something or nothing

[crazy a]

He sat at the typer. At least an hour had gone by and still he was looking at a blank piece of paper. Writing was like that. You could be a genius full of ideas and words, but when it came down to getting it on paper...nothing. He finished off his beer and tossed the bottle into a wooden box in the corner where it broke. The box was full of broken glass. He drank so much, it was the only way to get rid of the bottles.

He got up, yawned, stretched, scratched his balls. He went to the bathroom, took a horse-piss, got another beer and sat on the couch. He cracked open the can, took a hit and looked at one wall then another. He looked at the chipped paint, the cracks. The rent was due. The job was killing him. The magazines weren't accepting his poems and stories. The women were going crazy and trying to take him with them. He had no money. But he had the walls. As long as he had that, he was okay.

The phone rang.

[Oz]

I like. That's how I feel a LOT of the time.

[gollum]

this has really good voice...you learn a lot about the character from subtle (well, and not-so-subtle) things in the paragraph. i like it, it'd be interesting to see where it goes from here.

-g

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Sometimes i think everyone on this board is crazy. The rest of the time i'm sure. -Dan
somehow i see [gollum] clinging to a tower and rousingly calling for a new world order. -starky

Yeah, I'm a real prize. Tonight, I'm a bronze medal.

[Branflakes]

Wow. That was GOOD.

------------------
Branflakes, the ninja lesbian milk getter bunny protecting flirt.
The one called "brain" and "brainflakes" and....
"One thing I've never been is straight, dear girl." Katchoo, SiP
"If ever you need naughty good things, just let me know..."-Starkyld
"With you around, Bran? It would take Starky less than a second before she is in trouble."-Fenix
I'm tired of the silent majority. Silence equals death.
Life is what you make it.

[Oz]

Holy shit! This is crazy cool. Keep going, keep going!

[crazy a]

(Ummmmm....)

"No sir, we wouldn't get into all of that. We'd mainly discuss your career."
"Oh hell, what career? I've been lucky enough to have some magazines print my stuff and to get a few books out. My editor tells me I'm popular as hell in Europe. But here in the States, I'm unknown. And those that HAVE heard of me think I'm some kind of joke or a pervert. A harlequin trying to feel up 18-year old girls."
"But surely there's more than that?"
"There's been bad jobs, bad women, crazy women, beer, blood in the alley and vomit in the toilet. Right now, the magazines are returning everything I send out. They're saying I'm washed up. Well, who knows, I probably am. But the thing is, I gotta try to get the word down or I'm done. And giving interviews isn't part of the process. So if you'll excuse me, the machine is waiting. Good-bye."

Harry hung up. He finished his beer and threw the can on the floor. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and gagged. He went back to the typer and sat in front of it, hoping for a miracle. The white paper stared back, almost mocking him. He looked out the window. A woman walked by. She was blonde, big in all the right places and wearing a tight blue dress. Her body was trying to burst from the dress, aching for sex. Harry watched her ass wobble by and then it was gone. The woman, the ass, the magic...gone. He rubbed his forehead, there was a headache.

It's not working, he thought. Christ alive, it's not working.

His stomach growled. Harry didn't remember the last time he ate. He went to the bedroom and checked his wallet. Fifteen dollars. That would get him something. But first a bath. He went to the bathroom, turned on the hot water and stripped. He looked at his body in the mirror. Big hairy belly. Needed a shave. Bloodshot eyes. Lifeless cock. He was a real masterpiece.

[crazy a]

(Sorry I'm late. I never know what to do with a story.)

The phone rang.

He didn't want to answer it. Nine times out of ten it was bad news, people he didn't want to talk to, or a combination.

It rang again. And again. He just looked at it. The fact that it kept ringing was proof enough he didn't want to talk to whoever was on the other end. Finally, on the eighth ring, he picked up.

"Yeah?"
"Is this Harry Thomson?"
"Maybe."
"You don't know?"
"Sometimes I don't."
"Do you always answer the phone that way?"
"Well, I gotta be careful. You never know who's trying to get a piece of you."
"But you ARE Harry Thomson, the writer?"
"Yeah. Who the hell are you?"
"My name's Oscar..."
"Oscar Mayer?"
"I hear those jokes all the time, Mr. Thomson."
"Well you're gonna hear some more."
"Er...yes. Anyway, I'm Oscar Vandere. I'm a freelance writer..."
"Oh, shit..."
"What?"
"Nothing. Carry on."
"I'm a freelance writer and I was wondering if I could come by to do an interview with you."
"An interview? With me? Is this a joke?"
"No sir. I've heard your name come up at poetry readings. You have quite a little following, you know."
"Hell, the people at readings are fake. The women want to fuck me. The boys want to drink beer with me. They want to see me drunk and do something crazy, like squat on top of the refrigerator and piss across the room into the sink."



[This message has been edited by crazy a (edited September 15, 2000).]

[Oz]

More...more...geez...more...

[JaceSan]

Yes, we definitely need to hear more.

[Kamikaze33]

Very Cool!