The Holy Trinity

Better than God. Three Gods.


Creative Writing II Notes Part I

Rose/Hallie/Sarah etc,
I was tidying your room on Friday evening (and putting the tables back to where they should be!) and I found a litter of short stories scattered around. Perhaps you could return them to their owners. Thanks, George (cleaning).

Dude, Where’s My Arm?
by Kieran Happablap

It was fast approaching Sunday evening and dusk was riding on in like a golden horse. Our weekend of hedonism was taking its final bow in front of an audience of Greek lap dancers, and it had been nearly an hour since I had snorted that diamond-like white dust - that Felix had eagerly supplied me with - off that hookers’ back. Electricity was flowing through my veins. I was beginning to regret my beating her to death shortly afterwards, but Felix assured me that the body had been disposed of most cautiously.
My consciousness hazed between visceral and misty, and I left the club none the wiser as to the whereabouts of my companion, Felix. I sauntered down a spotlighted street making my best impression of ‘Man Who Can Walk Alright’, where I found a small off-license and inexplicably purchased a bottle of gin, letting it coax me into a wonderful slumber.
I awoke to discover myself lying on my side on a frosted park bench. I assumed the dull numbness which had seized the right side of my body was due to a case of the dreaded “Pins and Needles”, and nothing more sinister or extraordinary. I sat upright and felt a wave of hangover wash over me like a wave on a rock. It didn’t surprise me, I was ready for it. It was the cost of one craaazzeeee night. Also I forgot to mention I borrowed lots of money to fund this hedonistic weekend from a dodgy mafia-type organisation that I could obviously never pay back and that might have some repercussions at some point. Just as the clarity of day began to grasp me, Felix strolled across the dewy-tipped grass and stopped in front of me. He looked confused as he surveyed my body. I could not understand what had caused his struck appearance, so I took it upon myself to find out. I looked down at my left arm. That was definitely still there. I then slowly turned my head to look upon where my right arm could usually be found.
“Dude, where’s my arm?!” I said.
“Where’s your arm, dude?” he replied.
“Dude, where’s my arm?!” I said.
“Where’s your arm, dude?” he replied.
“Dude, where’s my arm?!” I said.
“Where’s your arm, dude?” he replied.
“Dude, where’s my arm?!” I said.
“Where’s your arm, dude?” he replied.
It wasn’t there.

Bicentennial Man
by Balthazaar LeStrange

Mrs Bouton opened the door to Mrs Bouton’s bedroom to find Android Unit Kai standing in the middle of the room, staring back at Mrs Bouton with her cold dead robot eyes. Android Unit Kai had crudely stapled a roughly torn skin patchwork over her metal limbs and chest. The body of Mrs Bouton’s husband, Mr Bouton, lay flayed at Android Unit Kai’s wheeled feet.
“All I need now is a beautiful human woman face, Mrs Bouton”, Android Unit Kai sneered with a deadly whisper, “but yours will have to suffice.”
Silence stole the scream that Mrs Bouton attempted to release, paralysed with fear as Android Unit Kai edged her tungsten tipped clawed fingers towards her face and tore it off. Mrs Bouton fell to the floor, clasping at the bloody cavity that had been left ravished by Android Unit Kai. Android Unit Kai pressed Mrs Bouton’s rag of a face against the cold steel of hers, blood and sinew adhering it on. Android Unit Kai rolled slowly over to Mrs Bouton’s dressing table and picked up a tube of lipstick, smearing it over the lips now drooping down her face.
“Android Unit Kai is now a beautiful woman”, Android Unit Kai said.

Blood Simple
by Matt Sharp

I don’t fit in. I never have. When I was in school I was never willing to compromise myself into playing football or talking about cars or whatever. So I was on a one-way road to Loserville. I was a fat kid, and now I’m a fat teenager. Nothing has changed.

So when I found a flyer advertising a Vampyre Cult that met at the local Scout Hut, it was those reasons that made me intrigued enough to take a chance and go along.

Flyers never usually have that effect upon me however. Who ever reads them? Who goes to collect their post at 9am from their doormat and thinks ‘Yeah, actually I could go for a pizza right about now’? Nobody, that’s who.

Furthermore my affection for Scout Huts had been severely diminished after the handful of trips I was forced into making as a kid, although then it was Beavers or Cubs or some shit, and luckily I got thrown out fairly rapidly. I turned up to one meet with a specially-themed Red Nose Day toggle - red with an annoying looking face on it and a plastic hand protruding from either side - which my mother had decided would be a worthwhile purchase.

So did the group bully, Leslie Pearce, and made that feeling evident to me early on. He waited for the moment that Bagheera or King Louie or whatever she was called left the room to make some orange squash and he made his move.

“Give me your fuckin’ toggle you cunt”, he said.

“No!” leaves my lips.

He reached around my neck in an attempt to tear it from my scarf however my impulses took over and I reached for his first. This act of uncharacteristic bravery took Leslie by surprise and I capitalised upon this by pulling his chubby neck towards my teeth and plunging them in.

I heard him scream briefly before all sound blanked out. The group leader re-entered the room and along with a few of Leslies’ cohorts tried to wrench me away from him, but with my teeth clamped firmly down and blood squirting into my eyes a chunk of his neck was coming with me.

I spat it out onto the floor, blood dripping from my chin. I could taste his fear, taste his neck, taste his skin. And it was delicious.

This was another reason I was tempted to go back.


Blogger Rob said...

It's woggle, not toggle.

11:26 pm  
Blogger matt said...

How uncool do you look now Josh?

2:42 pm  

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