june 9, 2010

the premise has me interested into finding out why the group of people went on a trek in a duct-tape car.

the flow and language is economic and doesn't flaunt with bullish language nor does it ration itself as a bear's market.
 
that line isnt literal.

but thanks for the crit, im writing short things like this to try to find my "voice" for longer fictional works.
 
Yeah, this definitely felt like an excerpt from a short story or a novel. I say go for it, big ideas are born from stuff like this. I like it.
 
I know but it invokes an image of a beater vehicle. Something that's more for a strictly utilitarian usage near the end of its life. To go the farthest on an unknown tether, wherever it maybe; the easy trek that can go the distance but feels too safe, the hardy drive that'll bring the most memories at the expense of going the farthest distance, and finally the space between the former and latter.
 
I guess it was lucky that them guys pulled the gun on me, I was gonna bash those stupid fucks skulls anyway when I pulled over. Kept tryinta fuck with me, and they got it.

Jack had signed out of the hospital this morning, after having recovered from a gunshot wound in the shoulder. He then attended the proceedings at the police station to undergo questioning concerning his statement of self-defense. As of now, no charges were being pressed, but Jack was a person of interest. Now, back in his apartment littered with empty liquor bottles and piles of pills, vials, syringes, and a can of body building protein shake powder, Jack went over the details of what had happened a few days prior for the umpteenth time, savoring the last bits of rage that could be provoked by any “not yet discovered” details in the story. Once he was satisfied with the scenario that he had come up with after a week of obsessive reiteration, he let it fall into the back of his mind, adding more weight to his skewered pragmatism.

Everyone’s always tryinta fuck with me, just like them niggers on the highway. Some fuckhead pass me three times and slow down 10 miles an hour deserves a fuckin axe thrown at his ass. Its stupid shit. Can’t even go into Wal-Mart without some motherfucker standin there tryinta start shit. Now, because a this fuckin shoulder, I can’t go back to work, and union dues are comin up an I’m broke.

Jack then started sifting through the mess on the floor, gathering up his steroiRAB and syringes, muttering to himself. Once he had everything he wanted piled on the coffee table, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and called a few people, asking if they were interested in another cycle. After a few quick “Nah, man, I’m good for now,” responses, Jack tossed his cell phone onto the coffee table, laid down on the couch and turned on the T.V.


Jack woke up to a knock on his door. He muttered fuck as he tried to remember when he fell asleep. He got up, grabbing his aluminum baseball bat.

“Oh.”

Rebecca stood in the doorway wearing a gaunt, pale face, a beam of helplessness in her eye, and the rejection of everything, including herself, tattooed across her chest, arms, and neck; the thriftstore boho intellectual clothes were dulled by her muteness as she walked in the door. They both walked over to the couch and sat down, Jack laying the bat on the floor.

“You can come stay with me for a few days. I could help you with your shoulder.”

…(whats the nicest way to say this)… “No, you’re living with your parents again, and I can't have this around them,” gesturing to the coffee table.

Jack winced internally that he ignored Rebecca’s condescending offer of help. He blanketed it with the thought of: “well, at least she’s here and seems to care.”

Rebecca frowned slightly and then took out her cell phone and started texting. Jack turned on the T.V.
 
Back
Top