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A play script (its supposed to be sad)
I will start from the sad part:

Diana: No dont leave me
Sam: i have too
Diana: if your going to leave i am leaving too
Sam: But
Diana: If you go i have to go too
Sam: Then i have no choice but to die
Diana: But then you will be sent to hell
Sam: i did wrong for killing your sister
Diana: But i still love you
Sam: No you dont
Diana: (Diana grabs knife)
Sam: NO Diana don't!
Diana: i have too
(Sam stops Diana and they both run away)
(Diana runs back on and Faints then you see a bottle of poison in her hands)
Its not very good i just thought of it now but i say its Okish

This awesome. I'll post something soon.

Corazie wrote:

Thisiscake wrote:

A play script (its supposed to be sad)
I will start from the sad part:

Its not very good i just thought of it now but i say its Okish

It needs some more punctuation, to stress where the gaps are in the speech, but other than that I like it. I suppose you could use some more emotive language too, but I'm not sure whether it really needs it.

ye i agree but it only took 2 mins i will do a better one if you wish

okay i am going to be introducing my story
it's called Only A Few People Have Seen True Love
(If this forum goes well, then i might make my own post for the story itself)
(This is chapter 1, i will be updating on the chapters as well as i can)

Chapter 1: The Dream
"I love you so much"
"I love you too" He said dreamingly right beside me.
"How can we make this work? Everyone is so against us."
"We can, as long as i'm with you, it doesn't matter what other people say."
          He leaned in towards me, as we were already holding hands. I felt what he was trying to do then......

SNAP!

"Are you paying attention Sara?" the wicked teacher, Miss Vine said.
"Yes," I said quickly.
"Well, what is the answer?"
I shrugged and nodded my head no. She looked annoyed, but i didn't care all I thought about was Justin.
     He was the love of my life, my best friend, well more like friend. I would tell him that i had feelings, but i don't think he would say it back. I could just dream about our "love" alone.
I looked over at him. He was staring at the board and staring at him was Jessica. I hated her. She was a fat kid then lost all this weight and died her hair last summer. Since then all the boys have been drooling all over her.
            But, i knew there was something between me and Justin, we were like soulmates already, but without the offical relationship.
He was just so beautiful with his bright blue eyes and dark short hair, it was like an angel. I couldn't resist looking at him.
It brought back a lot of memories we used to have. We used to be so close but then something changed, he changed. I can't put my finger on it, but something was different. But i still loved him, and he was going to be mine soon.

BEEPPPP!
The bell went off and school was over for the week and the weekend just starting. I was going to see a movie with my best friend Amanda tonight. As I replayed the commercials in my head, i went over to my locker.
I had a little trouble with the lock and it wouldn't open.

"Need some help?" He said.
"Sure, Justin, thanks."
"Your welcome, so i wondering what are you doing tomorrow because i really wanted to do something with you" He said kind of flirty.
"What?"

Tell me what you want to happen next, leave comments. and tell me what you thought about it. i really need some feedback. The next chapter will be coming soon. Comment if you want me to keep writing, or not. Thanks

i'm going to give this one a try
this is a one-shot I made a year ago

---

Fall To Pieces



     We were a perfect couple. My friends envy me because of him. They said I was lucky to have him. I was really happy to be with him. That was until I caught him kissing another girl. He saw me standing there in front of him and his girl, crying. He was about to come to me but I ran as fast as I could going nowhere. I can still remember every detail, the way he kissed that freaking ugly girl, and when he ran after me. I didn’t know how to face situations like that, I just ran away. He tried calling me everyday, but I’m not yet ready to talk to him after what he did to me. And I guess I will never ever talk to him again.

I’m here at home, alone again. It’s another ordinary day, a lonely one. While I was flipping through the pages of my favorite magazine, I heard a knock on the door. Who could this be? I thought to myself. When I opened the door, I saw the man I used to love with all my heart, and I still love him. I tried to close the door quickly, but he was faster, and he was able to stop it. I guessed I just have to deal with this. I let him enter the house. I sat on the couch where I was sitting before and continued scanning the pages of the magazine. There is a complete silence. I’m nervous at the moment. I missed him so much but I can’t just run onto him and hug him because we’re over. And now he’s staring at me like I’m about to melt. I avoided his heartbreaking stares at me. I looked away.

     “Krisia,"  I jumped 300 miles from my seat because I was shocked by his sudden call after a long silence. Hearing him saying my name sent tingles down my spine. His voice is very sweet. That’s one thing I miss about him. “I’m here because I want to clear things up."

     “I don’t want to talk about it,"  I said like I’m very sure about it. “I don’t want a conversation with you because I know where this one will lead. And –"

     “I know we can’t undo those things. It already happened. I’m very sorry. I know it was wrong –"  he cut me off with those words. I got to cut him off too.

     “It was so wrong! I thought you were the perfect, right guy for me. But… but,"  this time I was already shouting and I burst into more tears that I can’t continue talking anymore.

     “Krisia stop crying. Look, I’m really sorry,"  his face looks so sorry, but I can’t just trust him anymore after what happened. He stands up and sits beside me. He wraps his arm around me and calms me down. I miss this. I want to be with him again but it’s not right.

     “Stay away from me, Dominic!!"  I screamed at him while I removed his arm off my shoulder. Suddenly, I felt bad about it. I stood up. “I thought you were the only one I’d be with ‘til the end."

     “I’d be, if you’ll just give me another chance. I’ll prove that I deserve you,"  he stood up and went near me.

     “Not anymore Dominic, because you wasted the trust I gave you. Do you know how much you hurt me?! Just leave me alone!"  I shouted at him. There is no way I’m giving him another chance.

     “But Krisia -"

     “Just… just go away! I don’t want to see your face ever again!"  with that, he leaves me, disappointed. I closed the door very hard. And this would be the last time I’ll see his face.

     I’m wondering what it could’ve been if I gave him another chance. Will he let me feel special like he did before, before that d*** incident?

     From now on, I’ll stop thinking about him. We’re done. I won’t let him bother my thoughts again. He’s not the only guy here on earth. There are still many guys better than him.

     And I am here, home alone, falling into pieces.   

---

Tell me what you think about it
Just excuse my grammar errors

Last edited by manizerchic (12-10-2009 05:38)

Here we go... A short experimental poem called I Want it by Noon Tomorrow

Hmmmm?
     I'm sorry
you have the wrong person
I'm afraid... Em...ily Essenn moved three weeks ago.

Wow.
I'd like my sandwich now.

Thin sliced chicken
     No crusts.
Wholemeal bread
     thick sliced.
Low fat Marge.

Just send it to me at the circus.
I'm the one with the beard.

Thank you, Your cheque is on its way... I'm sure…

I'm serious,
I want that sandwich by noon tomorrow.

You'll never make sandwiches in this town again!

I'll find a new one
oh yes, then you'll be sorry.
Just you wait Missus
you’re in for the long steep walk down the gutter.
Now, you washed-up sandwich maker you.

This is called faces by me. The writing style of this poetry is used by Ellen Hopkins, one of my favourite authors/poets. Tell me what you think.

I have many faces,
Some way to old
To fit the girl stuck
To the back of them.
                                                 I
Keep my faces locked,
Deep within me.
It’s cloudy in there,
Overcast with feelings I
                                                 Don’t
Allow anyone to see.
Not that anyone cares
Enough to go searching.
Nobody wants to
                                                 Know
What bothers me. Too
Busy with their own
Problems. Sometimes
I think I have to examine
                                                 The Real
Me, so I look into
Myself and search inside.
But no matter how hard
I look, I can’t find
                                                 Me.

Corazie wrote:

I like the form
Perhaps without such a gap though, it makes it slow going.

thanx

It's the first chapter of a story that I'm writing (:


She took off her bracelet, leaving it on an ordinary table, together with the names and memories of her husband and children.

I looked around. This had been my mother's room. It seemed smaller and dustier than it ever had before. Everything eyed old, and everything was. The curtains with the flower pattern I had loved as a little girl had gone pale, bleached by the sunlight. Not even the paper that once used to decorate the walls seemed to do well against the digesting powers of time. The empty vase on the table didn't carry astounding bouquets anymore, but was still glorious as the beautiful handmade masterpiece it was, as were many other objects in the room, such as the great oaken bed that stood in the corner of the room. It was gracefully ornamented with birds, painted golden. The wooden floor, that once creaked beneath my feet, was all rotten, but still soaked with the images of the people who had once walked and lived here.
Vivid as memories can be, they suddenly all came back to me, and in the instant of a moment I was a young girl again, standing in the impressive room this once used to be. I heard the old familiar voices again, which made me reach towards the window that looked out over the garden. There, my mother and sister sat. I heard them talking clearly, about journeys to faraway lands where princes sing and princesses dance in amazing  gowns, where is poetry and art, and the people always smile.
My mother had always loved to dream.

It was a beautiful day in the midst of spring. The sun was shining bright, wishing us every piece of good luck in the world. The smells of the cherry blossom waved in with the winds of hope, coming from the sea that was bruising on the horizon of my mothers window.
My sister looked up and smiled at me. The generous and warm smile only twin sisters could give one another. I smiled to myself, filled with ease and comfort, both things I had not felt for a really long time.
I turned my back to the open window and walked towards the door, to join my mother and sister in our own garden of Eden. I reached the door. I touched the doorknob.

The floor gave way under my feet. Harshly, I was brought to the realization that I had just been dreaming, and, immediately, I was pressed back into reality. Fast, lightly and elegant as a cat, I jumped onto a more solid part of the ground, where I wiped away the mist of perspiration that shone on my upper lip. I silently started breathing again. My heart beat with the entire room.
Filled with awe, I stared at where my feet had been just a moment ago. There was nothing but a large hole, gaping at me in a cynic delight. The table, and so my bracelet, were gone.
I forced myself not to start crying . I had to remain strong now. This was not the right moment to consider what just had happened, not the right time to wonder about what my actions might do to all I have ever known and loved.

I used to believe that memories were the most valuable and powerful remains one could have, because nobody could take them away from you.
I knew I was about to be proved wrong.

Last edited by xPure (01-10-2010 11:19)

I like the form, the way it switches yet is clearly defined.
(will be back!)

I have a pretty long story in the making... It's a steampunk detective story... It would probably be a better idea to post a link to it, but whatever. It would be super cool if you guys would tell me what you think! ^-^





"Christian," there was a dark freckle below the girl's left eye, "stay for a little longer. You don't have to go just yet." Did she see him smile? The sun was in his eyes. He could barely see her face; he thought she was pretty.

"I guess," Christian leaned in closer, "I can manage," they were sitting in grass, "a few more minutes." A field. He leaned in to kiss her, they fell over and it was into tall grass. It was a field. Probably outside the city.

"Don't ever leave me, Beth," they were laying down; Christian could smell small flowers, or the scent of Beth's hair, "don't you ever leave."

She shook her hair and the wheat colored waves smashed into the greenest grass. "Never." Her lips exaggerated her words and the mole beneath her eye cast a small semi-circle shadow. Christian could catch a glimpse of his reflection in her pupil. He looked different.

Disengaged.

"You can't believe the headache I get from these." I mumbled as I pulled the coil's attachment from behind my ear.

"Waterford, give it to me." Frederick held out his hand. It was calloused.

"Don't you get headaches? I mean," I pulled the node from my temple and the coil bounced into my palm, "you've watched it twice already."

"It's the last recorded moment of Christian Doyle. We're missing something, I know it."

His hand was still out, expectantly.

I looked over to the table. It's starting to fill the air with rot, no offense meant to the fellow.

"Well, miss it tomorrow. Go home." I clicked open my pocket watch just for effect. "It's late."

I swung my frock over my shoulder and headed towards the door; the floorboards creaked. I took my hat from the wall just as Frederick put the coil in the desk drawer and followed me to the door.

"His eyesight was pretty terrible." He put his hand on my shoulder after grabbing his own coat from the hanger.

"How can you tell?" I was looking out the door already. It was going to rain soon.
Averlin's yellowed eyes looked back to the room nonchalantly.

"There's a moment where his spectacles slip down his nose. You can see the borders all blurred out." Frederick took a piece of paper from his jacket and used it to point to the table in the room; on it lain what was until recently a man with strawberry blonde hair. "This man had fantastic eyesight. This man is not Christian Doyle."

"Then who is it?"

"Guess." My companion stated rather than asked. With the raising of his thick brow, a few greasy locks of light brown hair tumbled into his sight.

"I'm not playing this game." I forced one foot over the oak threshold of the room. "I have to go home."

"No, no," Frederick grappled to my arm. Both thumbs pressed through my wool coat and into my skin, bending it a bit. "Just look at the man. Just for a moment."

His eyes sparkled with excitement. He always enjoyed proving his intellect. But I always had the papers to prove mine.

"Rick, old boy, do I really have to?" Whether or not I had to, he was pulling me in the direction of the fellow who was until recently one missing Mr. Doyle.

I stood over the body what's skin was sagging towards the table from autolysis. It was rather disgusting. And by rather, I mean extremely.

Frederick took the right leather glove from the pair in my coat pocket and stretched it over his unmanicured fingers.

"Look here."

"I don't want to. I'm a chemist not a coroner."

"Just look here," he took his gloved hand and opened the cadaver's mouth. There were teeth missing. He had already shown me before.

"Post mortem," I stated bluntly.

"Yes." He took his fingertips out of the thing's mouth as his left hand grabbed for tweezers. "And this?" He pressed his gloved fingers to a large gash in the man's chest, separating the skin slightly.

"Post mortem," I said again.

"Excellent thought, Perry, but wrong in this case." He took the tweezers and then looked at me with a stern face. "Might I borrow the other one?"

"You can keep them." I tossed the other black, and expensive I might add, glove on the body's chest.

He opened the wound further and played with the flesh a bit. I could see the hint of a smile under his two-week-shadow.

"See?" Frederick exposed the deepest skin of the wound to me. "There's healing. This cut has been here for a long time. Since before September, I'd say."

I understood.

"A newer victim," I said. He smiled fiercely. "You're saying this is a newer victim."

"Very right." He took the gloves off finger by finger. "Doyle didn't have this cut in the moment that was recorded on September 23th of this year. And this body is very new." He put the left glove in between his teeth as he removed the other one from his hand.

"How do know Doyle didn't have this before? We can't see him. I don't even know what he looks like apart from a stranger's letter description." Averlin opened his teeth and let the glove fall to the floor as he watched my face deliquesce to a paler shade. He threw the other down quickly.

"It's still a very deep gash, Perry," he turned to the body again. "Give me your hand."

"I'd rather not."

"Well it's deep." Frederick began towards the door again, but I was a step ahead of him. I wanted to beat the rain. "Could you tumble onto Catherine if your side was ripped open?"

"Speaking of which," I stated, 'I'm going home. Catherine and I could arrange for Penelope and yourself to come by for supper." I locked the door. Though I can't imagine someone stealing a corpse – except for Averlin. He would.

"That shouldn't be necessary." He smiled, adjusting his beige scarf around his throat. "Penelope hasn't been feeling well and I," the gold in his irises flickered in the lamplight as he looked down the street a ways, "have errands to run."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded once and briskly walked down the street, his figure disappearing quickly.

The house was brightly lit as I walked in. Catherine must have heard me at the door because she was waiting in the foyer with a smile.

"Long day?" She asked, her fingernails catching on to the banister as her hand slid off and she led me to dining room.

"Yes," I sighed. "The children are asleep, I presume."

"I was expecting your eccentric friend, Mr. Averlin, to be joining us for dinner." Her lips flattened against her teeth in a half-laugh. "He's a terrible influence on Olive and Alice, Oliver in particular."

I grinned. "He's a terrible influence on me." I came up behind Catherine, nuzzled into the carmine waves of her hair, and ran my hand along her bodice.

She seemed to fancy the idea for a bit, but then turned around and from a delicious expression for me, formed a childish expression of excitement. Cute – but killed the mood.

"Is Rick joining us?"

"He's not." The corners of her mouth drooped. She was genuinely disappointed. "He had errands to run."

Now her copper brow furrowed. She was angry.

"He's getting drunk, isn't he?" I shrugged to her implication.

"Frederick went in the exact opposite direction of the Library, thank you very much."

She pursed her lips. She didn't plan on being particularly friendly to me after that. "I think you're just sticking up for your friend. Dinner's over there."

"Oh, come on, Catherine." I ran after, mimicking her few steps towards the stairs. "He said Penelope wasn't feeling up to par. He was going home." I took her shoulder in my hand. "Trust me."

Catherine turned to me, her light eyes drooping at the corners, but still smiling. "I'm tired. I trust you," she leaned her head to my chest, "but I'm tired."

I nodded to her and stood at the foot of the banister until she had disappeared fully into the bedroom. I could never love a woman more.

As I walked back into the kitchen I grabbed the unopened bottle of wine from the counter and continued to the table. White wine, lovely. It made the fantastic sound of satisfaction as I uncorked and poured it. The yellowed liquid splashed up the sides of the glass and then swirled into itself to form an even water-level.

Dinner looked superb, even at forty minutes cold. If Averlin had let me walk out when I had wanted to this would have been perfection. At least I had beaten the rain; it was only then starting.

I looked out the window, at the dark and crystalline stripes of water that streamed down the pane, and took an extraordinary sip from my glass. My face fell into the glass and I left it there and allowed my breath to echo back to me. I knew very well where Frederick had gone. I knew he wasn't going home. I knew he had no plan whatsoever of going home. He was at the Library of Documents, a place which he frequented perhaps once or twice a week.

Everyone has vices. Rick's happens to be moments, moments of a particular and peculiar fashion. To collect moments, all one needed was a court warrant, a license, a fitting document of identification, or a deed. In Averlin's case, in Averlin's taste, there was no way to have any of these so he went in after hours and stole from a government building.

This suspicion, I found to be absolutely correct the following morning. When I walked into the office, Averlin was curled up in a lounging chair, disheveled, with his head in his hand. His fingertips moved from massaging his temples to the straight and narrow bridge of his nose. The circles under his eyes were almost as dark as his hair.

"Where were you last night?" I asked as quietly as I could as I opened the windows to let some fresh air permeate the stuffy and stale room.

"I went home." He took his hand from his face and looked up at me. His lips her hanging open and his ears pulled back his brow. "And I came back here early in the morning."

"How early?" I asked this time with more force. I suspected that he meant he had come back at 12:30 AM.

"Early enough to write Gattleton. He should be here any moment."

Just as Frederick said this, a knock came at the door. The jolt in his movements was enough to cause a fit of laughter on my part because Averlin literally shot up out of the chair and combed back his mess of brown hair in one swift but startled movement.

"Come in," he coughed.

The door opened to Chief Inspector James Gattleton, a tall, larger set man with an impressive mustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. He took his white gloves off finger-by-finger as he looked around at the mess of both Inspector Frederick Averlin and the
until-recently-Christian Doyle.

"Waterford," I looked at him patiently, "please get rid of that." He pointed to the corpse on the table, which was now starting to fall piece by rotting piece.

I left the room to hire a wagon man or a group of thugs to bring the corpse to a morgue or the Thames River at least. However, I stepped out to give the two the privacy they needed, and most likely sent me out to receive.

I did, though, find a few brutish furniture-makers to help me dispose of our mystery man. I gave them two quid each; it was they're lucky day, I suppose.

I came back in time to hear from outside the shouting of Gattleton, and Averlin shouting twice as loudly. The men I was with stayed far behind me.

"I don't know how to help you any further!" I heard a crash inside the room. It was most likely glass containers falling. "Just find the man!"

Gattleton stormed out and shook the building's very foundation as the slammed the door behind him. I heard another crash from inside. I walked in cautiously, pressing the door open at a snail's pace, and found Rick on his hands and knees picking up copper coils and bits of glass.

"The men you have with you," he looked up at me and smiled, "the burly ones," he added, "send them away. I'm not done with the body."

He stood and beckoned me in, motioning for me to shoo the carpenters and upholsterers, and close the door. That was eight pounds wasted which I was going take from Frederick's coat pocket when we left that evening.

"What did you want with Gattleton," I asked as I took a seat in the large scarlet chair.

"I just wanted to tell him that this," his fingers bled out as he stood and disposed of the glass pieces and pointed to the body nonchalantly, flinging a drop or two of red, "was not our missing man."

"You know," I stood and moved towards Rick, "you should have just said it was Doyle and gotten the credit for so cleverly extrapolating how he died. I mean," I searched in the drawers for gauze but found whiskey – I took it out and put it on the table, "it took one guess."

"He was poisoned. Was that your first guess?" Frederick shrieked a bit, trying to conceal it with a manly and sharp inhalation as I dipped his sinewy fingertips into the whiskey I had just poured.

"Mild discoloration of the eyelids and lips," I stated, taking an adhesive solution and painting over the marks on Averlin's hands. "It was my first guess."

"Well it wasn't Gattleton's." He sighed. He was growing inpatient and he wanted his hands back.

As I finished by placing the aloe-soaked cheesecloth over his cuts, I brought to his attention something which I thought was a forgotten piece. "Do we know who this Beth character is?"

"I've surmised that she was at one point a certain Ms. Beth Farley."

"Have you spoken to her yet?" I turned again to take my large chair.

"I rather fancied that you would come with me for the matter."

"That's fair, I suppose." As I moved to lounge, I faced Averlin again. He had his hands in our dead man. I was terribly glad I had bandaged his hand; that would have been awful. The idea repulsed me quite irregularly.

"Are you alright?" He looked up at me, putting the brass magnifying-goggles atop his head. "Perry, as a sudden, you look very ill."

I composed myself and surely brought what pink tint there was back into my thin face. "Do we know anything about her?"

"She had a short marriage to Lord Thomas Wolfram." He went back to his work, the goggles still resting in the chestnut waves of his hair.

I paused, with furrowed brows. "Lord Wolfram was married? When?" I recalled upon the few times I had met the man. He had on occasion stumbled into my lectures yet always failed to introduce himself to anyone present. He was in no way a hideous man, but by no account an extraordinary specimen of beauty. He was rather ordinary in appearance. However I believed that his joyless nature and mild manner perhaps biased many opinions, including my own, at his ability to court.

"Oh yes!" Averlin looked up at me again, a splash of blood on his face similar to the woman in question's freckle. I wondered again about the mixing of he and the body's decaying blood. I had hoped it was his own blood on his face. "I found it difficult to believe myself at the time. He's the loneliest and most miserable man I've ever heard of. It was a few years ago and only for sixteen months before she ran off."

"With Doyle, you think?" I pointed to my own cheek, suggesting Frederick should wipe off his face; instead he realized that he had not yet replaced his goggles.

"Dear heavens, no." He smiled and his lips pressed thin. "Doyle I'm sure is only a recent development."

"But still," I said, "she can point us in the right direction of our missing man." I smiled as Frederick bent back down into his work. "When did you find all this out?"

He stood up sharply with grin on his face and a paper in his hand. "Last night," he chimed merrily. "The Library of Documents. And see?" He shook the crumpled paper in his pale hand, "I had a warrant."

He tossed it to me and I read through it, smeared ink, wrinkles, and all.

To Whom It May Concern:

The investigatory query of Inspector Frederick R Averlin entitles him to a full search of moments through the years 1872 to 1894.
Signed Gattleton.

"Well done." I congratulated him as I stood and handed him back the letter, folded gracefully. He took it and crumpled it into his pocket.

"I presume that you thought I had gotten intoxicated last night, ridden to the good old Library, broke in, and did what you so often suspect me of."

I nodded. He continued.

"I was asleep in that chair because I had been up all night going over the moments to extrapolate who our Ms. Beth indeed was. I had not had a single drop of alcohol all last night. I have the moments in that drawer." He pointed and I obliged by taking a look.
There were perhaps seventy coils stuffed haphazardly in a wooden box.

"I have yet to deduce her whereabouts, but that shouldn't take long," he paused, "assuming I have your help."

Were he any younger in mind, he would have no doubt stuck his tongue out at me, but thankfully he didn't. "Very well done," I said, with a sense of chagrin. I had supposed things upon my friend that in retrospect were quite cruel.

He smiled gently, without his teeth showing. "Never assume without the facts," he said.

He joyously sauntered to the desk and shot back the small amount of whiskey which I used to clean his fingertips. He chuckled at my disgust.

“Really, Waterford, you have no life to you." 

As I rose, the chemical-stained floorboards creaked. I walked to his side, grabbed the whiskey bottle and pressed the harsh-smelling opening to my lips.

Frederick smiled expectantly as I wore the same expression to him, but in a more docile tone. He lifted the end of the bottle without warning or permission with his awkwardly languid fingertips that had just been in a bloated corpse.

The rotted stink of his hands and the fiery thickness of the whiskey was enough to make a barbarian retch. Least to say, I was a gentleman chemist.

I coughed, spewing whiskey everywhere and yet Averlin felt no need to stop pouring it down my throat. I simply stepped out of the way and that’s when he stopped.

“What was that for?"  I was still gagging and my eyes were watering heavily. My hair had come unglued from its slicked back fashion and hanged bits of cherry colored streaks in my line of sight. I felt the fire in my face and needed fresh air; just looking at the man on the table caused me to retch.

“Well I’m not going to waste good whiskey!"  Frederick’s furrowed brow told me that I must have asked the most ridiculous and foolish question.

“I didn’t mean why you stopped pouring it. I meant why you did at all."  I ran to the window, stuck my head out, and vomited in the gutter. It was actually a more pleasant experience than before.

“I thought it could be fun."  He resisted the urge to laugh as I turned to face him with stomach contents in the forelocks of my hair and a completely blank face.
He finally let out a mischievous yet friendly grin and said, “You should grow a charming mustache. It would have protected you. Precautions, Perry, think about precautions."

I looked at him incredulously. Not only was I questioning my judgment for the fact that I work with the poor b***ard, but also what part of this would a mustache have protected me from?

I came to a conclusion on both as I rubbed my face clean on his green scarf that sat near the window. For one, I’m not working with him, he’s working with me. And two, the downward growth pattern of facial hair (particularly on the upper lip) would have blocked any projectile substance from flying at an angle which would result in my hair being soiled.

“You are a sick man, Rick. You are a sick man."

Last edited by Stonewall (03-02-2010 21:06)

I found my manuscript for FaB