life, something a little more suited to a gentleman of his advanced years, watching cricket, maybe, or perhaps a ruddy good game of bridge.

It’s not that he didn’t’ appreciate the filly’s ,of  course he did, loved them as much as any man, but sometimes a chap needed a bit of peace and quiet and they do rather like to chatter away all the time, enough to drive a man doolally.

He’d only mentioned his plans to Carruthers in jest but he’d become so excited by the idea that he felt like he ought to go along with it.

At least the silly old bugger would have forgotten by the time he saw him next, rather handy really this loss of marbles.

Terrible two’s


Barbie dolls are almost exclusively considered...
Image via Wikipedia


Name: Craig Arthur Tennenbaum

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Sandy

Favourite food: Strawberry yogurt

Siblings names/ages: Felicia Gertude Tennenbaum age 6

 

 

Here I am stuck in my crib as usual. I can hear them downstairs, trying to be quiet so they don’t wake the baby. Do they think I’m stupid? Sometimes I think they get mixed up with young and dumb. Its not the same thing. I wish I could say what’s going n in my head so I could make them understand. Unfortunately my body, well my mouth and tongue and the other parts that contribute to speech, throat and larynx and vocal chords I guess, they’re not fully developed yet. When they are I am gonna give them the shock of their lives. They have no idea what I am capable of. Maybe though and this something that keeps me awake at night, not the crying for Mummy type of awake but the oh my god which option shall I choose kind of lying awake. I wonder about letting on, maybe if I keep my cleverness to myself for now at least I will be able to take advantage. They’ll never suspect an innocent little two or even three or four-year old, would they. I could gather some decent savings for start. I know where Daddy keeps his wallet and I’ve seen the stash of bills he throws down several nights a week. God knows where he gets it from, can’t be legal I’m sure, why on earth would he need to have all that cash. Its something dodgy and that’s both unsettling and useful. Its unsettling as it’s a poor environment to grow up in, morally and ethically of course but also it very insecure. Maybe he’ll get found out and arrested for Christ’s sake! However, it does mean he’s likely to be pretty lax about money and wont notice a few £10’s going missing from time to time. By the time I’m 18 I want to have amassed enough to get the hell out of here and get a place of my own. I may be a  baby but I know from the time I’ve spent here, and two years is a long time particularly at my age, it’s a goddamned lifetime! Two years with these bozos is enough to know that as soon as possible I will be out of here. Obviously I don’t have a clue what I’ll do for money or work, something exciting and magnificent no doubt but just in case I want a bit put away.

Imagine the bliss of getting away from the dreaded whiney Felicia, or Fliss as she insists on being called by her ghastly friends, flid more like it. She make’s me wanna puke and she is such a stereotype. She plays with dolls and make up and talks with her friends about clothes and boys and wears mummy’s shoes as soon as she’s out of the house. I have to be careful though with her. She’s not entirely dumb, obviously way below my level but I guess some of this genius might be genetic though you wouldn’t think it in a million years looking at our thicky parents. She’s a bit sharper than they know though and I’m sure she clocked me the other day when I rolled my eyes at her stupid comment about Barbie. Maybe she’s pulling the wool over someone s eyes too. Maybe the typical little girl thing is just an act and maybe she’s got some plans of her own. I need to keep an eye on her I guess, don’t want her getting in the way.

 

I read in the Times last week about the child who divorced his parents at the age of 14, something to consider, although it would attract a hell of  a lot of attention and it would be much harder to do what I want then. I think, with many many distractions and devious ways of keeping out of the way and bearing it, I will manage to stay until I’m of age to avoid the least fuss and the least interference from Social services or anyone like that.

Sounds like a plan my man, sometimes I wish I was a twin and we could high-five each other, still you have to live with what you’ve got. That mobile is making me drowsy…

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Severed head


His head was severed from his body and he felt the agony of that, but he was still alive. His head rolled down the enlarged gullet of the Mummy-thing. Its throat was lined with a sticky red shiny liquid that burnt on contact. Already one of his eyes had been burnt out and he could barely see out of the other one. As he was squeezed downwards he heard a gurgling churning noise which grew louder as he rounded each of the many corners of the foul monstrous gut.

At each push his head was turned in a different direction so he couldn’t always see where he was going. He tried  to bite the side of the gut to stop himself going forward. It tasted foul but the muscular motions were far too strong and he couldn’t hold on.

For a moment he was stuck on what seemed like a fold in the gut which was contracting and pushing him slowly forward towards a small opening.

By coincidence he was turned to face his fate, right at the very edge of the precipice.  Below him was a boiling vat of liquid which must be the stomach of this creature. As the muscles gathered themselves ready to contract he had one last stream of

“…he’ll get by without his rabbit pie…”

running through his mind before his head was ejected like a cork from a bottle out and down into the foul-smelling cauldron below. He registered the searing pain of the stomach acid briefly before his life finally flickered out and his head melted to join the morass.

Extract from my NANOWRIMO work in progress

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Talking out of my arse


Fart
Image via Wikipedia

‘What are you on about? You know we don’t have a water bottle,’ said Helen, my girlfriend.

This was about a year ago when I began to realise I had something very unusual happening to my body, well, my nether regions, well OK, my arsehole.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I just farted.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘I promise you.’

She didn’t believe it but I just thought it was funny. So I quickly forgot about the fart in the bath sounding like ‘water bottle’ and we continued with our relatively happy lives.

The next time was harder to ignore – a punch in the face can help focus the mind. I was on my way to the pub to meet John and Jamie, walking fast through the Clapham Park Estate, not the wisest of shortcuts but I was very late.

I noticed four hooded youths walking my way. They spread out in a line as they approached making it hard for me to get past. Not unusual behaviour for stroppy lads and not something I wanted to get into an argument about. I stepped aside to let them pass, avoiding any eye contact.

My arsehole had different ideas though. As I stepped to the side I had to step off the pavement down onto the road and as my foot hit the road I felt a rumbling in my arse cheeks.

It came out loud and clear.

‘WANKERS’

‘WOD’YOU SAY?’

‘Nothing.’

Then again even louder.

‘BUNCH OF WANKERS.’

THWACK!

The first punch hit me on the nose then they all started to wade in. That’s when my arsehole and I aligned our thinking again.

‘Run away!’ it squeaked. I needed no convincing so we ran, fast.

I wanted to explain the whole story to Jamie and John but decided that I couldn’t. I just said I was jumped in the Estate and after a few angry exclamations about going to look for them, we settled down to our usual beer-fuelled waffling for a few hours.

When I got home, a little pissed; I went straight to the toilet, pulled down my jeans, sat down and had a chat with my arsehole. It was pretty chatty. It seems it had been able to communicate for years – since I had a hole in my arse…ha ha.

Anyway, apparently he was always waiting for the right moment – which was hard to find, clearly, and in the end, he just couldn’t stop himself. We’re pretty close now, not just physically – and aside from being extremely opinionated about my diet and digestive system – understandably I guess – he’s a good mate. He gives great advice for an arsehole.

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Zippedy doo da


Feeling perky and chipper after a few days of feeling kinda glum.

Friday helps but its more than that.

Feel ready for some new challenges, even at work I feel quite good (sense the reluctance) and ready for action.

Writing a novel in a month (NANOWRIMO) coming up so, excited and scared about that.

Its the ‘what can I do before I’m 50’ challenge and I’d better hurry up –  only  2 and a half months left.

First draft of a novel and shedding a few more pounds will feel pretty damn good.

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Dahling


-Look at that old fool dahling.

-I know dahling. Does he honestly think anyone believes that’s his own hair?

-These people.

-I know.

-Did I tell you about Rathbone?

-That fool, no dahling.

-Finally jumped.

-No!

-Yes.

-No dahling!

-I’m telling you.

-Well, he said he would. My God! Look at that woman’s atrocious handbag!

-With those shoes

-Honestly dahling…

Inspired by a glorious image from ceiren.posterous.com

Twisted


Inspired by an image from ceirenbell@posterous.com

Watching the swarm was always exciting for me and Tommy. We thought that old Mr. Hackett being twisted and then broken up into tiny pieces was funny and we thought that watching his cows slowly coming apart bit by bit was funny too.

We felt it too, our heads were pulled all out of shape, my left arm was kind of back-to-front now and Tommy lost an eye the second time round, but it didn’t bother us much.

At school no one spoke to us but that was no different and before they’d tease us and push us around. They didn’t do that anymore.

Last week Mumma was turned inside out and we didn’t laugh at first coz she made us our dinner, but Tommy said that now we wouldn’t have to eat our greens and that made us laugh.

We ate all the ice cream that night.

Rare


Exquisite sample of urine produced after a lon...
Image via Wikipedia

She thought it would be rare, maybe even before she died, which frankly wouldn’t be too long. It was, on the face of it, just another old-lady painting. She’d seen them lined up by the seafront with their easels and new packs of watercolours many years before she retired and followed suit. This was different though, this was a slight variation on the water colour theme. She’d collected her husbands urine for the last 3 years and mixed it with a whole variety of local delicacies, dog turds, vomit collected outside the pub on a Sunday morning, a big jar of her own spit she’d kept specially, and of course that pigs blood she’d got from the butchers.

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S Club


Dressmaker’s S (Falmouth, MA)

Stop, she said
Sad severe Samantha

Stupid statement

Simon, she said
Stop saying such shit

Suddenly she stopped

Superb!

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