Flash fiction! Stream of consciousness assessment piece

So, this is the edited, extended version of the Virginia Woolf-inspired stream of consciousness piece which I have submitted for the Urban and Contemporary Creative Writing textual response assessment, I hope it does ok!

Anyway:

Locked Out

The filament sparks to life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down for an extra half hour. Not anymore.

“Morning Jack,” they say as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate, I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed, hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that they gossip secretly about my package, or wrinkle their noses at my nightly bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.

Before I got really bad I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastator’, now reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care. I sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.

We go through the routine: pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I used to leave a designer stubble, but that appears to have fallen by the way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they take my nice clothes and dress me like a twat, and my socks never match).

Breakfast is usually chosen, although not by me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix, mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look at a Weetabix ever again, I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed, pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of course, against my better judgement it’s easy to swallow, and it really is simpler to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to really grate me.

It usually involves them driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so, laying out my ineptitude for all the public to see. A big flashing sign over my head;

 ‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’,

 or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this morning’,

or the old favourite ‘He may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’.

On one particular day, I was parked in the corner of the cafe, that one which we always go to. They like it because it looks out over the lake, plus there’s a nice covered outside area where they can take it in turns to chain smoke.  They bring the stink back in with them, clinging to their Primark polyester. I can smell it on their breath as they lean in close to bring the straw to my lips or wipe the dribble off my chin. It turns my stomach.

They were discussing one of the other carers, who they suspected to be shagging one of the bosses. 

“Jenna seen ‘em in town holding hands”, one said.

“She’s a right slapper anyway, she is. I heard that one time she were caught on a Fanta crate round the back of the Legion. Letting three guys take turns on her, she was.” said the other.

“And now she’s strutting around like she owns the place. Slag.”

I had zoned out and was letting my eyes wander, when in walked Benny Marlon, the Marlonator, Slimy Marlon, Benny Benny ‘got a blowjob from his sister’ Marlon. I recognised him instantly, he looked exactly like he did in school.  He even dressed the same, as if he just rolled around in the bargain bucket at Sports Direct.

Benny fucking Marlon.

A guy who, in year 9, was caught peeking in round the back of the girls changing rooms with a hole in his pocket. Who, when 16 years of age, was almost (he wasn’t, but should’ve been) convicted of raping an unconscious 13 year old down the park after plying her with Mad Dog 20/20, and who, rumour has it, did indeed have more than a good time with his younger sister. He’d dropped out of school when he was 15 and started peddling sketchy batch drugs to kids, earned the delightful monikers Benny ‘K and MDMA’ Marlon and Benny Brain Mangler.

Yet there he was, standing gloriously upright, walking and talking and skiing and roller-skating and whatever else took his fancy. Hell, he could even turn his life around and become a Ballroom champion if he wanted to. And furthermore he had little Marlonites, a veritable herd of them. How delightful for him, his own ready-made target market.

I prayed he wouldn’t come my way, but of course he did. I averted my eyes as he shuffled past, all Lambert and Butler and Lynx Africa. I stared at a passing swan with such intent that you’d think it was about to turn inside out. My body still pointed his way though, it was ludicrously obvious. I could feel his eyes locked onto me, laser pointing the side of my face as he passed. Oh yes, he’d recognised me all right, he’d probably sent some texts about it; ‘Guess who I jst seen. Jack Smith! Luks like a right spazz. Lol’, or some other retarded, text speak wank. I could hear him hissing about me as they unceremoniously snapped off my breaks and wheeled me out the door.

Twat.

Woolf-esque (could be considered a tad penis-heavy).

Ok, so this is basically an exercise in stream of consciousness narrative, which is basically like an inner monolgue. Virginia Woolf was pretty much the don of this, before she drowned herself in a river that is...

Wheelies

The filament sparks to life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down for an extra half hour. Not anymore.

‘Morning Jack,’ they say as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate, I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed, hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that they gossip secretly about my package or wrinkle their noses at my nightly bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.

Before I got really bad I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastater’, now reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care at, I sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.

We go through the routine. Pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I was previously trying to grow a moustache but that appears to have fallen by the way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they always manage to put together my nice clothes in such a way it makes me look like a twat, and my socks never match).

Breakfast is usually chosen, although not be me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix, mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look at a Weetabix ever again, and to top it off, they never sprinkle enough sugar on. I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed, pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of course, against my better taste it’s easy to swallow and digest, and it really is easier to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to really grate me.

It usually involves them driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so. Laying out my ineptitude for all the public to see, a big flashing sign over my head, ‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’, or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this morning’, or the old favourite ‘He may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’. I am strapped, buckled and zipped in, paraded at their every whim.

 

x

'Sick'

So, Creative Writing assessment time has rolled around again and I've decided to be more technically adventurous! I ended up writing two pieces, both of which I'll post up here.


For the piece below, I used third person objective perspective, defined by some random on Yahoo! answers as:


'Third person, is when a story is told by a narrator not involved in the story itself.

Objective third person means the narrator only knows what someone watching would know (so they don't know people's thoughts, but rather actions and words)'


So basically, everything needs to be shown through the characters dialogue and external actions, no inner thought.


Ernest Hemingway was pretty much the dude at this, he described his technique as like an iceberg, ie. only a small part of the story is showing meaning that most of it is hidden:

See what you think...

Sick

“I look sick, do you think I look sick?”

“No, I don’t think you look sick. Why?”

“No reason. Maybe it’s the light in here.”

“Yes dear, maybe.”

She plunged her hands back into the scalding water and groped for the scourer.

“Darling?”

“Yes dear?”

“I was thinking maybe we could take a trip soon, you know, just us. Maybe go to the coast.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“Because my sister said she could have the kids and it’d be nice to have some time for just the two of us. You’ve been working such long hours recently.”

“Uh-huh.” He closed his newspaper momentarily, opening it on the next page.

“Yes, I think that would be nice.” She resumed scrubbing.

“Simon got an A in his maths test, did he tell you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Good isn’t it? I was never any good at numbers, he must get that from your side.”

“Yes, he must do.”

The water in the bowl was hot enough already, but she added more. Underneath the marigolds her hands were scarlet.

“I was thinking of getting my hair cut short, what do you think?”

“What?”

“My hair, cut short. Do you think it would look nice?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Oh I don’t know, I just fancy a change, freshen myself up a bit. I thought maybe I could get it done like that newsreader you like, what’s her name?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know who you mean, dear.”

“Of course you do, she’s on at 6 o’clock. She’s got glasses, and short brown hair. In her early 30s.”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“Do you think it would suit me? Make me look younger maybe?”

He glanced at her over the top of his reading glasses, “If you want to then do it, but I think your hair is fine as it is.” He went back to his newspaper.

She looked at her reflection in the window in front of her and flicked her head back to hide the lengths of her hair behind her shoulders. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, it pooled on her cheekbones exaggerating the dark circles under her eyes and spotlighted her sagging jowls. She used to have beautiful skin, he used to tell her that all the time, he used to call her ‘luminous’.  It was hard to connect that girl with the middle aged woman who stared back at her from the onyx garden.

She lifted the oven dish out of the bowl and scrutinised it. It sparkled under the overhead lights but if she ran her fingers along the walls she could feel little bumps along the burn line. She pushed it back under the water and resumed rubbing.

She paused.

“Did I tell you?” she said “I saw Hamish on Monday.”

“Oh, yes?” he looked up suddenly, “Did you speak to him?”

“Just briefly, he was in a rush somewhere. Him and Heather are getting a divorce, did you know that?”

“I don’t think so, no. Well, maybe. There are so many rumours flying around the office you don’t know what to believe.”

“I suppose so.”

She inspected the dish again, it still looked greasy. Her arms were aching even though she kept transferring the sponge from one hand to the other. It may look clean but it was important to get all the bits off, if you didn’t get them off properly then they would build up gradually over time and the dish would be ruined.  

“It’s a shame really. I wonder what will happen to the kids, they’re so young”

“It’s not really any of our business.”

“No, I suppose not.” She turned over the dish and began scrubbing the bottom.

“Did you notice I’m wearing the earrings? The ones you bought me on our honeymoon.”

He glanced up “Yes, very pretty.”

“You used to say they made me look beautiful. You said you liked seeing me in them and nothing else. Do you remember?”

“That was a very long time ago.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

She turned on the tap and turned the dish beneath it. The suds parted as a curtain revealing the pristine glass beneath. Holding it in both hands she took a moment to view herself in it, her reflection appeared both radiant and distorted under the harsh kitchen lights. She rotated her body as if to place the dish on the drying rack, but then continued a little further. She looked at her husband not looking at her, before letting it tumble to the floor.

x