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Thursday, 16 October 2008 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiedoesWhen you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Here you go: the opening scenes of all three of my WIPs.
Forget-me-nots And Marigolds
Patrick chose to believe the fact that it was pouring with rain in the middle of May was a sign of the world empathising with his misery, rather than the Universe fucking him over just that little bit more. It really didn't feel like things could get much worse as he pressed his thumb hard on the buzzer, knowing it would be at least another drenching minute before it was even answered.
"Yeah?"
"Joe – it's me... could you buzz me in? It's totally fucking pouring down here..."
"Well... it's sort of a little wet up here, too, right now."
"Joe, just open the fucking door. Please."
"Patrick? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"As it happens, no. No, I'm really fucking not, but I would be less not okay if I could, y'know: explain upstairs."
"Um... Well..." There was a slightly awkward but not quite irritable huff through the crackling speaker, then, "Sure. Sure, come on up." The entry phone clicked, closely followed by a lengthy buzz as the door unlocked.
He was halfway up the four flights of stairs when a slim, young, redheaded girl skipped down the steps past him, giving him a cold look as she did so. He didn't have to guess which apartment she'd recently departed from; least of all because Joe leaned over the top banister and waved just as Patrick looked up. He was tying his hair back and looking slightly chastened, as if he'd been caught red-handed; it wasn't as though Patrick didn't already know about his neighbourhood groupies.
He frowned as he saw the bag in Patrick's hand. "Something you wanna tell me, man?"
Patrick didn't respond until he was three breathless steps from the top and Joe was hauling his baggage from his hand, a worried look on his face. "I kind of need a place to stay."
====
The Approaching Curve
Sitting on the edge of his bath, staring at the unanimous positives on the little pen-like tests in his hands, Joe thought he was going to throw up. He stayed there, frozen and trying to absorb the reality of his situation, for what seemed like hours; and then finally, he took his tests, stuffed them in the plastic bag he'd brought them home in and shoved them in the drawer by his bed. Shaking, he sank himself down onto the covers, clutching his cell and not knowing what to do. It was probably too early to say anything – this could just be a fluke, because as unlikely as it seemed that three tests would all be wrong – it was even more unlikely that what they claimed was true.
On the other hand, if they were right...
Burying his face in his pillow, sandwiching the other over his head to block out any ambient light because now he was also getting a fucking migraine, he decided he was going to wait until morning, take the tests again and then... well, then he'd decide how best to break the news.
---
"Hey," Patrick said, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tried to tear open the bag inside his box of Fruit Loops; it split and they all fell out inside the cardboard container, meaning they'd all be stale by the next morning. He scowled and thumped down the box on the counter. "What's up?"
"Um... Are you busy?"
Joe sounded sick again. Patrick frowned and abandoned his breakfast. "No... Lisa's at her parents' place back home, so I was just going to look over that demo, why?"
"Could you, like... come over?"
Patrick's heart skipped a beat. Joe had been sick on and off for weeks, sometimes he'd spent days barely able to do much but sleep or puke, and he was afraid that it was getting worse. "Hey, sure, what's wrong? You need me to get you anything?"
There was a long silence, then just, "Soon?"
"Well, I mean – I need to take a shower and stuff, dude, I just woke up, but... I guess, yeah. I can be there in an hour or something."
"Okay."
The line went dead.
Patrick had never showered so quickly in his life. He was out of the house exactly twelve minutes after Joe hung up, cursing at the traffic and damning anyone who led a normal life and actually chose to go to work at exactly the same time as everyone else. He let himself in with the spare key that Joe had given him before he started spending so much time in LA, on account of the fact that the other two both lived hours away and his mother was never that amused by being called at 2am to be told he was locked out. He ran up the hallway steps half-convinced he'd find his friend in the grip of some kind of Far Eastern flu and was relieved when Joe met him on the way through the dining room, heading down from the bedroom, looking pale and tired, but otherwise fine.
"Hey – you okay?" he asked immediately, and not entirely convinced by the shrug and nod of Joe's response. "So what's wrong?"
"We kind of, like... we kind of need to talk, dude."
====
Life In A Minor Chord
Patrick was still shaking as the orderlies let him down the chill, white-washed corridor, its cold marble floors reflecting the bars on the windows and echoing the distant sound of somebody wailing an indistinct tune; a voice almost howl-like in its bestiality. It reminded him dully of the singing pooches on home video shows, following no actual form or structure, but parodying the voices of the humans they entertained.
With every step his chest contracted further, the hands at his elbows grew heavier and tighter and he wanted to run and run never look back – run so far that he left his life behind and left himself, too, if he could – because he was terrified. He didn't belong here. He deserved to be locked away, but not here. Not with creatures that howled in the day and rattled the doors as he passed. They would tear him apart if they could; he was sure of it.
There were restraints on his wrists; leather, buckled and tight enough that they rubbed on his skin. They had taken his clothes, too; the only thing that made him an individual in all of this. They had made him strip and replaced his clothes with a bland cross between pyjamas and surgical scrubs. Salmon pink ones. There were no fastenings – just a thick strip of woven elastic on the waistband of the pants – and soft, rubber-soled slip-ons for his feet. If his glasses hadn't been anti-break plastic he knew they would have taken those, too. He didn't know what they'd have replaced them with.
The doors were locked with keys chained to the orderlies' hips. He counted them as he passed each one, wondering what sort of people needed to be locked away like this, and why they were placing him amongst them. He was a functional human being, not an incoherent wretch like the wailing man in the last wing. They should have left him in a room by himself and thrown away the key. It was all he was fit for.
He had been interviewed by more psychiatrists than he could remember, but he didn't recognise the woman they handed him over to. She was in her early fifties, perhaps, broad and unmovable. The sort of woman who looked as though she could wrestle bears and simultaneously administer a sedative with her free hand. Patrick was instantly afraid of her – although he couldn't remember the last time he had been anything other than afraid since it all began – but she did not strike him as a cruel woman. A firm, strict one, perhaps – school ma'am-ish and no-nonsense – but ultimately the most reassuring thing he'd seen in weeks. She wasn't an ogre. She was a normal, if intimidating, human being. Perhaps she would see the senselessness of his being here and have him sent away to somewhere more suitable.
Here you go: the opening scenes of all three of my WIPs.
Forget-me-nots And Marigolds
Patrick chose to believe the fact that it was pouring with rain in the middle of May was a sign of the world empathising with his misery, rather than the Universe fucking him over just that little bit more. It really didn't feel like things could get much worse as he pressed his thumb hard on the buzzer, knowing it would be at least another drenching minute before it was even answered.
"Yeah?"
"Joe – it's me... could you buzz me in? It's totally fucking pouring down here..."
"Well... it's sort of a little wet up here, too, right now."
"Joe, just open the fucking door. Please."
"Patrick? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"As it happens, no. No, I'm really fucking not, but I would be less not okay if I could, y'know: explain upstairs."
"Um... Well..." There was a slightly awkward but not quite irritable huff through the crackling speaker, then, "Sure. Sure, come on up." The entry phone clicked, closely followed by a lengthy buzz as the door unlocked.
He was halfway up the four flights of stairs when a slim, young, redheaded girl skipped down the steps past him, giving him a cold look as she did so. He didn't have to guess which apartment she'd recently departed from; least of all because Joe leaned over the top banister and waved just as Patrick looked up. He was tying his hair back and looking slightly chastened, as if he'd been caught red-handed; it wasn't as though Patrick didn't already know about his neighbourhood groupies.
He frowned as he saw the bag in Patrick's hand. "Something you wanna tell me, man?"
Patrick didn't respond until he was three breathless steps from the top and Joe was hauling his baggage from his hand, a worried look on his face. "I kind of need a place to stay."
====
The Approaching Curve
Sitting on the edge of his bath, staring at the unanimous positives on the little pen-like tests in his hands, Joe thought he was going to throw up. He stayed there, frozen and trying to absorb the reality of his situation, for what seemed like hours; and then finally, he took his tests, stuffed them in the plastic bag he'd brought them home in and shoved them in the drawer by his bed. Shaking, he sank himself down onto the covers, clutching his cell and not knowing what to do. It was probably too early to say anything – this could just be a fluke, because as unlikely as it seemed that three tests would all be wrong – it was even more unlikely that what they claimed was true.
On the other hand, if they were right...
Burying his face in his pillow, sandwiching the other over his head to block out any ambient light because now he was also getting a fucking migraine, he decided he was going to wait until morning, take the tests again and then... well, then he'd decide how best to break the news.
---
"Hey," Patrick said, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he tried to tear open the bag inside his box of Fruit Loops; it split and they all fell out inside the cardboard container, meaning they'd all be stale by the next morning. He scowled and thumped down the box on the counter. "What's up?"
"Um... Are you busy?"
Joe sounded sick again. Patrick frowned and abandoned his breakfast. "No... Lisa's at her parents' place back home, so I was just going to look over that demo, why?"
"Could you, like... come over?"
Patrick's heart skipped a beat. Joe had been sick on and off for weeks, sometimes he'd spent days barely able to do much but sleep or puke, and he was afraid that it was getting worse. "Hey, sure, what's wrong? You need me to get you anything?"
There was a long silence, then just, "Soon?"
"Well, I mean – I need to take a shower and stuff, dude, I just woke up, but... I guess, yeah. I can be there in an hour or something."
"Okay."
The line went dead.
Patrick had never showered so quickly in his life. He was out of the house exactly twelve minutes after Joe hung up, cursing at the traffic and damning anyone who led a normal life and actually chose to go to work at exactly the same time as everyone else. He let himself in with the spare key that Joe had given him before he started spending so much time in LA, on account of the fact that the other two both lived hours away and his mother was never that amused by being called at 2am to be told he was locked out. He ran up the hallway steps half-convinced he'd find his friend in the grip of some kind of Far Eastern flu and was relieved when Joe met him on the way through the dining room, heading down from the bedroom, looking pale and tired, but otherwise fine.
"Hey – you okay?" he asked immediately, and not entirely convinced by the shrug and nod of Joe's response. "So what's wrong?"
"We kind of, like... we kind of need to talk, dude."
====
Life In A Minor Chord
Patrick was still shaking as the orderlies let him down the chill, white-washed corridor, its cold marble floors reflecting the bars on the windows and echoing the distant sound of somebody wailing an indistinct tune; a voice almost howl-like in its bestiality. It reminded him dully of the singing pooches on home video shows, following no actual form or structure, but parodying the voices of the humans they entertained.
With every step his chest contracted further, the hands at his elbows grew heavier and tighter and he wanted to run and run never look back – run so far that he left his life behind and left himself, too, if he could – because he was terrified. He didn't belong here. He deserved to be locked away, but not here. Not with creatures that howled in the day and rattled the doors as he passed. They would tear him apart if they could; he was sure of it.
There were restraints on his wrists; leather, buckled and tight enough that they rubbed on his skin. They had taken his clothes, too; the only thing that made him an individual in all of this. They had made him strip and replaced his clothes with a bland cross between pyjamas and surgical scrubs. Salmon pink ones. There were no fastenings – just a thick strip of woven elastic on the waistband of the pants – and soft, rubber-soled slip-ons for his feet. If his glasses hadn't been anti-break plastic he knew they would have taken those, too. He didn't know what they'd have replaced them with.
The doors were locked with keys chained to the orderlies' hips. He counted them as he passed each one, wondering what sort of people needed to be locked away like this, and why they were placing him amongst them. He was a functional human being, not an incoherent wretch like the wailing man in the last wing. They should have left him in a room by himself and thrown away the key. It was all he was fit for.
He had been interviewed by more psychiatrists than he could remember, but he didn't recognise the woman they handed him over to. She was in her early fifties, perhaps, broad and unmovable. The sort of woman who looked as though she could wrestle bears and simultaneously administer a sedative with her free hand. Patrick was instantly afraid of her – although he couldn't remember the last time he had been anything other than afraid since it all began – but she did not strike him as a cruel woman. A firm, strict one, perhaps – school ma'am-ish and no-nonsense – but ultimately the most reassuring thing he'd seen in weeks. She wasn't an ogre. She was a normal, if intimidating, human being. Perhaps she would see the senselessness of his being here and have him sent away to somewhere more suitable.