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Flabby Chick

PostPosted: Wed Jan 10, 2007 11:04 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

Something i got into in the last few months whilst laid up with a shitty back. I found a few friendly writing sites and have been doing a fair bit of scribbling. Here's a couple of first drafts.

Unwanted Gift

The cobbled steps leading down to the cliffs edge were in need of changing. For almost four hundred years now Sarah had been taking the same path from her back door to the table she’d built facing the ocean and the stones were wearing away from her habitual pilgrimage; some were fractured, but if she fell…she fell. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

She’d change them eventually of course; everything she needed to do would get done eventually.

Except for one thing.

She idled down the path once again, placed the empty bottle upon the table and looked out over the sea. It was calm today, very little waves. She’d been here in all weathers. In storms that knocked her down, twisters and heat waves. She’d seen the water as still as death and breakers that roared against the cliff face, clawing at the earth, demanding retribution for it’s confinement.

A sentiment she shared. A morbid kinship with a friendly nemesis. The very worst of bad deals.

Sarah had been diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer at the age of thirty-two. Not your ordinary run-of-the-mill kind of breast cancer, but the clever kind. The kind that snaps off here and there to go walkabouts round your body, setting up house wherever it feels comfortable and cozy, to grow and feed.

She’d been given eight months to live.

She’d been given eight months to die.

With all her stuff sold she bought the house next to the cliff. She’d no family to speak of, and her friends; at first helpful and attentive, became an annoyance filled with pity. They had their own lives to lead and she let them go. She stopped chemo’, and waited.

On a good weather day but bad cancer day Sarah drowned a bottle of wine and staggered to the table at the cliff to scream at her fate.

She scribbled a note, pushed it into the neck of the bottle and hurled it out, over the cliff. Tears lashing down her face.

I don’t want to die.

And she didn’t.

The pain stopped. She gained weight. Her hair grew back. The doctors didn’t use the word miracle, but the pity on their faces had been replaced by astonishment, almost wonder.

There was a slight problem though. Not only was Sarah not dying.

She wasn’t dying.

She stopped at thirty-two.

People around her grew old and passed away whilst she looked on. Presidents and kings came and went, new religions were founded, the old ones forgotten; the world changed, and the changes changed. Sarah however didn’t change a bit.

There were wars; tribes against tribes. Small at first, localized. The dominoes fell and the momentums gathered pace until one day someone pressed the wrong button unleashing a few microbes that danced their way from human to human killing all within a few days.

All except Sarah that is.

She stopped at thirty-two.

Here she was then once again idling down the cobbled path. She placed the empty bottle upon the table, stuffed the note down the neck and hurled it out to sea. Like thousands and thousands of times before.

I want to die.
Flabby Chick

PostPosted: Wed Jan 10, 2007 11:06 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

The Chin Chair

I can’t sleep. Jeremy took the last of my pills. That’s why I’m sitting here on the edge of my bed, staring at my mother’s rocker on the far side of the room, counting two’s.


Somebody told me counting to two would eventually bore you to sleep; I would have rather had the pills Jeremy had taken.

Jeremy Stephens was a pain in the ass, which is ok if he was the sort of pain in the ass that you could keep at arm’s length; dirty-looks-across-the-street kind of thing or completely blank if happenstance brought you shoulder to shoulder, but no, Jeremy was the worst kind of pain in the ass. He was the kind that was also my best friend.

He first came into my life during second grade—some thirty years ago-- half-way through Mrs. Carlton’s English class, and I saw it immediately.

The Chin Chair.

Are you familiar with The Chin Chair? It’s a strange phenomenon. No that’s the wrong word, more of a charismatic power, a talent or a gift. I wasn’t aware that it existed until Jeremy walked into that classroom all those years ago, all black hair and blue eyes.

I know all about it now though.

Mrs. Carlton led Jeremy through the aisle of desks towards the empty seat beside me, and as she was doing so, like toppling dominoes, each kid he passed--one after the other--raised their elbows upon the desk, clasped their hands together and rested their chins in the upturned palms and gazed, glassy eyed at the new arrival.

The Chin Chair.

Over the years we got on famously. He always had interesting tales to tell, and he’d tell them well, casting charms upon his listeners until slowly-slowly they’d assume the position in awe and wonder. When he’d finished or left their presence they would shake themselves ever so slightly as if they’d been hypnotized or drugged.

Women flocked to him of course. Maybe that was one of the reasons I hung around Jeremy for such a long time; picking up his cast-offs whilst they were still under his spell, using them for a night or two till they got bored and left to search again for whatever it was I couldn’t give them.

I couldn’t give them the Chin Chair.

After university we went our separate ways. I went into banking and eventually consulting, making a fortune in the process, bought a beach front property, got married and had a son.

Jeremy left the country to travel, and after one or two postcards we eventually lost contact and I forgot all about him…

…Until a couple of days ago that is, when he knocked on my door.

He was forty-two years old yet he didn’t seem to have changed a bit, I was so overwhelmed, tears and hugs and stories of his adventures took us well into the night. He asked if he could stay for a while so he could find his feet and get settled. What could I say? He was my closest friend.

My wife loved him at first sight of course…

The Chin Chair.

He took my son fishing, hiking, karting and….

The Chin Chair.

I know he didn’t know what he was doing but I had to end it somehow, to approach him, to reason with him man-to-man, friend-to-friend; my very future was at stake.

Removing Jeremy’s head from his body was quite easy. The sleeping pills I’d mixed with the beer rendered him immobile and the new blade I’d put on the hacksaw made light work of the decapitation. The fleshy bits were a problem but a little research on the internet about bleaching animal bones sorted out that problem.

So there he sits on my mother’s rocker--Chin on Chair--opposite my bed staring at me with those wide black sockets as I relate to him the stories of my day.

Staring at me as I sit on the edge of my bed.

Elbows on my knees, hands held together, chin on…
DBB Cadet

PostPosted: Wed Jan 17, 2007 7:45 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

wow i didnt see this...pretty cool man

yer fully like..weird in a totally cool way Smile

thx for sharing flabby

PostPosted: Wed Jan 17, 2007 8:44 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

I like

There are four boxes to use in the defense of liberty: soap, ballot, jury, ammo. Use in that order.
DBB Staff

PostPosted: Wed Jan 17, 2007 3:22 pm View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

I missed this too. Cool stuff dude. Love the twist in the second one.
Flabby Chick

PostPosted: Thu Jan 18, 2007 11:38 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

Thanks guys, i really got into this writing stuff over the past few months with around forty odd of these "flash" stories completed.

I've got a little bolder over the last week or so and am in the middle of a "Short" (Around 3000 words). If anything comes of it i'll let you know.
Flabby Chick

PostPosted: Fri Jan 19, 2007 9:14 am View user's profile Reply with quote Send private message

Missing Socks

Lieutenant George Martin had made a promise, a sacred vow and as such he knew exactly where his socks went. There was no mystery; no elves or goblins or evil washing machines that devoured articles of clothing leaving the bare footed, baffled and confused. No, this was the word of one man to another and for a whole generation that word had never been broken, and never would be.

It all began and ended very quickly. The place was Normandy, France. June sixth 1944.

George and his company were amongst the first wave to hit “Omaha” beach at the head of the invasion. Cannon fodder fools, the Brits called them, and boy were they spot on with that epithet; they were ripped to pieces.

They landed as the tide was going out and progress up to the shore was painfully slow, the barge ran out of fuel so they had to jump in and wade through chest high choppy water holding their rifles aloft, it was like shooting ducks at the fairground. The company was decimated.

George was senior officer so he had Harold Carlisle, the radio operator, tailing him wherever he went. They managed to get to a line of dunes in one piece whilst blood, brains and guts were being splattered all about them by the chaotic response from the krauts.

They both lay back against the dunes, covered from the German barrage, facing the sea. Bodies were everywhere. The sand was becoming a heavy crimson from the carnage as the boys were being mowed down. George slapped Harold on the back and took the mike. All protocol was forgotten as he screamed for support from the warships that were lined up off shore. A few minuets later the massive pounding began.

Explosions roared across the beach, they were firing too short, killing their own men. George shouted new coordinates to the mike, but just as he finished a stray shell exploded far too close and threw both the men fifteen feet in the air.


Only it wasn’t.

Harold was screaming. “My leg, my leg…I’ve lost my leg.”

George pushed himself up with his elbows and saw two limbs spurting with blood not five feet away from him. “Mine’s gone too Harold mate, but don’t worry about it. I think I’ve found both of them.

With that, he passed out.

So that’s it. There’s no big mystery, no sock goblins or evil washing machines, just a promise to an old buddy whose lives were spared amidst the many that fell. For nigh on sixty years whenever George buys a new pair of socks he sheds a tear and sends the redundant one to Harold.
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