FT: Free Darkness ISO: Creative writing

I’ve been on the run for almost three years now. Unfortunately, and I’m not just being paranoid here, I can say without a fraction of a doubt that they haven’t yet called off the search. The thing that keeps me from being caught is never letting my guard down. That means that I walk the straight and arrow now, I don’t make any waves, I’ve never went back and contacted my friends and family, I’ve never returned home to retrieve any of my possessions, I’ve never used a cell phone, and I’ve never, NEVER, told anyone my whereabouts. But this is a god damn bottle of darkness we’re talking about, and how will madvike send it to me if I don’t tell him where I am.

Michael was sick and tired of being sick and tired but was too sick and tired to do something about it. And so it goes, he sat there on the couch, the cheap faux leather enveloping the pimply fat creases of his legs, and he stared at the black, fingerprint laden screen of his tv. Michael was still unsure of whether he had forgotten to pay the cable bill or whether he had forgotten to pay the electric bill, all he knew was that the screen was black and he was too damn lazy to get up to assess the problem.

Michael was obviously depressed, and even after traveling through the deepest, darkest holes of his memory, he couldn’t remember a single time he wasn’t. Though anyone looking at his disgustingly out of shape, obese appearance would assume he took great pleasure in consumption, Michael ate and drank simply to take his mind off of the emptiness that seemed to always surround him.

On the table next to Michael lay an empty bottle of Surly Darkness, a beer that Michael felt a certain connection to as he knew all too much about darkness. It consumed him as much as he consumed it. Lying next to the bottle was a birthday card Michael had received from his parents yet it remained unopened notwithstanding his birthday passing over three months prior. Michael had not opened the card not because of his strange, socially awkward relationship with his parents and the all so common embarassment he felt from their words but because he did not want to take the chance of the card mentioning how old he had just turned. Michael had no idea how old he was...

Warning: Some foul language.

I put down the money and the goods. Eighteen dollars and a six pack of beer. Dammit, twenty minutes ago, I was sitting on a barstool, next to some damn floozy and her crew-necked boy toy, now this con artist with a pair of Leggs distorting his fat nose and beady eyes has got his revolver aimed square at my chest. In the middle of the goddamn street. Drying shirts on lines overhead, but no faces watching. Or maybe watching because they hadn’t seen enough men get shot.

"You got more money than that."

"My wallet’s right goddamn there."

"Think I’m stupid? People ain’t got money to drink, but you’re falling over. And you got more."

My jacket pocket wouldn’t stay close enough to my chest. I could run, and he’d shoot, and I’d survive. Survive with a bad scar and gangrene. The doctors couldn’t afford to sterilize. They had to pack up their ragged briefcases and run quick.

"How’d you get your money?"

"Bootleg liquor and prostitutes. Both kinds." I don’t know why I was selling him on the business. A male escort wasn’t on this guy’s mind. Probably.

"Like I said, you got money. But you ain’t high up, cuz you ain’t go no guards."

"Maybe people aren’t stupid enough to shoot me."

"I am."

Originally posted by writerljberg
Warning: Some foul language.

I put down the money and the goods. Eighteen dollars and a six pack of beer. Dammit, twenty minutes ago, I was sitting on a barstool, next to some damn floozy and her crew-necked boy toy, now this con artist with a pair of Leggs distorting his fat nose and beady eyes has got his revolver aimed square at my chest. In the middle of the goddamn street. Drying shirts on lines overhead, but no faces watching. Or maybe watching because they hadn’t seen enough men get shot.

"You got more money than that."

"My wallet’s right goddamn there."

"Think I’m stupid? People ain’t got money to drink, but you’re falling over. And you got more."

My jacket pocket wouldn’t stay close enough to my chest. I could run, and he’d shoot, and I’d survive. Survive with a bad scar and gangrene. The doctors couldn’t afford to sterilize. They had to pack up their ragged briefcases and run quick.

"How’d you get your money?"

"Bootleg liquor and prostitutes. Both kinds." I don’t know why I was selling him on the business. A male escort wasn’t on this guy’s mind. Probably.

"Like I said, you got money. But you ain’t high up, cuz you ain’t go no guards."

"Maybe people aren’t stupid enough to shoot me."

"I am."

Bumping this one for the evening crowd.

An ode to Darkness:
Desired never wrought
You find me in my thought
Alone at night, feeling right
I seek you in my cup

Intoxicating mist or inebriating risk
They follow the delivery truck
The lines I see aren’t just for me
Popularity sucks

I think Hunter S has the best intro ever,

"We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we’d get into that rotten stuff pretty soon."

And he most certainly references a case of beer.

Originally posted by madvike

Originally posted by writerljberg
Warning: Some foul language.

I put down the money and the goods. Eighteen dollars and a six pack of beer. Dammit, twenty minutes ago, I was sitting on a barstool, next to some damn floozy and her crew-necked boy toy, now this con artist with a pair of Leggs distorting his fat nose and beady eyes has got his revolver aimed square at my chest. In the middle of the goddamn street. Drying shirts on lines overhead, but no faces watching. Or maybe watching because they hadn’t seen enough men get shot.

"You got more money than that."

"My wallet’s right goddamn there."

"Think I’m stupid? People ain’t got money to drink, but you’re falling over. And you got more."

My jacket pocket wouldn’t stay close enough to my chest. I could run, and he’d shoot, and I’d survive. Survive with a bad scar and gangrene. The doctors couldn’t afford to sterilize. They had to pack up their ragged briefcases and run quick.

"How’d you get your money?"

"Bootleg liquor and prostitutes. Both kinds." I don’t know why I was selling him on the business. A male escort wasn’t on this guy’s mind. Probably.

"Like I said, you got money. But you ain’t high up, cuz you ain’t go no guards."

"Maybe people aren’t stupid enough to shoot me."

"I am."

Foul language doesn’t bother me. But is your entry fair? I mean, you’ve got "writer" right in your name...

i have been released from the hospital. i was diagnosed with and the doc stuck his up my butt and gave me a as I let out a . I as i felt so from what happened. I found a note from the doc that said and he hopes to buy me a and that he wants to me and get a little . He said that he was going to milk the prostate and instead of using one finger he was going to use and I repsonded with .

One last bump for any Friday entries...