They are also going to announce the winners of the creative writing competition... there are two categories- poems and short story. I would have liked to enter both, but i only felt inspired to do a story. I mean, i know it sounds easier and quicker to write a poem, but seriously- considering rhyme schemes, lexis sets, imagery etc. its a bit of a headspin!
So yes, my short story.... I wrote as a homeless teenage boy (i dont know why i made myself a boy, it just felt natural at the time. which is worrying.) who eventually dies, and I have chosen to put it on here :)
so here goes...
P.S. i have chosen to call it 'Untitled'. It seems to match the speakers' lack of identity and the seemingly insignificant event that occurs. Also, it works for most art pieces!
Untitled
I wake. I stand. I shake. The all too-chilling wind cuts through me and reduces me back down to my bed.... Ha, ‘bed’.... When I was younger, my bed was a place of comfort, of sanctuary- where I would hide when all of the world was against me. I looked down at my so called bed now. Cardboard taken from wherever I could find it, and a lonely plastic Sainsbury’s bag slumped next to it, holding all of my worldly possessions.
When I left home, I didn’t know what to think or what to take. I just knew I had to get out. I don’t know why but I felt that I needed that television remote. Perhaps to spite them, who would be more concerned that they wouldn’t be able to flick between QVC and BidTv than the fact that their only son was missing.
Yes, I saw their emotional appeal in the paper. I caught sight of it on a rainy day, where it lay there, utterly depressed, half sinking into the gutter. Mother crying and Father pleading, they always had wanted to be famous. I nudged the thing further and further until it fell into the darkness.
I watched my hand crawl into the bag, searching for that familiar feel of glass. I like to observe the movements of my hand... it seems almost alien, like it’s not a part of me. It twitches, it scratches, it flicks, twists and bends. Watching the separate joints moving together like cogs in a wheel, effortlessly moving whilst seeing the muscles and tendons strain and compress beneath the gaunt skin.
I felt the cold, smooth bottle, and dragged it towards my lips. I drank the liquid, it tasted like death and it burnt my throat worse than hell. I sunk back to lean against the wall and examined the contents of the bottle. The few droplets that remained deemed it unessecary to save, so i gulped down the last dribble just as a two pence piece was thrown down beside me. I looked up to utter a thank you, only to discover that they had gone, dissolving back into the sea of faceless commuters.
I gathered my belongings and stood, ready to elope to a new place, with new sounds, smells, and creatures. Trudging through the thick, grey-brown sludge on the side of the road, I came by one of those new Megastores- ten times the size of my old estate. I wandered in, just to take a look at the rows upon rows of shiny packaging, and to smell the warm, homely smell of freshly-cooked bread from their bakery. I began to look at these warm treats, poring over their golden crispy tops, when a strong arm began to push me away and out into the cold. In a flurry of shouts, pushes and taunts, I found myself forced to the floor with feeble snowflakes settling on my face and clothes. I looked up at my attackers, who sneered and spat down at me. These men, who knew better, but were not paid enough to care, began to beat me, with fists, stones and anything else they could find. I scrabbled for my bag, protecting it more dearly than my own life as I continued to be mercilessly hit and wounded. Their sticks felt like axes, their punches were bullets. They picked up my face and slammed it to the ground, hurling curses at me and ‘my kind’.... Eventually, they got bored and left me, half covered by snow, half covered by blood.
It has been many hours since my attackers’ left- maybe four, maybe five. Even now as I look up into the churning, white sky, I watch my hands. What once were fidgeting fingers are now blue, colourless lumps of skin and bone. I observe as they reach into my bag, and pull out that damn remote. I remember how we used to fight for it, and hide it from each other. I remember how we would just sit there and lazily flip through thousands of channels. I remember how easy life was. Sometimes I wish I could do just that- press a button to pause, rewind or completely change the channel of my life. Maybe this would have ended differently. But I guess it’s too late to mourn now.
I look around at my surroundings. I am in a thin, tall alleyway, with large skips protruding from damp ridden walls. The very smell of the decay is intoxicating, and as I continue to make no attempt to move, I sleep. I drift. I die.
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