I used to live next door to drug dealers. I should say they used to live next door to me. To be even more precise, when they used to live, they lived next door to me.
They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.
I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.
Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.
The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.
This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL
This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved
Showing posts with label drugs and alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs and alcohol. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
It's Futile
“It's futile.”
“What is?”
“Everything.”
Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Whatta ya mean, everything?”
“Life, stuff,” said Graham. “Work, especially. Here we are, a thousand k's from anywhere, in Woop-Woop, working ourselves to the bone, twelve hours a day. Why? What's it for?”
“Don't know about you, but I do it for the money.”
“And what's the money for? Nothing lasts.”
Bill shrugged. “Food, a home for the family, cars, schooling, a boat, holidays. You need money for everything.”
“But none of that lasts. You can't take it with you when you go, can you?”
“I can't?” said Bill. “Well if that's the case, I'm not goin'.” He laughed at his own joke; it was his favourite kind.
Graham swore. “Can't you keep up a serious conversation for once?”
“Sorry mate,” said Bill, trying to look sorry. “You're very correct. You can't take your gear with you when you kark it.”
Graham sighed. He went to the wet-mess bar and got two more beers. He came back and handed one to Bob. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and watched the sun flood the sky with red and orange as it began to set. The brigalow and a few gum tree stood out against the brightness in black silhouette. The clouds looked like they were on fire.
Bob said, “Might be the middle of nowhere, but I like it out here. More than Brisbane.”
Graham said, “I hate Brisbane, actually.”
“You hate everything today. You sound like you're in a hurry to curl up and die.”
“No, but we all die, and then nothing's left.”
“You really think that? You die, and then that's the end of everything?”
Graham shrugged. “It's futile.”
“You mentioned that.”
Graham grunted.
After a minute Bob smiled. “Ah!” he said, to himself.
“What's up?”
Bob said, “Your girlfriend called it off, didn't she?”
Graham turned suddenly to face him. His surprise was obvious. “She wasn't my girlfriend,” he said. “She was my fiancée.”
Bob said nothing, but shook his head.
Graham mumbled, “Yeah, she called it off.”
“Even though it's futile, would you like another beer?”
“I hate you,” said Graham. “But: yes, I would.”
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
“What is?”
“Everything.”
Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Whatta ya mean, everything?”
“Life, stuff,” said Graham. “Work, especially. Here we are, a thousand k's from anywhere, in Woop-Woop, working ourselves to the bone, twelve hours a day. Why? What's it for?”
“Don't know about you, but I do it for the money.”
“And what's the money for? Nothing lasts.”
Bill shrugged. “Food, a home for the family, cars, schooling, a boat, holidays. You need money for everything.”
“But none of that lasts. You can't take it with you when you go, can you?”
“I can't?” said Bill. “Well if that's the case, I'm not goin'.” He laughed at his own joke; it was his favourite kind.
Graham swore. “Can't you keep up a serious conversation for once?”
“Sorry mate,” said Bill, trying to look sorry. “You're very correct. You can't take your gear with you when you kark it.”
Graham sighed. He went to the wet-mess bar and got two more beers. He came back and handed one to Bob. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and watched the sun flood the sky with red and orange as it began to set. The brigalow and a few gum tree stood out against the brightness in black silhouette. The clouds looked like they were on fire.
Bob said, “Might be the middle of nowhere, but I like it out here. More than Brisbane.”
Graham said, “I hate Brisbane, actually.”
“You hate everything today. You sound like you're in a hurry to curl up and die.”
“No, but we all die, and then nothing's left.”
“You really think that? You die, and then that's the end of everything?”
Graham shrugged. “It's futile.”
“You mentioned that.”
Graham grunted.
After a minute Bob smiled. “Ah!” he said, to himself.
“What's up?”
Bob said, “Your girlfriend called it off, didn't she?”
Graham turned suddenly to face him. His surprise was obvious. “She wasn't my girlfriend,” he said. “She was my fiancée.”
Bob said nothing, but shook his head.
Graham mumbled, “Yeah, she called it off.”
“Even though it's futile, would you like another beer?”
“I hate you,” said Graham. “But: yes, I would.”
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Realist
The following scene is inspired by Three Word Wednesday number CCIV. The words are break, negative and surface, and are shown in bold below.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Mantra
"Do you have a mantra, Alf?" asked Jim.
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Big Weekend
My contribution to Edition 87 of Shift Miner Magazine was called Big Weekend. I hope you enjoy it.
Big Weekend
Pete stood alone in the soft glow of the dawn at the bus-stop, waiting for the shift-bus. He had a jacket on, but even that wasn't enough to keep out the cold. Winter was coming quick.
Someone came round the corner, walking towards Pete, smoking a cigarette. It was Will. He stopped a few metres from Pete and said G'day quietly as he looked down the street for the bus.
Pete said, "You look shattered."
"Yeah, big weekend."
"What'd you get up to?"
Will drew hard on his smoke. "Friday was a few quiet ones at Smithy's place. Followed by a few more. Didn't get home till about three."
"Good time?"
Yeah, not too bad. Slept through Saturday, though." Will threw his cigarette butt on the ground, then quickly lit another. He liked to get as much nicotine into himself as he could before the forty-minute bus-ride to site.
"And Saturday?" said Pete. "You get up to much?"
Will managed a grin. "Oh yeah. We went hard on Saturday night. Starting drinking at our place, for a while, to get limbered up. Then we went up the Tavern."
"Drinking before drinking?"
Will gave Pete a dirty look. "Too expensive to get completely rat-faced at pub prices. Can't smoke out, either. There was a band at the Tav, too. They sounded pretty good; I think."
Pete thought an iPod would have sounded good to Will when he was that well lubricated, but he said nothing.
Will continued. "We started doing shots there, which was fun, until it got a little out of hand. We stayed at the Tavern till we got kicked out."
"Too drunk?"
"No, closing time. Funny thing, I was sure I went home after that. At least I think I was going to."
"So what happened?"
"I can't rightly remember, but it looks like we went down to The Arms after that."
Pete grimaced. The only attractive feature of The Arms was that it had the latest closing time in town, and 1980s prices. A rough joint, but you could stay later, and get drunker.. "You can't remember what you did?"
Will smirked. "It was too big a night to remember. I saw the pictures on Facebook though; it was The Arms alright. We got hammered. A really good night. Very big night."
"You get sick?"
"At least a few times. Smithy seemed to think that was the best thing to take photos of."
Pete shook his head. Smithy had developed a talent for drinking photography over the last few years. It was kind of like wildlife and action photography combined. Tired of not remembering what he did the night before, Smithy had started taking pictures along the way with his phone camera. He could still take good pictures when he was so drunk he couldn't walk. Facebook had made Smithy's photos of his escapades accessible to the world. A lot of people logged in to see what they and their friends had been up to, but couldn't remember.
Will looked down the street. "Bus's coming," he said, as he lit his last smoke.
Pete said, "You have such big weekends. You must hate Mondays."
"Not at all, mate. I need a week at work to get away from it all and recover. A man needs some rest in life."
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Dilute Solution
This story is a response to a challenge by Mattrozi. His challenge was to write a story with a maximum of 300 words that had the word "dilute" in the title, and the following words at least once within the story: "dilution", "legacy", "river" and "red".
How well did I meet the challenge? You decide. Have a read, and then add your comments.
Thanks to Mattrozi for his challenge. Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.
Tara's red t-shirt was tight on her. She liked that. Even though no-one could see her down here at the river, she still felt proud and powerful. Her mother had left her a wonderful legacy, and she was glad for it.
She removed the shirt and her shorts, and stood for a moment in the shade of the gum tree in her black one-piece swimsuit, before going into the water. The water was cold on her skin, and felt fresh and exciting. The way her body reacted to the cold still intrigued and excited her. She drew out the swim for a few minutes, holding out on herself, making herself wait. Her breathing was fast and shallow from the cold and the anticipation.
Back on the shore, she took the plastic drink bottle from her backpack and drank. She finished almost half of it in one go, and then gasped for air. She felt the effect of the vodka in the cordial almost immediately. Tara smiled, and finished the bottle. She lay down on her back on the rough sand with the afternoon sun on her face, and enjoyed the feeling of the alcohol as it warmed her belly and her cheeks. Soon her legs didn't even feel attached to her body.
The vodka was easy to get. She took it from the Smirnoff bottle in the liquor cupboard, and then made up the volume with water. The vodka was used only for mixing with orange juice for Tara's mother. She would never notice the dilution. There was usually a fresh bottle every week or two, allowing Tara a good supply.
Tara's next big project was to find a husband to provide her with a house, car and other necessities.
How well did I meet the challenge? You decide. Have a read, and then add your comments.
Thanks to Mattrozi for his challenge. Mattrozi writes a poetry blog called Cleveland Thomas.
Tara's red t-shirt was tight on her. She liked that. Even though no-one could see her down here at the river, she still felt proud and powerful. Her mother had left her a wonderful legacy, and she was glad for it.
She removed the shirt and her shorts, and stood for a moment in the shade of the gum tree in her black one-piece swimsuit, before going into the water. The water was cold on her skin, and felt fresh and exciting. The way her body reacted to the cold still intrigued and excited her. She drew out the swim for a few minutes, holding out on herself, making herself wait. Her breathing was fast and shallow from the cold and the anticipation.
Back on the shore, she took the plastic drink bottle from her backpack and drank. She finished almost half of it in one go, and then gasped for air. She felt the effect of the vodka in the cordial almost immediately. Tara smiled, and finished the bottle. She lay down on her back on the rough sand with the afternoon sun on her face, and enjoyed the feeling of the alcohol as it warmed her belly and her cheeks. Soon her legs didn't even feel attached to her body.
The vodka was easy to get. She took it from the Smirnoff bottle in the liquor cupboard, and then made up the volume with water. The vodka was used only for mixing with orange juice for Tara's mother. She would never notice the dilution. There was usually a fresh bottle every week or two, allowing Tara a good supply.
Tara's next big project was to find a husband to provide her with a house, car and other necessities.
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