Weird Days (750 words, violence, language, first draft) - Writers Forum

DeVorn · 04-14-2008, 01:46 PM

This is the story of how I beat the bad guy, saved the day, and got the girl.

Well.

One out of three ain't bad.

~*~

Let me set the scene for you.

Midnight. Suburbia. High-rise apartment complex.

One hundred and fifty five pounds of lean mean Irish machine flies out the window, surrounded on all sides by the shattered remnants of a stain-glass Presley. The Once-and-Future-King of Rock and Roll's broken smile melts into the folds of her fluttering trench coat as she slams spine-first into the soft top of a cherry pink 57 Dodge like the fist of an angry and righteous God.

Metal and velvet crumple. The windshield pops like an overinflated balloon. A car alarm shrieks with impotent rage.

She sits up and brushes what's left of the Regent's troubled brow off her shoulder. Her injuries read like a drunken bouncer's hospital tab--cracked rib, chipped clavicle, dislocated shoulder, runny nose.

She reaches for her smoke and finds the pack crumpled.

She turns her gaze up to the shattered window from which she emerged.

And scowls.

~*~

Back upstairs.

The room is an avalanche of Elvis memorabilia waiting to happen; everything from velvet portraits to G.I. Presley Action Figures with real karate chop action. Every inch of available wall space has been plastered with a poster of the King until his image is choking its way down through the eyes.

The architect of this throwback to a bygone age is currently residing on top of his porcelain throne with his double-barreled 12-gauge scepter in hand--the better part of his regal skull liberally decorating the bathroom mirror. The poor fat bastard decided to suck face with the business end of his shotgun rather than bare the tender mercies of his master. A master that now has me pinned against the living room wall, exhaling whorls of scalding breath over my throat.

It smells like something between fried vomit with a tall refreshing glass of freshly boiled piss, except it's a hundred times worse.

TIME TO DIE.

I muster up what tiny morsel of courage remains in my belly, throw on my hell-be-damned grin, and then tell it:

"Actually, I think you're pretty much fucked."

~*~

The elevator door opens.

A five foot ten redhead with rings around her eyes so dark that you might mistake her for a raccoon steps in besides an old woman with steel wool hair holding her mewling brat of a grandson's hand. The old lady and kid both shut up at the sight of the woman, who currently looks like something the cat wouldn't drag in for fear of being called a sadist. The girl fishes out a crumpled, bent cigarette from the pack, sticks it between her lips, and hits the number '3'.

~*~

Instead of fingers, it's got knives. Fucking steakknives.

TELL ME THEN. WHY AM I FUCKED, MISTER WIERD?

I'm amusing it. Good; every second it remains amused is another second between me and the joys of invasive surgery.

"Well, for starters, you just threw that girl out of a window," I croak.

DID I?

Its finger stabs into my shoulder, pinning me hard against a singing image of the King. I shudder and try not to scream, feeling something bitter and hot surging up my throat. I struggle for my voice.

"That was mistake one. Mistake two was throwing her into my car," I tell it, fighting through the quaver in my voice.

~*~

At this point, grandma and son have pulled themselves into a corner, watching as the girl repeatedly slams her shoulder against the wall. Like a swinging pendulum, she gains more velocity with each blow, until the fourth comes along with a sick pop. She rotates her arm, grimaces at the pain, then brushes some more glass out of her sleeve.

The elevator dings. The door opens. She steps out.

~*~

DON'T THESE THINGS OFTEN COME IN THREES?

The finger in my shoulder moves; flesh splits and opens. It cuts me with all the ease one might slit a fish, and briefly I realize that's what it intends to do--carve me open and draw me from my skin as if it were no more than a sheathe, leaving me a gasping and flopping mess on the floor.

"Yeah," I tell it in between the shivers and the screams. "Yeah, see, that was your biggest mistake. Number three."

AND WHAT, PRAY TELL, WAS THAT?

The coldness of shock starts to seize hold of my brain. I arch my head back as far as it will go, and I tell it:

"You fucked with her smokes."

The door explodes.

A little bit of Hell breaks loose.

~*~

But wait. I've started too far ahead; you're probably lost. This isn't where the story begins.

All the shit in my life started way before this. Before the girl, before Presley, before Dead Fred, even before One Hour Photo.

It all started on a beach when I was nine years old.

~*~

phurst · 04-14-2008, 04:19 PM

Very good. I got nothing else for you.

DeVorn · 04-15-2008, 12:25 PM

Thanks!

I, uh, think.

Ungood · 04-15-2008, 01:11 PM

Great Story... excites me and has this really good - cyberpunk future cyborg type feel to it. Loved it... written in a way that was hard to read at first but on my third try I got into it... I would have to know what I am reading to get into this story... the "leaflet" would really help me there. Anyway...

Grammar... not my thing... I'll just look at some of your mechanicals.

Quote:

Originally Posted by DeVorn

She sits up and brushes what's left of the Regent's troubled brow off her shoulder. Her injuries read like a drunken bouncer's hospital tab--cracked rib, chipped clavicle, dislocated shoulder, runny nose.

She reaches for her smoke and finds the pack crumpled.

She turns her gaze up to the shattered window from which she emerged.

And scowls.

I do not care if you are stoned, plastered, half your body is robotic and you have a 90% pain reduction IV pump shoved in your skull... this would mess you up something bad...

I also might add if it did this to her.. we are talking some serious internal damage... very serious...

Which makes this unbelievable in every way possible...

My suggestion is... "Damage is Minimal" IE: Dislocated Shoulder is all that happens, she "pops back together" before she stands back up (Like 'Wolverine' of the X-Men), or she stays down...

I am all for a "Tough Chick"... I love em... I love this one you put out.. got me aroused in the elevator scene... but also seemed totally unrealistic that she was injured that bad and now standing back up like it was nothing...

Ungood.

Eli Cash · 04-15-2008, 01:25 PM

The opening is extremely clunky and expositional.

"Once upon a time," would even be a better choice.

DeVorn · 04-15-2008, 09:51 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Eli Cash

The opening is extremely clunky and expositional.

"Once upon a time," would even be a better choice.

I was mulling that over, and whether it would be better to shoot right into "Let me set the scene for you".

Eli Cash · 04-17-2008, 07:44 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by DeVorn

I was mulling that over, and whether it would be better to shoot right into "Let me set the scene for you".

That's part of the clunky exposition. Shoot right into, "One hundred and fifty five pounds of lean mean Irish machine flies out the window of a high-rise apartment in suburbia, surrounded on all sides by the shattered remnants of a stain-glass Presley."