A short story I wrote a couple of years ago

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Postby tca2005 » Tue May 16, 2006 9:17 pm

I knocked this one up in about 20 minutes so sorry if it's a little rough around the edges (comments welcome):


(BTW I don't know if it's against the rules to post something not Smiths related. If so I understand if a Mod deletes it.)


"Rest your head, baby, rest your head", she said, holding the pillow on her lap in which his grotesquely tanned but heroically wounded bald-head lay. "Fernando, we need more ice!" she shouted to me.

I rose quickly enough to convince her of my good nature, but just slowly enough to make him suffer a little more. As I opened the freezer, I reflected on the surreal beauty of the steam enveloping me, as the cold air became one with the humid, electric passion of the warm air within the house. They were the same substance, yet seperated by time and place they had become unbalanced, infernal mutations of themselves, and could achieve redemption only by acheiving unity.

The next morning he did not wake. I allowed myself to fantasise; perhaps the blow on the head had been more serious than previously thought. Whatever the reason, his absence allowed me to spend the entire morning with her alone. She doted on me, this is how it had been in days gone by. We made lunch together.

"I am happy you are here to help me, Fernando," she said with unmistakable love in her voice. "You have always taken care of me." I did not answer - there was no need. I just clasped her hand. "Your hand is freezing!" she said. "I will never understand you! This is amazing! Look at me,sweating like a pig." I smiled, faintly but contentedly. Hand in hand we could never be seperated.

"Isabella!" came the boorish yet whining cry from the bedroom. I looked at the clock. 12:06.Damn. The morning was over. And she was gone - upstairs to wait on the wounded bear.

"How are you?" I said, looking Hugo in the eye. My arm came to rest on his. "It hurts, boy, worse than ten tequilas. And ten tequilas hurts."

My gentle laughter soothed him.

"Ah thanks Isabella, I need this" he said as she laid a coffee to rest by his side.

"The police will be here at one" I told him, "do you want me to get you some breakfast to wake you up?"

"You need to eat something" she said.

"I need to be allowed to decide whether or not I'm hungry," barked Hugo, "You cannot tell me what to eat, Isabella, I'm not Alejandro!" Her laughter turned to dismay at the mention of the name. They both turned to me. "Hey," said Hugo, trying to apologise. My stone features, however, did not betray my internal battle between agony, hatred and suppression,and I simply told him "no worries. She did tell him what to eat." And she did. But he didn't have to say it.

After giving my statement to the police about last nights foiled break-in, I went upstairs and smashed my head into the wall. Of course it hurt, but that was the point. Pain was better than this; pain is real, pain has dignity, and I envy those who readily feel it, because happiness is never far away. Many of them enjoy it as a form of happiness itself. I, however, am not so lucky. I just felt dead inside. Of course, I could induce the emotions, and I knew they were there inside me, but like a dimmer switch in my soul they only flashed in their full brilliance at irrelgular intervals, just for \ second or two, and never at the right time.

I missed lunch that afternoon. I told them I was still shocked by the burglary and needed to reflect, but although I was in my bedroom crying it was not what was trying to break in that was the problem; it was what needed to break out. And, there and then, on that bed I decided. Hugo had to go. Seeing him lying there last night had awoken in me dormant desires which, on eruption, could cleanse me from holding them inside like an albatross, and enrich the lifeless world of corruption and filth that I inhabited. The only problem was how.

"I don't think you should go," she said, voice full of loyalty and concern, asking, no begging Hugo to have a day off work. I kept my eyes on my dinner. "Have a day of rest, you fought a burglar!"

My shirt stuck to me, I slapped it away, carefully noting how she spoke to him yet moved closer to me.

"Don't be a tart!" he laughed, "I can't leave that idiot son of mine in charge can I?

"Well," she said...

"Well nothing! I blame the mother, Isabella. If we had had kids they wouldn't have turned out like that"

I choked on my mince meat; the grotesque insult that he could talk like this, oblivious to my presence. I clasped the knife. My hand trembled. I looked at him, ignorant, ugly, cynical. I desired more than anything in the world to lurch at him. To cut every inch of him to ribbons.

"Another beer boy!" he bellowed, signalling the way to the kitchen as if I was the outsider who needed direction. Uncomplainingly, I got up, smiled pathetically, and brought him his beer. "Thanks" he grunted, then looked up. "It's your mothers birthday coming up," he said, as if he had known her longer than me, and seeing as it's the first time we're home for it, I thought we could organise a surprise party for her. Make up for not taking her on holiday"

Outside, a stray dog howled at a moped and chased it fruitlessly.

"Yeah, sure, I'll help" I laughed lamely, letting him shit on me again. But I would change that. Soon it would be just me and her again; mummy and I. Like it was before Hugo's malign influence poisoned our lives and tore us apart.

Of course, I didn't appreciate his malice then, but one of the things that comes with utter failure is self-knowledge, and now that I had mastered, if not truly discovered, myself, I was able to 'play to my strengths'
as they say. I looked around me - in my bedroom, and no idea how I got here. I looked down, and saw I saw I was still holding the knife.

As the humid summer days passed, the knife became my only friend. I looked into it to see my true reflection, pricked my skin to breathe life into my soul. The summer heat was breathing life into other things as well; the wound on Hugo's repulsive, empty head had made him into a hero of the wild west, and at night I could hear him with her, slinging his gun with gusto. One night, I sat outside, listening. The bed was creaking. She moaned. He pounded. I sweated. I imagined them, him in my fathers place, her screaming with animal delight as she had on the night of my contraception, with my father. Alejandro. What would he say now? Tormented even in his death by the filthy reprisal of cynicism on beauty and corruption on virtue that Hugo was carrying out on him by violating the mother of his child. I could take no more. I sank the knife deep into the flesh.

The next day I awoke to see them standing over me, her crying as she nursed my bandaged wrist, and Hugo clearly shocked at finding out he had a suicidal step-son.

"My brave, brave boy!" she said, holding me tight. I knew she would never let go. I clung to her. Then I looked at him. I looked at the little scar on his head, and then at my bandaged wrists. My eyes said it all: "Top that."
Make no mistake my friend, your pointless life will end.
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Postby elko » Tue May 16, 2006 10:52 pm

That is utterly brilliant.

Had me gripped completely, I love the way it was revealed slowly, the characters, the situation, the act. Although it's a common theme for a story, I can honestly say that it resonated with me far more than I expected. You definitely have a real talent for storytelling.

(Oh and this place is for anything remotely creative - post what you like, but please post more!)
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Postby chicken » Tue May 16, 2006 11:07 pm

i will second the vote of approval. that's very nice writing. as soon as i was getting confused as to who was who, it started to become clear. great portrayal of the human condition.

and this:
<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->I rose quickly enough to convince her of my good nature, but just slowly enough to make him suffer a little more. As I opened the freezer, I reflected on the surreal beauty of the steam enveloping me, as the cold air became one with the humid, electric passion of the warm air within the house. They were the same substance, yet seperated by time and place they had become unbalanced, infernal mutations of themselves, and could achieve redemption only by acheiving unity.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd--> is a delicious paragraph. a bit of fore-shadowing, perhaps?

very well done.
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Postby Miserable Liar » Tue May 16, 2006 11:33 pm

"After giving my statement to the police about last nights foiled break-in, I went upstairs and smashed my head into the wall. Of course it hurt, but that was the point. Pain was better than this; pain is real, pain has dignity, and I envy those who readily feel it, because happiness is never far away." - I really like this "Of course it hurt, but that was the point.", I can't explain why.

I Love You.

That story was great, it's inspired me to write one too. I'll have to think of a good idea though, my stories have often made me lose friends (well, an english teacher).
You're gonna kill me, is that your plan?
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Postby tca2005 » Thu May 18, 2006 8:43 pm

thankyou for the kind words
Make no mistake my friend, your pointless life will end.
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Postby Lorimoz » Thu May 18, 2006 9:33 pm

Very good storyline, well written and full of attention to details.

( sorry if my compliments sound more like a teacher's mark.)

I like it. Please keep writing and posting.
:D
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Postby the_queen_is_dead » Thu May 18, 2006 10:42 pm

I think it's great.

That's the end of my comment. I would say something about the great choice of vocabulary or something but i'm a bit tired. But you know it rocks!
I'm breaking through, I'm bending spoons
I'm keeping flowers in full bloom.
I'm looking for answers from the great beyond
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