Writing
A short story.
I haven’t done any writing in ages, which is probably reflected in the quality of this; a quick, dirty and dark piece based upon a couple of ideas that have been floating around in my head. I don’t think it’s up to much, but would appreciate comments all the same.
Closet Case
“The moment you start giving a fuck is the moment you quit. Sounds harsh but it’s true. There are two types of people who work here; those who can handle it and make it their living, and those who can’t and don’t. You look like one of the latter.”
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Posted: August 12th, 2006 under Writing.
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Funerals
For no other reason than it will otherwise continue gathering dust on my hard drive; below is the opening chapter to a book than will one day be completed. It needs a lot of work, and hasn’t been touched in at least 2 years, but enough excuses… The general plot is that a rich elderly relative dies, leaving no-one 100% sure who will receive the majority of her wealth. Each chapter is written from a character’s point of view, with the last chapter revealing the outcome. It’s kinda a dark comedy, attempting (and prob failing!) to illustrate human greed and cynicism.
Working title of the book is Funerals.
And so I sat down. The sofa dug in stubbornly to my arse, but no one else noticed. The uncomfortable feeling of being in someone else’s house. Rooms decorated and arranged to suit other’s tastes, with furniture ergonomically fitting to stranger’s bodies. One person’s home being another’s caravan holiday. Somewhere just about bearable enough to spend some time, but not homely enough to stay for any length. The unfamiliar brand names stared down from unfamiliar cupboards. The impractical crockery made the differences all the more noticeable. The cold living room stood around me, surrounding me, with shelves stacked with sentimental shit. The polished ugly plates peered downwards, reflecting the irritating ticks of the clock. That would be the first thing to go. It marked each second with a uniform tick, which appeared to get progressively louder. Too quiet to hear over conversation, but loud enough to make silence painful. And that is what we had now. Silence. It was broken up by meaningless small talk, but nonetheless it was essentially an uneasy atmosphere. Polite laughter blended in with the tired conversation, but no-one was under the illusion that anyone was interested. It was a weird situation. Ten relatives and me, gathered in a stuffy room, all wishing we were somewhere else. All thinking our own selfish thoughts, most of which were financially orientated. Who would scoop the jackpot? Would one lone person claim the prize? Would it result in several lucky ticket holders securing a equal share of the spoils? Or, more interestingly, would the recently deceased Mrs E Hunt’s will be shared out unfairly in controversial circumstances?
This was why I was here. Well, at least it was one of the reasons I was here. Ever since that misunderstanding a few months earlier, I had discovered happiness. It was sick, I grant you that, but it you couldn’t deny that it was morbidly fascinating. My casual observances of watching human greed in its purest form had evolved into a hobby. What I just got a kick out of initially had turned into something far more important. Although I had absolutely no control over the outcome, the events that were due to take place this evening still thrilled me. It had the same characters each time; they were always there, yet the twists remained just as unexpected and fresh. Often the most content were the most undeserved, the ones that had overachieved. The favourites could never win. If they got the lot, it was expected. If they earned less than they had counted on then they felt hard done by. And more often than not, this was the case. I merely observed this process.
The only way I can justify my actions is to attribute the blame on human nature. I can’t help being aroused, for the want of a better word, by other people’s suffering. Who hasn’t got excited at the distant sight of blue lights on a motorway, seducing you in for a closer look? Necks straining and eyes fixated on people standing roadside, next to their mangled wreck? Anyone that tells you that they didn’t enjoy, even for a split second, watching planes fly into buildings is a liar. Sure, it was terrible, I mean any life lost is a tragedy. Full stop. But it was exciting and fresh, it got the adrenaline pumping and the heart beating, the closest most people get to experiencing the thrills of an extreme sport. It was better than a film, the harsh and brutal reality of the unfolding drama made it all the more powerful.
I don’t know, maybe I’m different. Most people watch television game shows to see the elation on the victor’s face. I watch to see the losers try and mask their disappointment. “You might have lost the chance to win the brand new car, but never mind, because no-one goes home empty handed. You’ve won the Family Fortune tea cosy, complete with matching bobble”. Cue fake smiles, canned applause and speeding credits.
Where was I? Oh yes. The living room. Hmmmmmm. My eyes continued to rummage though the various possessions, which were temporarily ownerless. But that would soon change. The uniformly framed photos, sporting a thin layer of dust, sat on the mantelpiece. Past Christmas celebrations, memories of the irretrievable past. However, no one in the room cared about these. It was the same in most of the houses. Worthless objects, made valuable by sentiment, only to be made worthless once again by bereavement. By coincidence, this was often mirrored by the behaviour of the relatives. You would see it all of the time in the hospital; uncaring members of the public reluctantly making their way to a relative’s death bed, before feigning their love, only to bitch their way back to the foyer with the corpse yet to cool.
Thinking about it, that’s where the idea first appealed to me. The hospital.
Posted: February 18th, 2006 under Writing.
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