Author Topic: The Smith's story  (Read 2561 times)

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The Smith's story
« on: July 15, 2006, 11:20:41 PM »
Jeane and William were standing at the cemetery gates, looking over the rows and rows of old gravestones, most of them moss covered, tilted and broken. Prickly bramble, long green interwoven stems almost stopped them from entering the grave yard. William visibly shivered and rubbed his huge fat hands up and down his equally and proportionally fat arms. "How long do we have to wait here?"

"As long as it takes," replied Jeane. "If we want to stay here. A rush and a push and the land will be ours."

"I don't like it," moaned William. "I bet there are rats and everything under all these brambles. Let's go back to the old house and make another plan."

"No!" screeched Jeane. "You are going to help me with this! Is it really so strange? You're forgetting that money changes everything. We can have whatever we like! Forget the rats, lie down, stretch out and wait."

William's face burned as he watched Jeane bend and stretch out her body over the brambles. Pretty girls make graves, he thought to himself. She was not a girl afraid of anything. He thrived off her self-confidence and esteem; without her he felt as if he was half a person. He lay next to her and closed his eyes and immediately the image of his mother appearing behind his eye lids. He remembered himself as a child, waking up in the morning and peaking into his mother's bedroom. She would pretend to be asleep, then open one of eyes and tell him "Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me." He would run into her room and shout, "that's me! it's me!, clambering onto her bed and snuggling under the covers. "I will never share you," she told him as she stroked his greasy, unwashed and home cut hair.

His feelings for his mother still oscillate wildly. She never minded if he wanted to stay off school, and often encouraged him as she preferred his company in the house during the daytime. He hated the headmaster ritual anyway. They used to sit on the battered, pattern worn settee in the living room and watch day time television together. Sometimes he resented her behaviour towards him as he was a child. "Do you want something to eat?" she would ask, knowing that he would never say no. They sat, huddled together, eating slice after slice of margarita pizza, chocolate bars, biscuits and ice cream. "Some girls are bigger than others," his mother would confirm, lifting her stained man's T-shirt and patting her huge, wobbly, white and purple stretch marked belly. They never ate any meat as his mother taught him that meat was murder. He thought of her as a wonderful woman; the perfect mother. That was until he met with his first social worker, whom he detested after she had passed the comment that barbarism begins at home. The London county court judge informed him that the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that kills the child and suffer little children. William wondered if he was being sympathetic. Heaven knows I'm miserable now, he began to think after spending one unlovable, lonely, unhappy birthday after another.

Jeane turned her head to look at him. "We will have to make a move soon," she said.

"How soon?" asked William.

"How soon is now," retorted Jeane as she jumped to her feet. William struggled with his weight, rolling for a few moments before he could rise himself off the ground. Jeane rolled her eyes. "These things take time," she sighed and poked her foot at his fleshy thighs.

Panting, with small beads of sweat running down his flushing forehead, William gained balance and stood in front of Jeane. "Such a handsome devil," she sniggered. "Do you think that you can run with me across the graveyard?" she asked and immediately answered her own question. "Stay here, or we will get nowhere fast. I can hear them coming!" She ran off, her long hair flaying behind her smooth and shapely back. "Don't panic!" she called, looking back over her shoulder.

William stood and watched her running and jumping over the bramble, long legs lifting her supple body, her heavy army boots trampling the mass of wiry foliage towards a land rover that suddenly appeared around the corner of the old disintegrating church. Two men, clad in black suits, emerged from the vehicle and Jeane ran up to them. "Stop me if you think you have heard this before!" he heard her shouting to them. "The queen is dead!" Both men turned to look at each other, bemused expressions on their faces. Their attentions were turned to the sweet and tender hooligan who was now jumping up and down before them. "Really! and the vicar is wearing a tutu in the church!" is what she said next. "Come inside with me, see the vicar in a tutu!" Then men laughed in amusement. "Sheila take a bow!" he heard one of them say to her.

William could hear the men mumbling something to Jeane, the air not carrying the rest of their speech. He strained to hear what they were saying. "What difference does it make what they say to her," he thought. They are not going to leave this graveyard and open field alone. Business men in suits can only think about the money they can make on developing land like this. He leaned against one of the aged, chipped gravestones, the cold concrete biting into his arm. Death at one's elbow. He turned and focussed on the field behind the graveyard. He saw a rabbit, its while bobby tail bouncing up and down as it hopped across the clearing. He wondered where all the rabbits would go when they dug up the graveyard and filled its empty space with houses and shops. They will probably go on the Draize train to the labs, he thought sadly. The old graves with no longer be a memory of people who had lived, and the next time we come down here we will be reeling around the fountain in the middle of a posh residential development.

He turned around on hearing the men's voices and watched the three figures reappear from the collapsing mouth of the church. He moved towards them, realising that one of the brambles had snagged his long outsized coat. He untangled himself. "Who is this?" the tallest of the two men asked Jeane.

"My friend. And he is just my friend because he won't be my boyfriend. He's the one that I can't have." Jeane glared at William. "I know it's over."

"That joke isn't funny anymore," William flushed a deep purple. "I don't owe you anything. It's all a miserable lie," he muttered in half explanation to the two strange men who were obviously still amused by this episode.

"Ahh, I understand, the Rusholme ruffians, come to cause a bit of trouble in the graveyard?" the smallest man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. "This boy with the thorn in his side?" he pointed at William's thorn torn coat. William touched is coat nervously and watched as the man put a cigarette into his mouth and flicked the flam of a lighter. He coughed loudly after inhaling a deep drag of nicotine. "I'm still ill," he said, almost to himself.

"Well, spoke the tallest man, after a long silence. "This night has opened my eyes. What I will do is mention our little meeting at the next discussion with the developers."

Jeane placed her hands on her hips and locked eyes with the tallest of the men. "Frankly, Mr Shankly, that isn't good enough," she fumed. "You've got everything now. All the land around, there is no land left!"

The two men turned to one another and laughed loudly. Mr Shankly turned to Jeane. "You just haven't earned it yet, baby. This isn't your land. Now scat before I call the police and have you escorted off the premises and cautioned for trespassing!"

Jeane faked a laugh almost as loud as theirs. "Bigmouth strikes again!" she giggled, her face creased with an exaggerated and forged glee. "I started something I couldn't finish."

"What do you see in him?" asked Mr Shankly, when he eventually stopped laughing. "I don't want to paint a vulgar picture, but he is like a rubber ring." He wrapped his hand around the top of Jeane's arm and gently pulled her towards him. "He looks as if he had never had no one ever. Do you fit hand in glove with this charming man?" He smirked and looked at William. William looked away.

Jeane turned to Mr Shankly. "Please, please, please let me get what I want," she begged, her deep blue eyes staring into his soul.

"Well I wonder!" he turned to his accomplice. "Entreating isn't she!" He kept his hand on her bare, tanned arm. The smaller man took a few steps closer to her. Unabashed, she brought her knee up between the smaller man's legs. He gasped and fell to his knees, laying on his side with his hands cradling his crotch. His groans filled the otherwise silent and somewhat shocked air.

Mr Shankly's fingers began to bruise Jeane's flesh as he squeezed his fingers harder into her arm. Turning to William we warned, "I could put your girlfriend in a coma for that. She has such a temper!" He pressed his face closer to Jeane's as she shied backwards, becoming more aware of the pain in her arm. "Temper, temper!" he tormented.

William stepped towards Mr Shankly, stopping before the man who was still writhing on the floor. "I don't see your temper," said Mr Shankly, chiding William.

"I keep mine hidden," replied William. He slowly raised his hand and pointed the end of the barrel of a sawn off shotgun between Mr Shankly's eyes, who relaxed his grip on Jeane's arm. "You're not going to save this land, the graves or the animals. I am not going to save you." He pressed the trigger. A noisy flock of Canadian geese immediately flew into the air, frightened by the loud bang. Shankly fell to the floor, his arms splayed and a large red and grey, gaping hole thorough the top of his head.

"NO!" cried the smaller man, attempting to get to his feet. William turned and stood over him, pointing the gun downwards. Another shot startled the geese again. "There is a light that never goes out," said William, repositioning the shotgun so it touched the top of the man's head. He fired again. The man remained still, almost buried already underneath the masses of uncontrolled, blood splattered brambles.

William let the gun fall to his side. "Thank you." He looked a Jeane.

"William, it was really nothing," she replied, slipping her arm though his.
Found this on Danny Weiss'es Myspace


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Re: The Smith's story
« Reply #1 on: July 19, 2006, 09:00:37 PM »


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Re: The Smith's story
« Reply #2 on: July 22, 2006, 05:50:11 PM »
that was seriously awesome


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Re: The Smith's story
« Reply #3 on: August 01, 2006, 05:29:13 PM »
Hahaha well done!