Right, eh, so I've been trying to get back into doing a bit of writing these last few weeks. Was messing around today and came up with something that one or two people might get some sort of kick out of, probably not worth a thread so may as well throw it in here.
Any thoughts (negative or positive) would be appreciated.
Hope it's not too shite.
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The SB Chronicles
Derby Week
Monday
A corpulent hand grips the doorknob and slowly turns it. It pushes the door open and its owner waddles gracelessly into the room. A woman works feverishly in the corner, skillfully negotiating several pots and pans, the smell of dead pigs hanging ominously in the air. Birds sing in the garden and a dog can be heard barking somewhere in the not too distant distance. A rare morning of northern sunshine bathes the kitchen in it's magnificent rays. He regards the scene with contempt and softly snorts before making his way disinterestedly towards the dining table and depositing himself upon his throne. The large wicker chair wails in agony as its bears his tremendous brunt. It has been eighty-nine days since his world was swept out from under him, just another cruel and undeserved loss in a long line of similar injustices, only this one on a a more significant and tragically final level.
She serves him his breakfast, the usual Monday morning fare. Eighteen sausages, two dozen rashers, eons of pudding both black and white, a dozen eggs, poached of course, three tins of beans and the usual loaf. To drink, a pint of condensed milk. An unworthy adversary, this meal. In mere minutes it is vanquished in a demented culinary ballet that leaves only the most meagre of scraps. He feigns appreciation and she smiles warmly at him in return.
"You'll never do better, old boy" he says to himself in a mix of mockery and appreciation.
Time to face the music. First he listens glumly to his phone messages, no hope comes to him there. Emails yield a similar emptiness. She looks at him with horrific sympathy etched all over her face and he cannot meet her gaze. Terry Connor? Really, Terry fucking Connor?! Fuck off. His innards burn with rage, how could they? Outwardly though he gives no sign of his malaise, only excuses himself meekly and rises to leave. The chair groans in ecstasy as he slowly lumbers to his feet and shuffles from the kitchen.
In the hallway he pauses momentarily outside the locked basement door. He fondles in his pocket the only key that exists for this door thoughtfully for a moment and then moves on. Not today. He inflicts himself upon a couch in the living room and stares emptily out the window into the sunny abyss.
Seven days.
