There follows an extract from something I'm trying to write -
I should have said – I wasn’t wearing any trousers. And there was blood, a CRIMSON POOL and dark and dried about my left knee like I was a bastard soldier. No trousers. Just boxer shorts. Feet covered in plastic bags. My friend in the telephone box. And waiting for Dad. An unsual Sunday morning. That’s the set up.
If you passed in your Ford Mondeo, you wouldn't see much to my face. It was blank and it was blank because I was tired and disappointed and fed up with Dave and I knew that accompanying Dad in the inevitable Volvo was an almighty bollocking.
8 comments:
Ok...I hooked and need to know more.
I meant to say "I'm hooked," but obviously, besides being hooked, I'm also being tired.
I, too, hooked. Especially about this "Dave" character. He sounds mysterious and handsome.
Thanks, gang. 'Dave' is indeed mysterious and handsome. I based him on someone I used to know. His name was Luke.
The Internet Bosses told me I couldn't write any more, though, because it was too good.
---I Like!!! :)
Thanks, chick!
Definitely a winner. I'm hooked. I'm curious as to whether the plastic bags were put on after or before trouser removal, whether the latter was forced, voluntary or as a result of intoxication, and for what reason? The plastic bags themselves are indicative of a variety of desperate situations. Yes the plastic bags intrigue me. I need to know more.
Richard, thank you. It is, as you correctly identify, all about the plastic bags.
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