Re-Post of old material....
Jun. 22nd, 2003 10:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
maleghast.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
just_writingDear All,
I have wanted to contribute all week and would have done so earlier, if it were not for the simple fact that work has been a nightmare this week and is set to get worse b4 it gets better.....
Prologue
The water collected at his feet, like iron filings sliding toward a magnet. It seemed only natural that he had chosen to stand in the drain point of the hollow, a kind of trade-off for the quality of the vantage point. Jerome was always saying that even in the most mundane things there is a force of balance, of correction that leads all things to interact with one another in the fashion least damaging to reality. He knew better – it was not about balance, ying and yang or feng shui, or even good versus evil. No for Henry there was only his luck, or complete lack thereof in relation to the little things. He stopped and thought about that a little more; so what was his position that there was no balance in the world, but he always had bad luck with the little things? That would never hold water, after all he was always so lucky when it counted. He shook his head and promised that he would do something very unkind and abusive to Jerome as soon as possible; no one needed to think this much about wet feet. At least the camera was dry. The guy in the shop had been amazed that anyone would buy a waterproof enclosure and not go diving. Henry had become bored of ruining perfectly good magazines to keep the camera dry at times like this, and so a waterproof enclosure had seemed to be the perfect solution. It did mean that people who saw him getting in and out of his car tended to look again, an effect that is somewhat unwanted when you are attempting to go unnoticed, but overall it was worth it. People often asked Henry if he felt demeaned or cheapened by his business and he always smiled, shook his head and told them that he was lucky to be able to observe so freely the wide tapestry of humanity. Such bullshit. Henry was a private detective, with wet feet and an odd looking, but totally waterproof digital camera, waiting for his current target to start giving head to her husband's boss. Not exactly a saluatory exposition of the opportunities for truth-seeing that Henry always pretended that his `calling` provided. He had been following this particularly unsubtle and tragically unfulfilled woman for three days – that was all it took to know everything about the three of them. The husband, so insecure and uninterested, that his entire agenda was encompassed in gaining the pictures that would ensure he got a bloodless and financially painless divorce from his now boring wife. She, so desperate to feel anything again before it was too late, jumping into bed with the first man that noticed her, not knowing that he was as disinterested in his wife as his employee was in her. As far as Henry could tell, the only difference for him between his own wife and Mrs. Trentham, was that the latter still swallowed. The ghost of a moan, drifting Henry's way from the bedroom window, broke his moment of reflection and reminded him to capture this less than Kodak moment. Ten exposures later he had more than enough – both for his own sense of self-worth and for the client's requirements – and he lifted his now drenched feet out of the puddle and quietly sloped away, leaving Mr. Trentham's boss to his orgasm and Mrs. Trentham to her fantasy.
Jerome was having a great deal of difficulty staying awake. When he had begun the night classes, it had all seemed to be a very good idea indeed. He was nearing the end of his tether when it came to waiting tables and wanted more for himself than bad mannered tourists telling him that the service was better wherever they had come from; he wanted to make something of himself. People die, that was the truth that Jerome had seen as he planned his metamorphosis from waiter to something (anything) better. It had appeared to be a perfect career choice to move into Funeral Direction – no surprises, not too many dissatisfied customers and a constant stream of people to bury or burn. There had been a catch, one that Jerome had not seen coming. Funeral Direction is a very dull life to see stretching out ahead of you. Sure there are all of the people into whose lives one may bring a sliver of comfort at a very difficult time, but once you are in the business, they are all just punters. It is like the moment faced by every comic as they strut out onto the stage, fake smile freshly pasted on, to plough through the same old tired material just one last time – there are only so many ways to say;
“I'm so very sorry for your loss... Now about your choice of casket...”
On top of that there were some very dull rules and regualtions to learn and that was even before the business skills course. Jerome was starting to understand why so few people were tapping into the death business – it is more dull than the worst anyone can imagine. At first there had been the potential consolation of meeting a single girl, just as confused about her life and starting something worthwhile, but the only two women on the course turned out to be gay, and a couple, so even that was a bust. Well not completely, there was the daydreaming about what they did after school... If only he were failing, then at least he could jack it all in and go back to the tourists and arguing families; the problem was he had discovered another, even more terrifying truth. He was good at everything on the course, he was a natural undertaker. It crossed his mind that Henry might actually be a natural pervert – how else could he have put up with six years of the jealous spouse hardcore picture-show? Jerome was so bored he actually found himself hoping that being a Private Detective was Henry's waiting tables, not his true calling.
“So, more than anything it is important to remember that there is nothing
wrong with making sure that you claim as much as legally possible against
your VAT returns...”
Business skills, not the most exciting class Jerome had ever experienced...
Theresa was happy. For the first time in her twenty-nine years she had achieved an orgasm with a partner, without supplying them with full and complete instructions. There had been some communication, but in the main, this man knew at least that she had a clitoris. The warm glow of her post-orgasmic euphoria was only just starting to fade, after a far longer interval than she was used to, when her idyll was pierced by the unbidden hand of reality. There is a very distinct noise that a zippo lighter makes as it is flicked open. It is followed by the more generic sounds first of the flint sparking and then the almost imperceptible, low rustle of the cigarette catching, as that first drag gives birth to the pleasure of smoking. Unfortunately for Theresa there were two problems with hearing those sounds at this particular time. The first was that in all the years she had been a smoker, she had always thought that there was nothing more tacky than a post-coital bifter. The second was that since she had quit, some eleven months previously, she had sworn that no one, not even mythical men aware of the clitoris would ever get her started again, and already she was faltering. The spicy, harsh tang of Marlboro Lights was edging its way closer and closer to her, and in a moment he was fairly likely to offer her the chance to sink into the joy of it all once more.
“You don't mind do you? Do you want one?”
She cursed under her breath; first time since she had finally shaken Henry out of her flat and out of her life and he was a fucking smoker. How had she failed to pick up on it? Was it the cool exterior, the good taste, the opera he had taken her to? Was it the way she had lit up inside when he held her, when his tongue had slid effortlessly into her mouth without any clumsiness? She had needed to be touched and kissed and loved, and besides he had never smoked in front of her before. She sat up and frowned at him, and that was the kiss of death;
“Sorry Resa – I only smoke after... you know...”
She knew he would have to go – not fair, he was perfect except for this – or was that the orgasms talking. This was the very last time anyone, even opera lovers with good taste and an electric touch ever screwed her on the first date, no matter how good they were. Oh but he was so good... She reached over to him and plucked the fag out of his mouth. She dimped it and reached her hand back under the covers to stroke him back to usesfulness – no sense throwing this fish back until the morning.
“Do you think she knows, Sir?”
“Not a clue – do you think we would be doing this from across the street
if she knew?”
“No I suppose not, still I can't help but wonder... God, how many times is that?
He must be exhausted. If this is the first date, I can't wait to see what she'll do to him tomorrow.”
“Twenty quid says she never sees him again.”
“You're kidding? You're on! Easiest purple beer token I've ever made.”
“We'll see.”
Jerome arrived home just a few moments after Henry had fallen through the door, pissed as usual. He kicked the fallen kebab to one side, if Henry kept doing this there would have to be some kind of tax or at least promises extracted over a concilliatory Chinese takeaway. Jerome thought about staying up with the TV for company, but the stench of vomit from the living room confirmed that Henry would be springing for more than just a takeaway. He headed for the stairs and there was the camera. Normally Henry would never leave the camera lying around, no matter how pissed he was. It was as though Henry had a secret power to ensure that although he might puke in the living room, scatter his kebab across the entrance hall and fall asleep in the airing cupboard, his camera would be neatly packed away in the padded case, which would be tucked away on the bottom shelf of his wardrobe. Jerome leant closer and he saw that the camera was in fact just the waterproof enclosure, no camera to be seen. There were no cracks or dents, no signs of damage, just no camera – weird. There was no point in confronting Henry about it there and then – he would be out like the dead. Jerome moved the enclosure from the stairs onto the phone table and plodded up to his room. All was dark, so he slipped quietly into his bed and decided that all of the shouting would keep for the morning when a contrite and sober Henry would hide behind his hangover and offer the moon on a stick as reparation for the state of the house. No sense missing out on sleep when all was still for the winning in the morning.
I rarely go to bed without watching or listening to the news – something that Jerome would never have particularly thought to do, even that night...
“Police are tonight unwilling to release any details, but one source has been able
to tell us that a man in his twenties was seen running from the scene, with what appeared to witnesses to have been a waterproof camera. Who this man was, or
what involvement if any he had in the incident is as yet unclear...”
Henry on the other hand did not seem to be able to sleep – his attention was completely absorbed by the contents of the Microdrive from his camera.
Apologies to those who have already read it....
More to follow - I have continued with this and will post Chapter 1, Part 1 as soon as I have finished it.....
G'Night!
I have wanted to contribute all week and would have done so earlier, if it were not for the simple fact that work has been a nightmare this week and is set to get worse b4 it gets better.....
Prologue
The water collected at his feet, like iron filings sliding toward a magnet. It seemed only natural that he had chosen to stand in the drain point of the hollow, a kind of trade-off for the quality of the vantage point. Jerome was always saying that even in the most mundane things there is a force of balance, of correction that leads all things to interact with one another in the fashion least damaging to reality. He knew better – it was not about balance, ying and yang or feng shui, or even good versus evil. No for Henry there was only his luck, or complete lack thereof in relation to the little things. He stopped and thought about that a little more; so what was his position that there was no balance in the world, but he always had bad luck with the little things? That would never hold water, after all he was always so lucky when it counted. He shook his head and promised that he would do something very unkind and abusive to Jerome as soon as possible; no one needed to think this much about wet feet. At least the camera was dry. The guy in the shop had been amazed that anyone would buy a waterproof enclosure and not go diving. Henry had become bored of ruining perfectly good magazines to keep the camera dry at times like this, and so a waterproof enclosure had seemed to be the perfect solution. It did mean that people who saw him getting in and out of his car tended to look again, an effect that is somewhat unwanted when you are attempting to go unnoticed, but overall it was worth it. People often asked Henry if he felt demeaned or cheapened by his business and he always smiled, shook his head and told them that he was lucky to be able to observe so freely the wide tapestry of humanity. Such bullshit. Henry was a private detective, with wet feet and an odd looking, but totally waterproof digital camera, waiting for his current target to start giving head to her husband's boss. Not exactly a saluatory exposition of the opportunities for truth-seeing that Henry always pretended that his `calling` provided. He had been following this particularly unsubtle and tragically unfulfilled woman for three days – that was all it took to know everything about the three of them. The husband, so insecure and uninterested, that his entire agenda was encompassed in gaining the pictures that would ensure he got a bloodless and financially painless divorce from his now boring wife. She, so desperate to feel anything again before it was too late, jumping into bed with the first man that noticed her, not knowing that he was as disinterested in his wife as his employee was in her. As far as Henry could tell, the only difference for him between his own wife and Mrs. Trentham, was that the latter still swallowed. The ghost of a moan, drifting Henry's way from the bedroom window, broke his moment of reflection and reminded him to capture this less than Kodak moment. Ten exposures later he had more than enough – both for his own sense of self-worth and for the client's requirements – and he lifted his now drenched feet out of the puddle and quietly sloped away, leaving Mr. Trentham's boss to his orgasm and Mrs. Trentham to her fantasy.
Jerome was having a great deal of difficulty staying awake. When he had begun the night classes, it had all seemed to be a very good idea indeed. He was nearing the end of his tether when it came to waiting tables and wanted more for himself than bad mannered tourists telling him that the service was better wherever they had come from; he wanted to make something of himself. People die, that was the truth that Jerome had seen as he planned his metamorphosis from waiter to something (anything) better. It had appeared to be a perfect career choice to move into Funeral Direction – no surprises, not too many dissatisfied customers and a constant stream of people to bury or burn. There had been a catch, one that Jerome had not seen coming. Funeral Direction is a very dull life to see stretching out ahead of you. Sure there are all of the people into whose lives one may bring a sliver of comfort at a very difficult time, but once you are in the business, they are all just punters. It is like the moment faced by every comic as they strut out onto the stage, fake smile freshly pasted on, to plough through the same old tired material just one last time – there are only so many ways to say;
“I'm so very sorry for your loss... Now about your choice of casket...”
On top of that there were some very dull rules and regualtions to learn and that was even before the business skills course. Jerome was starting to understand why so few people were tapping into the death business – it is more dull than the worst anyone can imagine. At first there had been the potential consolation of meeting a single girl, just as confused about her life and starting something worthwhile, but the only two women on the course turned out to be gay, and a couple, so even that was a bust. Well not completely, there was the daydreaming about what they did after school... If only he were failing, then at least he could jack it all in and go back to the tourists and arguing families; the problem was he had discovered another, even more terrifying truth. He was good at everything on the course, he was a natural undertaker. It crossed his mind that Henry might actually be a natural pervert – how else could he have put up with six years of the jealous spouse hardcore picture-show? Jerome was so bored he actually found himself hoping that being a Private Detective was Henry's waiting tables, not his true calling.
“So, more than anything it is important to remember that there is nothing
wrong with making sure that you claim as much as legally possible against
your VAT returns...”
Business skills, not the most exciting class Jerome had ever experienced...
Theresa was happy. For the first time in her twenty-nine years she had achieved an orgasm with a partner, without supplying them with full and complete instructions. There had been some communication, but in the main, this man knew at least that she had a clitoris. The warm glow of her post-orgasmic euphoria was only just starting to fade, after a far longer interval than she was used to, when her idyll was pierced by the unbidden hand of reality. There is a very distinct noise that a zippo lighter makes as it is flicked open. It is followed by the more generic sounds first of the flint sparking and then the almost imperceptible, low rustle of the cigarette catching, as that first drag gives birth to the pleasure of smoking. Unfortunately for Theresa there were two problems with hearing those sounds at this particular time. The first was that in all the years she had been a smoker, she had always thought that there was nothing more tacky than a post-coital bifter. The second was that since she had quit, some eleven months previously, she had sworn that no one, not even mythical men aware of the clitoris would ever get her started again, and already she was faltering. The spicy, harsh tang of Marlboro Lights was edging its way closer and closer to her, and in a moment he was fairly likely to offer her the chance to sink into the joy of it all once more.
“You don't mind do you? Do you want one?”
She cursed under her breath; first time since she had finally shaken Henry out of her flat and out of her life and he was a fucking smoker. How had she failed to pick up on it? Was it the cool exterior, the good taste, the opera he had taken her to? Was it the way she had lit up inside when he held her, when his tongue had slid effortlessly into her mouth without any clumsiness? She had needed to be touched and kissed and loved, and besides he had never smoked in front of her before. She sat up and frowned at him, and that was the kiss of death;
“Sorry Resa – I only smoke after... you know...”
She knew he would have to go – not fair, he was perfect except for this – or was that the orgasms talking. This was the very last time anyone, even opera lovers with good taste and an electric touch ever screwed her on the first date, no matter how good they were. Oh but he was so good... She reached over to him and plucked the fag out of his mouth. She dimped it and reached her hand back under the covers to stroke him back to usesfulness – no sense throwing this fish back until the morning.
“Do you think she knows, Sir?”
“Not a clue – do you think we would be doing this from across the street
if she knew?”
“No I suppose not, still I can't help but wonder... God, how many times is that?
He must be exhausted. If this is the first date, I can't wait to see what she'll do to him tomorrow.”
“Twenty quid says she never sees him again.”
“You're kidding? You're on! Easiest purple beer token I've ever made.”
“We'll see.”
Jerome arrived home just a few moments after Henry had fallen through the door, pissed as usual. He kicked the fallen kebab to one side, if Henry kept doing this there would have to be some kind of tax or at least promises extracted over a concilliatory Chinese takeaway. Jerome thought about staying up with the TV for company, but the stench of vomit from the living room confirmed that Henry would be springing for more than just a takeaway. He headed for the stairs and there was the camera. Normally Henry would never leave the camera lying around, no matter how pissed he was. It was as though Henry had a secret power to ensure that although he might puke in the living room, scatter his kebab across the entrance hall and fall asleep in the airing cupboard, his camera would be neatly packed away in the padded case, which would be tucked away on the bottom shelf of his wardrobe. Jerome leant closer and he saw that the camera was in fact just the waterproof enclosure, no camera to be seen. There were no cracks or dents, no signs of damage, just no camera – weird. There was no point in confronting Henry about it there and then – he would be out like the dead. Jerome moved the enclosure from the stairs onto the phone table and plodded up to his room. All was dark, so he slipped quietly into his bed and decided that all of the shouting would keep for the morning when a contrite and sober Henry would hide behind his hangover and offer the moon on a stick as reparation for the state of the house. No sense missing out on sleep when all was still for the winning in the morning.
I rarely go to bed without watching or listening to the news – something that Jerome would never have particularly thought to do, even that night...
“Police are tonight unwilling to release any details, but one source has been able
to tell us that a man in his twenties was seen running from the scene, with what appeared to witnesses to have been a waterproof camera. Who this man was, or
what involvement if any he had in the incident is as yet unclear...”
Henry on the other hand did not seem to be able to sleep – his attention was completely absorbed by the contents of the Microdrive from his camera.
Apologies to those who have already read it....
More to follow - I have continued with this and will post Chapter 1, Part 1 as soon as I have finished it.....
G'Night!
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no subject
Date: 2003-06-23 07:05 am (UTC)A few Details:
"Easiest purple beer token" jarred a bit for me I might be tempted to change it to beer money, or something but then I have never heard anyone use the phrase purple beer token and it just sounded weird. Don't know why.
As did the "Police are tonight unwilling to release any details, but one source has been able to tell us that a man in his twenties was seen running from the scene, with what appeared to witnesses to have been a waterproof camera. Who this man was, or what involvement if any he had in the incident is as yet unclear"
Not sure that witnesses would know what a waterproof camera looked like. Not the kind of thing people tend to notice - descriptions on the news tend to focus on clothes and physical appearance.
Also - I'd like shorter paragraphs - but that might just be me having to read on screen (which i hate) cos printer out of ink...
Overall though it made me want to read more - so is doing the job!
no subject
Date: 2003-06-23 12:02 pm (UTC)I think that if it is to develop into a longer work the sections from each pov will need to lengthen too - I hate being jumped about by narratives - then again maybe I'm just old fashioned