Lorlie

This story I think speaks for itself, but there are a few things I should explain.
Its based in Ireland, the grammar is based on how a local in County Meath drunk, would speak. Jemmy is Irish Whiskey, Jameson. We always say "One for the road" its a means of having another drink and making believe its not really for you, (Mad really). A Sweet Afton is a cigarette without a tip, and a Hi-Ace is a high sided van. A food bar is set up in the pub often where there is festival and normally remains seperate to the actual drink bar.
Im quaking posting this, I love this story, be gentle with me pleeeeeease.


Mossy Murphy stumbled dangerously; his legs loosing co-ordination.
It took just a fraction of a second to right himself, and that done he moved more carefully towards the food bar, on liquid legs. He mumbled loudly and incoherently as his legs moving faster than his body propelled him towards his destination.
The step dividing the bar from the food hall was almost the cause of his ruination, but through a combination of good luck and navigational familiarity with drunken motion, he stayed upright.
He stubbed out his cigarette while passing a plate someone had left sitting, his sweet Afton stood protruding from a cheese sandwich like a miniature chimney stack.
He snatched a plate of untouched sandwiches congealing inside a cling film covered basket, and lurching to the counter he gruffly ordered a cup of tea simply because he could find none abandoned. He fought the wrapping to release the food within, panting like a wounded animal. He sniffed the bread before stuffing it into his damp open mouth, chances were the musty smelling bread would not go a long way, but as even a hot meal was an indistinct memory; this might subdue the burning hunger.

He leaned heavily against the counter much like a fallen statue awaiting the final descent; he ate like a man possessed.
He peered through his drink induced eyes, scarcely seeing the young couples almost copulating with their gyrating dance on the make shift dance floor; snatches of their obnoxious giggling soared over his head.
He looked around for his companion but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Sure the hell wish her anyway shesh, little schtramp”.
He chewed with an open mouth on the tasteless sandwich, and chanced a sip of the tepid tea.

“Ish foul stuff, Jesus Christ” he bellowed causing tea and half-chewed bread to spew from his mouth. The bartender, used to Mossy’s ramblings, barely glanced in his direction as he hurriedly polished glasses in anticipation of closing the food bar for the night.
When the basket sat empty amidst a pile of cellophane, Mossy hitched his trousers and made a dismal effort to tuck in his shirt. His drunken digits could no more grasp the illusive shirttails than throw a dart and after Three attempts he gave up and left them swinging beyond his waistband.
He ran a hand through his hair and tried to find some semblance of sobriety in his befuddled brain. He was unaware that the giggles close by were directed at him, as those bothering to watch took sneering bets to see which way he would eventually topple.
With a few steadying breaths he stood upright, the sandwich grumbled in his stomach, and a loud unchecked belch reverberated from his mouth.
The titters and giggles grew in intensity but remained lost on Mossy as he carefully placed one leg ahead of the other and headed for the gents.

“Ish the same blooshy thing agin” He muttered, “always the same at this time of year”, Festival; he hated it with passion. Those fools behind the bar forgot who stood on the giving side night after night through the rest of the year.


These young ones with their fast cars, fast girls, and followers in tow, throwing money over the bar, buying every form of alcoholic concoction known to mankind, and inventing others. He knew what they were like, trying to take over the place, pushing out the regulars, playing at being men, no manners on any of them; their insolent ways, rude and vulgar. These lads a shower of pretentious young gits, thinking they were better than he was, better than he, Mossy Murphy.
“Nosh likeshly” He sneered as he weaved through the crowd, oblivious to people moving cautiously aside to let him pass, unseeing of the disgust and sometimes pity on their faces when he did.

In the toilets he fumbled with his flies and let out a huge sigh when he had relived himself. He leaned his head against the tiled wall and hoped that the din inside it would soon abate, it was that bloody band to be sure, the noise of the young hooligans, what a cheek to call that rubbish music.

He splashed water on his face from the paltry flow of the broken cold tap, banging his fist down on the once chrome head. Skinflint’s these blow-ins that had Mc Daid’s now, only ever took your money and served mouldy beer, barely gave the time of day to himself.
Bring back old Mick Mc Daid he reckoned, and all would be well.

He dragged his forearm across his damp face, indifferent to the putrid smell of his coat sleeve.

As he made to leave, the wet tiles underfoot caused him to slip and he collided with the wall, he righted himself instantly, and with astonishing speed.
A sharp clack from his pocket making contact with the cracked and faded wall tiles, reminded him of his stash. Slowly and with great care he removed the small tarnished flask from the pocket, placing it to his lips he greedily sucked the entire contents like a dessert survivor.
He caught sight of a face and looked up surprised to find a mirror where one had never been. While the mirror was unexpected the face in it was more a stranger than he could comprehend.
He reached out a hand to the reflection tracing the outline in horror.
‘Mother of god,’ he whispered, he looked a sight.

He doubted that the face was his own, and chanced a look over his shoulder to see if he had company; he looked back to the mirror mystified.
When had he become this old, this repulsive; his eyes were ringed with puffy lines and he looked as though he had not shaved in months.
His shirt may once have been white, he could not remember putting it on; he could not remember ever taking it off.

He searched feebly through his memory for a glimpse of his last bath or shower, but no information was forthcoming. His hair was a mess and hung in lank thin strands from a semi-bald palette. He put his hands before his face his brow creased in frustration, who owned these calloused hands and filthy overgrown nails; they were gnarled, the hands of an old man, a vagabond. He touched one hand with the other gingerly, his throat becoming sandpaper dry; these indeed were his own.

“Sweet Mary, what happened to me” he asked the reflection genuinely confused.
He stood transfixed in a very rare moment of clarity

The door banged open announcing someone approaching, and without answer to his question Mossy quickly gathered himself together and brushed past the stranger heading swiftly for the bar.

“Give me a double jemmy no ice” He snapped at the bartender, his voice now almost slurless.
He threw back the drink in a quick gulp and glared angrily at the bartender. His stare held his confusion and for a fleeting instant he glimpsed a time when they had been firm friends; the band breaking into a raucous bawdy ballad broke the momentary connection.
He no longer addressed him by his name, most of the time he had difficulty remembering it anyway; yes they had once been friends, but all that was before.
“Another” he barked, slamming the empty glass on the bar top.
“Mossy maybe you should take it easy” the bartender attempted “will you not have a sit down for a while, are ye alright?”
“It’s another drink I want nosh you’re bloody counsellin" he sneered as he picked coins from pocket full of tobacco flakes and broken cigarettes.
“That’ll be seven quid, Mossy” the bartender said quietly placing the second drink gently on the beer-mat.
Mossy threw the coins in a messy pile on the counter, ignoring the proffered hand, and threw the second drink back with out thanks.

He glanced around the pub again looking for his companion but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Little tramp” he muttered swaying unsteadily.
“Are ye off then?” asked a voice at his shoulder.
He turned to see Joe Courtney coat in hand sloping off a barstool.
“Mind yourself, I can find me own way” he grunted, unsteady as he prodded his chest emphatically.
“Come on Mossy your not going to walk three miles on a night like tonight. I tell ye there’s more snow on the way to be sure, and aren’t I goin’ that way anyways” Joe told him slipping his arms into the sleeves of his heavy duffel coat, all too aware of Mossy’s threadbare one.
“I don’t need your sh-charity” Mossy snapped and with a final scowl around for his companion he swayed to the door.
“Ahh Mossy” Joe sighed. For a brief moment he considered following, experience however told him it would be a waste of time, instead he removed his coat, climbed back on his stool, and shaking his head in defeat ordered another drink.
Outside the cold air hit Mossy brutally, his head swam, his stomach heaved and with remarkable speed he stumbled his way to the car park.
Without time or tendency to find suitable cover he spewed violently against the wall, roaring in animalistic guttural cries between bouts of vomit.

In the farthest darkest corner of the car park he slid down against a wall, grateful for the cover of darkness and the shelter of a large hi-ace van.


The night deteriorated rapidly; what began as a smattering of snow became an angry flurry with snowflakes dancing in effervescent swirls.
After a time sitting on the sodden ground he warily attempted to get to his feet, rising up to stand his full six foot two was out of the question in his condition; instead he knelt as tall as he could.
He was both shocked and surprised by the emptiness of the car park, and the darkness from the pub.
Not a single light shone from within, with the exception of the huge security halogen which he must have triggered, the night lay bathe in darkness and snow.
The thought struck him that perhaps he had slept, but he was too drunk to give it any credence and dismissed the idea in a moment.

The snow had undeniably gathered pace; it swirled in huge wafer like fragments, dancing in the light of the low lying crescent moon and the halogen glare.
The wind cut through his bones and Mossy pulled his coat tighter around his thin frame; huddled deeper into the collar.

He waited patiently for the urge to move to extend a hand, but as he sat staring with distorted vision, he knew there would be no such desire; he felt no compulsion to ever move again. His head low he blew his whisky polished breath into the hollow of his hands trying to warm them, Mossy was not aware of how they now shook all the time, even on the warmest day.

He noticed the Hi-Ace’s absence as he felt around in his pockets for his cigarettes, after many attempts he lit one, and inhaled deeply.
He tried taking a deep breath but this simply caused a coughing fit, his raspy cough echoing back to him from the empty night.

Only one car remained in the car park, its frame fuzzy and soft beneath a fresh fall of snow. He brushed his hair from his face, trying to shield his eyes, trying to gauge the distance; he strained to calculate if he could make it that far for shelter
The light went out, a soft click filling the austerity, a faint hiss declaring its termination.

In the distance, he saw her; she stood stock still, searching him out, listening for his voice. Squinting through the snowflakes she spotted him and swiftly crossed the carpark to get to his side, triggering the light in her wake.

He attempted to sit up taller; he succeeded only in sliding his legs in the settling snow. She stood a little away from him, her eyes beseeching.
He shook his head in defeat, a lump forming in his throat.
“Not tonight girl, there's no goin home tonight.” his voice softer than she had ever known.
“I have to rest here.”
The snow soaked his cigarette as he lay down in his little huddle, she curled in tight against his chest, to warm, and keep warm.

“It wasn’t so bad you know girl” he stroked her back gently “It wasn’t so bad” his eyes flickered and he fought hard to keep them open.
The wet cigarette hung from his lips, broken and askew now, smearing his nicotine stained beard with tobacco flakes.

The light hissed, disallowed again.

A kaleidoscope of memories flicked through his mind, profound in a moment of glory. He smiled pulling his faithful dog under the useless cover of his coat.

“It’s all done now” He whispered.

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The Oddville Press

mjk

okay, i'm being gentle (no, not really, sorry). this is a good story. you have a great way of describing the scene and action. the narrator is the sort of guy society tends to ignore and degrade, but you have painted him in an empathetic light. i was sad at the end of this story. i put down a few nitpicks. the biggest problem i think is the flow. if you read it out loud i think you'll see what i mean. the punctuation could use some polishing and some of these sentences are just too long. if you clean that up, this story will flow smoothly. good job. thanks for posting it.

losing?
hmm... perhaps "... as his legs moved faster than his body, and propelled him..."
semicolon instead of a comma?
i think this might work better if you end the sentence at "basket," take out "and" and make "lurching" the start of a new sentence. otherwise, it's too long.
break this up into more than one sentence.
it's "elusive" and no capital on the "three"
"relieved"
"desert"
break this up into more sentences.
"your"
"without" one word.
eek... "you're"
break it up into more sentences.
"bathed"
use "and" instead of a semicolon.

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"Words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality." -Edgar Allan Poe
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Creative Scribblings - a collection of odds and ends

Lorlie

MJK,

Thanks for that. This is an old work of mine, and I guess I stopped seeing the words and punctuation when I developed an attachment to it.
Looking at it from a different view point I see it needs work.
Thanks for taking the time out, and for the pointers.

Lorlie

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The Oddville Press

mjk

i do the exact same thing, which is why this forum is great because others can pick up on stuff that the writer's eyes just skim over. i hope you work on this and repost it soon.

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"Words have no power to impress the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality." -Edgar Allan Poe
***
Creative Scribblings - a collection of odds and ends

semtecks

Good job. MJK's covered the grammar stuff so I'll just say that you did a good job of getting us inside this guy's head, showing us the things he sees and not showing us what he doesn't know -- like when he takes a pee and then his sleeve is wet. I got a little confused with your paragraph structure -- some are double spaced, some aren't -- but that was the only problem I had.

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bluewhite

Too long. I worried that i couldn't read through all of it.

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Lorlie

Thanks All for the help.
Going to give this a work over. I remember a teacher telling me not to have too much of an attachment to one particular piece of work.
"Sorry Tommy"! LOL.

Thanks everyone.

Lorlie

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The Oddville Press