xmas fiction 1.
will get to the prompts later, i was working on them when my browser crashed and kinda deleted all my hard work >_> here's something i thinking of gifting to someone, though, tentatively named:
it's friday night, cold, rainy.
he stares at the phone. rectangular lines, jutting out against the space - he traces them all with lithe fingers, eyes alert and thoughts perched on trees. even these little actions cause echoes and shockwaves against the empty walls, like the singular soft luminescense of his desk lamp is mocking him in his solitude.
the phone starts ringing, and he picks it up with an expert flick of his wrists.
"hello?"
"hello."
static blares.
"did you know -"
"yes, i knew."
"...so what do i do now?"
"i dunno. what you've been doing. sitting around, staring at the ceiling - i could care less."
he suddenly feels like crying. "what the hell..."
"i'm sorry. i really can't help you."
and the connection breaks.
he hangs up, sits back, and sighs, maybe stares out of the window for a while, watching as the rain beats down on the pavement and people click to and from his street.
i hate rainy days.
he explains to the air, it's because bad things always happen on rainy days. and yet he stands up and retrieves his umbrella anyway. i was five, i think, and the showers were so heavy i couldn't open my eyes very wide. everything was covered in this murky transluscence of grey, so unlucky, so unlucky. his legs move him toward the door. i was walking home from school by myself, because no one else lived in the direction i did, and in the tunnels of back alleys and grafitti-ed broken beer bottles, i saw it.
he makes it down the stairs.
i saw four kids from my class torturing a dog.
it was the worst thing ever. it made me think of animals, teeth gleaming, claws raw and ready to rip, red-coated beasts of lore, torn apart by hunger - i dunno. he opens his umbrella cautiously and ducks out the front door. and even worse - even worse, if you could imagine - i just stood there. i just stood there as i saw a living thing as myself being beaten to a pulp by living things as myself. the power had been robbed from me, but the vision centered in, blood spattered on the walls everywhere -
he shakes his head. i dunno what happened after that, i think i might've stayed there long after dark, then ran home, brushed off the probing questions of my mother. the usual. then crept under the covers and cried. he shakes his head again. i really don't remember.
he walks into the convenience store and shakes the water off his umbrella. walks to the counter and buys a pack of cigarettes. pays the register. rote rote rote.
as he exits, stick of tobacco between his teeth, someone grabs his shoulder. "want a light?"
he turns around. it's the brown-haired girl wearing a black jacket he's seen sometimes hanging around the store - something like a bad habit.
i had a bad habit too, after i saw that dog on that day.
he leans into flames licking the moisture-stenched air. "have i seen you around before?" the girl asks.
he shrugs. i started hating everyone. "probably not, i stay inside a lot."
she laughs, and he momentarily is jolted - thinking she'd read his thoughts, and adds quickly, "me and the outside world don't agree a lot."
"no, i completely understand."
"really?"
"yes."
"well, i'm a hitman."
"okay."
"i kill people for a living."
"okay."
he stares at her. she isn't even looking at him, like she's waiting for someone in the street.
"what are you waiting for?"
"what?" she finally turns around.
"i said, what are you waiting for?"
i even hated my mother, because after i wouldn't come out of my room, after cooing and begging me to emerge became frustrating, she broke down and starting crying, banging her hands against the carpet floor.
i opened the door. my mother was a crumpled mess, a discarded tissue instead of a human.
she smiles lightly. "i can't tell you."
"really?"
"yes, it's a secret."
"is it a someone?"
"isn't it always a someone?"
is this what humanity is like?
"good point."
fear and loathing (in las vegas)?
she looks back at the empty street again. "actually i lied, i'm waiting for my father who is never going to show up. when i was thirteen he dropped me off here at the convenience store and told me to get whatever i liked, he'd come and pay for it in a minute. i got a candy bar and a bottle of soda, and waited at the register. and waited. and waited. i thought he might've forgotten, so i paid for the items myself and walked outside. his car was nowhere in sight. i thought he might've forgotten his money at home, or i was taking too long and he went for a quick drive around the street corner, so i waited at the storefront. people approached me asking if i needed help, if i was waiting for something, very much like you just did. and i’d reply no, just waiting for my father, and they'd walk away slightly concerned, but i started to hate everyone and anyone anyway. i started to say things like, i'm waiting you to go away and fuck off, to complete strangers, but after a while it sounded rude, i lost faith, and i just started telling people it's a secret. it's not really a secret, though - people have the strangest abhorration towards secrets. if they think they've hit a personal topic, they treat it like the plague and immediately change subjects. it's such a roadblock. in reality, i might've been waiting for someone like you, who'd clear away the obstacle without panic, without regret."
mom, i told her, i'm going to school today.
i asked her, do you mind if i drop out of school tomorrow?
"actually, i lied too. i'm not actually a hitman."
"okay."
"i don't kill people for a living."
"okay."
"i don't know what i do for a living."
"okay."
"i think i might be part of the mob, either that, or the government. either way, it's 'our thing,' either way i don't know what i do."
"okay."
"isn't it weird that i don't know what i do? i could be drugging people and sending them up to Mars, for all i know, and i would be clueless."
"it isn't weird." she throws the pack of cigarettes on the ground, and the rain rushes it, eager to devour. "it's just a fact of life."
i went to school the next day with a baseball bat. no one asked why, but everyone gave me strange looks, too afraid to approach me. when the bell rang, and kids starting leaving the classroom, i cornered the four boys, the four who had beat up the dogs. the fear in their eyes scorched my soul.
are you afraid? i asked, like a proprietor of last judgment.
yes, yes, they squeaked, anything to get away from my wrath.
i only took a step closer. did you know how the dog felt as you beat it to a bloody pulp?
how how? they were fidgeting now, little mice.
like how you feel now. feel that? feel the fear? feel the hate? feel the horrifics of humanity bearing down as one living thing beats the crap out of other similar living things? then i brought the bat down on their flinching, fleshy bodies. they screamed, but i didn't relent, i just kept swinging and swinging in lieu of their wicked screams, i just kept seeing their eyes and the dog's eyes and then my eyes and how i was becoming a monster and then i just saw the red, bathing every inch of the room.
-fin
a/n: violent O__o but don't blame me, inspired by "in bruges." >_>
it's friday night, cold, rainy.
he stares at the phone. rectangular lines, jutting out against the space - he traces them all with lithe fingers, eyes alert and thoughts perched on trees. even these little actions cause echoes and shockwaves against the empty walls, like the singular soft luminescense of his desk lamp is mocking him in his solitude.
the phone starts ringing, and he picks it up with an expert flick of his wrists.
"hello?"
"hello."
static blares.
"did you know -"
"yes, i knew."
"...so what do i do now?"
"i dunno. what you've been doing. sitting around, staring at the ceiling - i could care less."
he suddenly feels like crying. "what the hell..."
"i'm sorry. i really can't help you."
and the connection breaks.
he hangs up, sits back, and sighs, maybe stares out of the window for a while, watching as the rain beats down on the pavement and people click to and from his street.
i hate rainy days.
he explains to the air, it's because bad things always happen on rainy days. and yet he stands up and retrieves his umbrella anyway. i was five, i think, and the showers were so heavy i couldn't open my eyes very wide. everything was covered in this murky transluscence of grey, so unlucky, so unlucky. his legs move him toward the door. i was walking home from school by myself, because no one else lived in the direction i did, and in the tunnels of back alleys and grafitti-ed broken beer bottles, i saw it.
he makes it down the stairs.
i saw four kids from my class torturing a dog.
it was the worst thing ever. it made me think of animals, teeth gleaming, claws raw and ready to rip, red-coated beasts of lore, torn apart by hunger - i dunno. he opens his umbrella cautiously and ducks out the front door. and even worse - even worse, if you could imagine - i just stood there. i just stood there as i saw a living thing as myself being beaten to a pulp by living things as myself. the power had been robbed from me, but the vision centered in, blood spattered on the walls everywhere -
he shakes his head. i dunno what happened after that, i think i might've stayed there long after dark, then ran home, brushed off the probing questions of my mother. the usual. then crept under the covers and cried. he shakes his head again. i really don't remember.
he walks into the convenience store and shakes the water off his umbrella. walks to the counter and buys a pack of cigarettes. pays the register. rote rote rote.
as he exits, stick of tobacco between his teeth, someone grabs his shoulder. "want a light?"
he turns around. it's the brown-haired girl wearing a black jacket he's seen sometimes hanging around the store - something like a bad habit.
i had a bad habit too, after i saw that dog on that day.
he leans into flames licking the moisture-stenched air. "have i seen you around before?" the girl asks.
he shrugs. i started hating everyone. "probably not, i stay inside a lot."
she laughs, and he momentarily is jolted - thinking she'd read his thoughts, and adds quickly, "me and the outside world don't agree a lot."
"no, i completely understand."
"really?"
"yes."
"well, i'm a hitman."
"okay."
"i kill people for a living."
"okay."
he stares at her. she isn't even looking at him, like she's waiting for someone in the street.
"what are you waiting for?"
"what?" she finally turns around.
"i said, what are you waiting for?"
i even hated my mother, because after i wouldn't come out of my room, after cooing and begging me to emerge became frustrating, she broke down and starting crying, banging her hands against the carpet floor.
i opened the door. my mother was a crumpled mess, a discarded tissue instead of a human.
she smiles lightly. "i can't tell you."
"really?"
"yes, it's a secret."
"is it a someone?"
"isn't it always a someone?"
is this what humanity is like?
"good point."
fear and loathing (in las vegas)?
she looks back at the empty street again. "actually i lied, i'm waiting for my father who is never going to show up. when i was thirteen he dropped me off here at the convenience store and told me to get whatever i liked, he'd come and pay for it in a minute. i got a candy bar and a bottle of soda, and waited at the register. and waited. and waited. i thought he might've forgotten, so i paid for the items myself and walked outside. his car was nowhere in sight. i thought he might've forgotten his money at home, or i was taking too long and he went for a quick drive around the street corner, so i waited at the storefront. people approached me asking if i needed help, if i was waiting for something, very much like you just did. and i’d reply no, just waiting for my father, and they'd walk away slightly concerned, but i started to hate everyone and anyone anyway. i started to say things like, i'm waiting you to go away and fuck off, to complete strangers, but after a while it sounded rude, i lost faith, and i just started telling people it's a secret. it's not really a secret, though - people have the strangest abhorration towards secrets. if they think they've hit a personal topic, they treat it like the plague and immediately change subjects. it's such a roadblock. in reality, i might've been waiting for someone like you, who'd clear away the obstacle without panic, without regret."
mom, i told her, i'm going to school today.
i asked her, do you mind if i drop out of school tomorrow?
"actually, i lied too. i'm not actually a hitman."
"okay."
"i don't kill people for a living."
"okay."
"i don't know what i do for a living."
"okay."
"i think i might be part of the mob, either that, or the government. either way, it's 'our thing,' either way i don't know what i do."
"okay."
"isn't it weird that i don't know what i do? i could be drugging people and sending them up to Mars, for all i know, and i would be clueless."
"it isn't weird." she throws the pack of cigarettes on the ground, and the rain rushes it, eager to devour. "it's just a fact of life."
i went to school the next day with a baseball bat. no one asked why, but everyone gave me strange looks, too afraid to approach me. when the bell rang, and kids starting leaving the classroom, i cornered the four boys, the four who had beat up the dogs. the fear in their eyes scorched my soul.
are you afraid? i asked, like a proprietor of last judgment.
yes, yes, they squeaked, anything to get away from my wrath.
i only took a step closer. did you know how the dog felt as you beat it to a bloody pulp?
how how? they were fidgeting now, little mice.
like how you feel now. feel that? feel the fear? feel the hate? feel the horrifics of humanity bearing down as one living thing beats the crap out of other similar living things? then i brought the bat down on their flinching, fleshy bodies. they screamed, but i didn't relent, i just kept swinging and swinging in lieu of their wicked screams, i just kept seeing their eyes and the dog's eyes and then my eyes and how i was becoming a monster and then i just saw the red, bathing every inch of the room.
-fin
a/n: violent O__o but don't blame me, inspired by "in bruges." >_>