I have a view of a hotel from my office window. It’s the hotel above the railway station, behind the car park, with a view of the motorway.
In the underpass ‘plaza’ directly below it, with its handful of small businesses, there is a lapdance club. And a café that will sell you things fried and wrapped in cheap white rolls as light and unreal as the cotton wool clouds on a children’s collage. It is not an upmarket hotel.
There is currently a man standing at one of the windows – four from the top, third from the left – and he is naked and masturbating. I’m struggling to imagine what it is that he could possibly be excited about in the view of the top storey of a 1980’s concrete-slabbed car park or the slightly grubby exterior of the ex-school building that houses the office I work in but, to be fair to him; he does not seem that passionate.
The curtain at the window is giving him bother. There seems to be a fault, as it keeps falling across the window – he can’t arrange it to his liking and has to keep stopping to push it back. Or possibly it’s the weather that’s troubling him. Dank and drizzling, with the sky the colour of grubby, sweat-stained sheets. That old Glasgow welcome.
Perhaps he is in town for some unwelcome task, or a boring meeting. Maybe it’s thoughts of quarterly figures and budgets that are making his hand listless, his enthusiasm limp.
Or, can he see us looking back at him? Are there more watching him from the other windows he can see? Is performing for a bored, disinterested audience not the pick-me-up he expected?
He’s turned away from the window now and the curtain, free from interference, creeps lankly down again, leaving a slight gap. I idly wonder if I would hear him sigh if I was in the room, and then go back to trying to decide what to have for lunch.
I've been looking through the archives of the wonderful asofterworld recently and decided to do something similar with the little snippit fics I've been coming up with. Similar except mine will be a single photo instead of a 3-strip comic. And won't be as witty. Or as twisted. Or as well produced.
So, after that stunningly seductive intro, here you are: ragbonehair pictions. It’s like someone took your childhood dreams and brought them to crappy, poorly illustrated life! (And no, not the sweet shops and puppies dreams. The ones with the killer clowns that ate your fingers like they were lollipops and then killed your puppy in front of you. Those dreams)
Well, my proposed 'post a mini-fic a day' resolution lasted precisely - wait for it - one day before crumbling to pieces like a cheap biscuit. That's impressive even for me.
Part of this was because I kept having an idea but then going 'Oh, but that would work much better as a longer story. And I could submit it somewhere' (I don't think fics can already have been published before you do this? Not 100% sure on that, actually)
Of course, most of it was because my work ethic spends most of its time skiving off round the back of the bike sheds, along with my self discipline and my single-mindedness.
I did tweet a small fic today though:
Dead pigeon in the gutter, your guts - all sticky, exploded red - look like they would taste of pomegranate
I did really see this on my way to work this morning - oddly enough whilst thinking about doing a short fic about a dead cat I saw in the gutter some months ago. From this it becomes clear that I have become a minor god and am able to physically manifest my thoughts.
Meaning I will be posting small, drabble like horror pieces during the month of April - old fashioned horror, general psychological nastiness, mildly creepy; if it's in that vein and under 500 words, I'll be posting it. (Hopefully be posting it, at least. I can forsee days when the spirit is more willing than the muse - who can be an obstructive bitch at times).
These pieces will be tagged with the label 'weecreepy' and here is the first -
* * *
Heft
You call me a sheep for circling round the same people - the same area. You don't seem to realise.
Guardian's April Fool gag actually mildly amusing for a change. And if Labour marketed themselves like that I might be briefly tempted to vote for them.
Sadly, the news about Stephanie Myer publishing more sparkly vampire books was not a joke.
Welcome to my new blog kingdom! I dub thee minion and your name shall be Take A Number.
The rules of the kingdom are as follows:
The first rule is that we do not speak of the blog kingdom. Not even to the friendly voices in your head.
I will talk, in brief, at length, comprehensibly or disjointedly circling the subject, about many things. Likely concentrating on books of all sort and writing with the occasional post pertaining to film/tv or art/craft, but I reserve the right to ramble on about shoes, ships or indeed cabbages if I so desire.
You can reserve the right to ignore me completely.
Feedback and comments are most welcome but may not be answered immediately. Or at all. Don’t be offended by silence – believe me, baby, it’s not you, it’s me.
