TBD on Ning
Parts
This thread is for those parts of tales we’ve written – inspired beginnings (or middles and endings) and flashes of brilliance that came out of nowhere – only to mysteriously disappear as quickly as they came- leaving us stranded at our keyboards.
Good writing, but orphaned without a “rest of the story”.
Check your files…show off some of that stuff. Who knows? Maybe now is the right time to complete it.
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Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Marilyn on
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"No one is offering you the chance." Niiiiiice. We can all relate, I am sure! Good stuff, Wes, but I got a teeny bit confused as to who was saying "Flippy little skirts, etc." I think perhaps that could be solved by rearranging the words thusly:
“You kidding? Organic lettuce and banana smoothies, and call it a meal. Knock that back and lick the foam off your lip. Yum!” Eunice sighed heavily. “Flippy little skirts. Skinny tanks. Body by Mattel.”
That way it's clear that Eunice is still speaking. Cheers!
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Permalink Reply by Westerly_2 on
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Thanks. I'll make that change. (And a few more I just noticed).
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Permalink Reply by Bmichael on
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Coming Soon!
The new hit series from Armadillo Productions…
THE SONS OF LETHARGY
Starring:
Bmichael as “Hacksaw” – Prez of feared motorcycle gang
Westerly as “Diablo” – Vice Prez of feared motorcycle gang
Marilyn as “Meester Beeg” – The Enforcer
CarolT as “Mizz T” – Club librarian
And a special appearance by Bobby Ransom as “ACDC”
Thursday, 10:am…the weekly club staff meeting…
Hacksaw: Somebody get me a beer.
Meester Beeg: Ain’t any.
Hacksaw: Huh? Whattya mean?
Mizz T : Outta beer.
Hacksaw: How can we be outta beer? We’re a feared motorcycle gang…er…club. We’re supposed to
have beer.
Diablo: No money.
Hacksaw: What the…? How much money is in the safe?
MizzT: There’s forty bucks…but it’s not in the safe.
Hacksaw: Forty bucks? That’s it? Where is it?
MizzT: In my pocket – the club owes me.
Hacksaw: For what?
MizzT: Cosmetics.
Hacksaw: Cosmetics? What the hell is cosmetics?
Meester Beeg: Makeups, leepsticks, pedicures…that kind of stuff, Prez.
Hacksaw: I don’t use that crap…how come…
Diablo: Well, we do because we have to look good when we’re cutting a swath of terror across the
ranch. You obviously don’t care what you’re raggedy butt looks like, but…
Hacksaw: Aww jeez…I don’t believe this. We gotta do somethin’…fast.
MizzT: Agreed. You’re the Prez…what are we gonna do?
Hacksaw: We need to get into business. Any suggestions?
(Silence)
Hacksaw: I got an idea. We can run guns. Big bucks in guns – we’ll be rich!
Diablo: No! Absolutely not. Guns are very, very dangerous! Plus, they’re heavy and oily.
Hacksaw: Dange… ok, ok…maybe not guns…lessee…I know…how about about drugs? There’s
lotsa money in drugs.
MizzT: No way, Prez…drugs are yucky…and besides, they ruin peoples’ lives and spawn
numerous other unhappy situations.
Hacksaw: Oy…ok, no guns…no drugs…hmm…hmmm…hey! Igot!
Meester Beeg: What?
Hacksaw: Pornography!
Diablo, Meester Beeg, MizzT: EEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!
ACDC: Cool!
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Loved it, Bman, loved it.
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my part removed for renovations
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“ Yeah… I remember Danny.
Never forget that kid.”
Benny grabbed the bottle and tipped it.
“Ya know, you can go through your whole life rememberin’ stupid shit…stuff like yer first car…first time ya got locked up, first win…
Jeez! I remember that...can’t remember that boy’s name, but he was big…bigger’n me… with tattoos all over the place, big arms, and his hair… all greaser slicked back.
Didn’t see him comin’…he was just there. It was all pretty quick – everyone just backed off and formed a circle around us in a hurry.
He stood there for a second…glarin’ at me…and launched. That boy was slow, or maybe not…maybe I was just so jazzed up that it only seemed like everything was in slow motion, but no matter, because when I side stepped, he missed by a mile and tripped into the crowd. They pulled him up and pushed him back into the “ring” where I was waitin’ with an uppercut – and that was it.
Over.
Non piu.
Most guys, when they get beat…they just take it, don’t say nuthin’ and go on and nobody thinks about it. But this guy …he was crazy … stood there all wobbly and pointin’ his finger and yellin’ that I better not let him catch me on the street…which was major stupid, ‘cause we wuz already on the freakin’street.
That’s when people started laughin’, which made him even madder and he started spinnin’ around , his face all red and droolin’, with all that greasy hair fallin’ down in his face and screamin’ “What are you laughin’ at?” which made everybody laugh louder.
All that spinnin’ must have made him dizzy ‘cause he took a step towards someone and fell, hit his head on the concrete - knocked him out cold.
Almost about the time the cop walked up to see what was goin’ on, someone poured a beer over the boy, drenched him pretty good, and set the bottle next to him.
Well, that cold beer in the face started to bring him around. The cop, figuring he had a case of public drunkenness on his hands, rolled and cuffed him, and called for a paddy.
They tossed him in the back but the door didn’t close right or somethin’, ‘cause when the driver took off, that boy come flyin’ out the back and hit the street hard- still in the cuffs.
The cop yelled and waved at the driver who slammed on his brakes, and when he backed up to see what happened, rolled over the boy’s leg - crushing it with a loud crack.
A couple of us pulled him out from under the wagon while the cop was on the call box – this time for an ambulance.
It’s a pretty good thing that the boy was out again. That leg was a mess – there was blood comin’through his pants and it was shaped in away it wasn’t meant to be. I guess we did that when we pulled him out.
One of the guys saw it and started pukin’ which only added to the festivities.
Never did see him again and wondered what…”
Benny stopped, and tapped the bottle again. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stared at the floor.
“Hey…now what were we talkin’ ‘bout?
Oh yeah…yeah…Danny. Yeah, I remember him.”
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Good to see some creative work here finally; it's been too long. Bman, you can just pop these flashes off as you go, and we enjoy them.
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Thought I'd add my 2 cents to the character study thing.
The first time I met my roommate’s mother she was wearing a bedspread over bra straps and I don’t know what else. They burst through the door giggling and carrying a blender full of something orange and foamy. Alcohol too, I might suppose. I wasn’t offered any as they bore it down the hall to Andrea’s room. As an afterthought she called over her shoulder, “I’m just rescuing my mom.”
“Rescuing?”I asked. I knew her mom was having a rocky road with her second husband. That is all.
There were no introductions, and the mom, vacant-eyed and vague, was acting as though it was her and Andrea’s world and I was just in it – a stranger waiting for a bus, perhaps. Her name was Suzi, I was later told – nicknamed Sushi. And I didn’t want to put too fine a point on that.
The second time Suzi showed up, Andrea had apparently been expecting her, though I hadn’t been informed beforehand. Again, she never acknowledged me, as she and her daughter whispered their way down the hall. This time she was dressed in a chartreuse outfit – Capri pants and a top with a cut-away back. She carried a boxy black purse with a short strap of the type my grandmother used to own. I was guessing her to be early forties, maybe, though her meandering walk had a grade-school appearance to it.
They were headed somewhere, and on the way out to the car Andrea took measide and asked me for a “small loan – 40 or 50 bucks” – because they had to “take care of something.
“You’ll get it back,” she told me. “With interest.”
Later that night, I thought to ask – it was a week past mother’s Day – “How did your mom like that heart pendant?”
Andrea’s face shut down. “I dunno. She’s going to exchange it.” she shrugged and practiced her looking not-hurt.
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Reminds me of an ex-girlfriend’s mom…mid to late 40’s, pot smokin’, job jumpin’…not your Betty Crocker type… always had an eye on me when Kat wasn’t around…eventually did me a big favor, though.
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Heh-heh.
My hubby when he was just my boyfriend in high school crossed paths too often for his taste with the bodacious mom of one of his good friends. Idly well-off, dressed to the nines and drunk before school was out, she stuck many a slinky pose against the kitchen cabinets when the buddy wasn't home yet, or was busy upstairs. She was almost as attractive as she thought she was, but he thought it was kind of creepy.
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Jack was let in and served a Coke and a bowl of pretzels at the kitchen table.
“I was hoping Willy was home by now,” Jack said. They went to the same high school, but Willy rode a different bus.
“Willy called me from school,” his mother said. “He’s being tutored for the Math final.”
Mrs. O’Leary was reclining against the counter in her heels, her fitted slacks, her creamy blouse, pearls nestled in the hollow of her slender throat. Her fluffy hair was a wheat field, and her lake-blue eyes were brilliant.
“He won’t be home for hours,” she said. “No one will be home for hours.” She took a languid sip from an amber liquid in a short, smoky glass that Jack supposed was some alcohol thing.
“So you just relax and make yourself at home.”
She walked around behind his chair, rubbing his shoulders with her warm hands. He could sense her plump breasts hovering just inches from his back.
“Looong as you want to,” she said.
To plunge or not to plunge? Jack gulped his soda. The missus was wearing some kind of perfume that smelled like tanning lotion on a deserted beach. He thought a minute: pictured a series of guilty, sweaty encounters that left his heart pounding, jumping at the sound of a car parking, footsteps on the walk, feeling his face flame every time he looked Willy in his eyes. And the great Mr. O‘Leary, that money-making lawyer who sued people.. Oh, yeah. Mr. Bad Mood who went to the shooting range to sharpen his aim. That guy. Jack set his empty glass in the sink and sailed toward the door,
“What’s your rush?” Mrs. O’Leary asked him, looking like she didn’t have much to do until she was required to put some meat in a pan and pour some wine on it and pound it into the oven, in her fine, creased slacks and her wheat field hair and her fourth best pearls, just for casual wear,
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