cabbagescribe
New Member
Here's one I finished recently, a short story. Actually, it could be part of a series of stories/novel/whatever. To make it a stand-alone story, ignore the last paragraph. Basically what happened here is I took a real life event (someone told me a similar thing that they did) and I modified it a bit. That'll be the pattern of things if I continue with this.
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Booze and Pot
-by Me
With stiff movements, he took a step towards the other man and raised a hand. As if talking into it, he recounted, “We must produce something, for we cannot just stand around. What will become of us if we do? Nothing!”
“Then we should come up with ideas. What can someone of our skill do?” asked the other man. “Ed, we can’t come up with ideas. That is why we are stuck.” This speaker glanced at the grey-haired old woman sitting on the side, then decisively waited for Ed to speak his turn.
“What do we usually do? We can create around that, Nick,” Ed stated.
“Well, we smoke up, we drink. Not much else.”
“Then let us create something around smoking up and drinking!” A hearty forced laugh came from Ed. He looked around and became concerned.
“Indeed, it would be funny if we do that in the streets. Act out a pot and booze session.”
“As if in a play.”
“Brilliant! We…” Nick paused and scratched the back of his head. “We can write a play in the streets.”
“Act it out in the streets.”
“And the people in the streets will admire us! Brilliant!” Nick himself had a dull face when saying this. The old woman turned around and smiled a gap-toothed smile. Nick turned, expecting a smell to hit him any second from the hobo. She pulled a pear out of a pocked and rotated it in an old gloved hand.
Nick stopped, sighed and looked at the bucket. There wasn’t a single coin in it. He scratched the back of his black-haired head again. “Listen, Ed. Screw this, it isn’t working. Nobody likes us performing. Let’s go”
Ed swore under his breath. “Where?”
“Just around I guess. I have five bucks. Hungry?”
“Yeah, sure.” Ed picked up the bucket. In it were a few pieces of chalk, that’s how they delineated the area of the street used as a stage. Nobody walked inside, knowing by their amateur skills that they were acting to get a few bucks. Instead, people went and bought vegetables and jams from the stands, cheese and meat from the stores, or they went and stared at the fire-breathers and singers. Those were out of view, and Ed hoped that being around the corner from them would keep the audience free from distractions. There was no audience except the old hobo, and she didn’t pay attention or say a word. She sat there eating a pear.
One would expect Ed and Nick to be a great comedy pair. Nick was short, scrawny and black-haired, while Ed had a skilful command of facial expressions and a comic red shag on his head. They walked and turned the corner, onto what must be Larimer, because the fire-breathers were visible.
They walked past green-covered stands, the smell of greens mixing with the scent of fresh paint and cheeses. An occasional trace of gasoline hit the nose, from the fire guys or the homeless. The sky above was a clear blue, and Ed let a smile at last. Large clouds drifted across the sky, white and unthreatening. Ed and Nick kept walking.
“Maybe it’s just not realistic enough,” muttered Nick.
“What?”
“Well the whole thing we acted back there was about two stoners who try to come up with a street performance about weed and booze.”
Ed nodded.
“We don’t do weed. Maybe if we did more would come to watch, you know.”
“You’re not serious. Where are we eating? I’m hungry like I have the munchies.”
Nick shook his head and stated, “My cash, my choice.”
Nick knew the way around downtown anyway, so it didn’t bother Ed much. A good place would be found. They turned onto Lennox Street, where a construction crew dug incessantly beneath the warm sun. They passed tattoo parlours and brand-name stores. One had the exact same jacket that Nick was wearing: Ed long ago abandoned questioning his friend’s fashion decisions and was convinced that Nick loved extreme heat and cold. A black jacket would be ridiculous this day.
Another corner was turned, onto Ross Avenue, and Nick soon found his choice. It was a private sandwich shop, Nick’s favourite. Ed did not come often downtown, so this was the first time he saw the shop. A low, rumbling, apocalyptic-sounding song came from unseen speakers. A sleepy attendant made sandwiches at a speed that betrayed her extensive experience here. A diagonally-cut toasted salami sandwich for Ed, and a toasted cheese sandwich for Nick.
Still chewing, Nick said, “So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Ed, picking up his sandwich. It became more and more distant as he looked at it, and it didn’t really have any smell. Nick wasn’t saying anything, and he was indistinct as well. It was hard to remember the name of the store, or the street. What had just happened, and why? He saw his own face and lights flickering.
Ed hit his head on a glass pane and snapped out of it. He found himself facing the window as the trees and lampposts rushed by. It fogged with his breath, and he closed his mouth. The bizarre yellow glow on this bus hurt his eyes, and he could see a headache coming soon, like an outline of a train or bus on the horizon. Inevitable.
Beside Ed, Mary was sound asleep. Something was in his ear; he pulled it out, a black earbud. That’s where the apocalyptic music came from. He reached in his jacket pocket to put away the wires, and his hand slid on a plastic bag. He could feel something rough and crackling in it. The stuff.
A headache hit him now as he thought back. At Wayne’s they had been drinking – how much? Nick, surprisingly as always, drank so much and felt nothing despite his scrawny frame. Ed scratched his head. He was going to tell Nick about his idea – a street play written for two – but he just couldn’t when everyone was there. And now, on the bus, it just occurred to him how terrible it would be. Maybe he should never have ideas anymore. Ed should just… he didn’t know what to do. His mind was free from ideas now.
There was an idea back at Wayne’s. Luc had mentioned it: there was a drug deal that the police knew about and they were going to bust it. It was gonna be a big one. Luc’s uncle, you know man, he’s a cop. Luc didn’t know the guys dealing, and it didn’t matter. They were gonna dump their stuff, and Luc knew the area well. Nick was always open to crazy ideas, and he said yes before Luc finished. They could pick up the weed.
What the hell are they gonna do with weed? Wayne said he wasn’t a pothead, and neither was anyone there. Wayne’s sister begged him not to go through with this, weed is bad for you. Luc shrugged his shoulders. Nick explained they should go to the south, where all the potheads were, and sell the stuff. But what if they were attacked? It was 2 in the morning now. They would bring knives. Wayne brought his goddamn sword with. Luckily it was cold so they could keep all this under jackets.
They got the stuff, already in four bags, and got on the bus. The group: Wayne, Luc, Mary (who they woke up and gave a knife to), Ed, Nick, they must have been the strangest pack of drunks the driver had ever seen. They had trouble putting the money in the slots to get on, but they were dead silent and very, very polite.
But what if the police came for them? What if they try to sell it and someone pulls out a gun? Knives can’t stop bullets. Another pain hit the inside of Ed’s head. He stood up shaking and walked carefully over to Wayne.
“Listen, Wayne,” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t do this.” Ed paused, “I’m not open to ideas today.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just take the goddamn stuff.” Ed, making sure the bus driver looked away, carefully pulled out the plastic bag and handed it to Wayne, who quickly pocketed it.
“Alright, man, but you’re not getting any of the money.”
“I don’t want to get shot.”
Ed stumbled off of the bus on the next stop. It was on a busy road, but no traffic was there at 3 in the morning. Good thing, too, because Ed would definitely not have been able to make it to the other side of the road in that condition. He took the next bus home.
“So did you give him back the knife?” I asked after Ed told me this.
“Yeah, like a week later. I didn’t want to pull it out on the bus, that the driver would have seen right away.” He leaned back and played a little solo on his unplugged guitar.
I thought a little, then inquired, “So did the others make any money?”
Ed replied, “Nah, they couldn’t find anyone.”
“So what did they do with the weed?”
“I dunno, put it back in place or something. I didn’t ask.”
“So is there a point to this?”
“Yeah. Taught me that you shouldn’t mess with street performers. They’re way more entertaining than you are.”
I laughed.
“Oh yeah, and also, don’t deal drugs.” Ed finished his solo and added, “So I think in life you gotta make mistakes.” He headed down the hallway to the summer math class. “So you know what you will never end up doing.”
That’s good advice, I think, and that’s also how I spent my summers: finding out what I will never become. I doubt I could ever be a drug dealer.
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Booze and Pot
-by Me
With stiff movements, he took a step towards the other man and raised a hand. As if talking into it, he recounted, “We must produce something, for we cannot just stand around. What will become of us if we do? Nothing!”
“Then we should come up with ideas. What can someone of our skill do?” asked the other man. “Ed, we can’t come up with ideas. That is why we are stuck.” This speaker glanced at the grey-haired old woman sitting on the side, then decisively waited for Ed to speak his turn.
“What do we usually do? We can create around that, Nick,” Ed stated.
“Well, we smoke up, we drink. Not much else.”
“Then let us create something around smoking up and drinking!” A hearty forced laugh came from Ed. He looked around and became concerned.
“Indeed, it would be funny if we do that in the streets. Act out a pot and booze session.”
“As if in a play.”
“Brilliant! We…” Nick paused and scratched the back of his head. “We can write a play in the streets.”
“Act it out in the streets.”
“And the people in the streets will admire us! Brilliant!” Nick himself had a dull face when saying this. The old woman turned around and smiled a gap-toothed smile. Nick turned, expecting a smell to hit him any second from the hobo. She pulled a pear out of a pocked and rotated it in an old gloved hand.
Nick stopped, sighed and looked at the bucket. There wasn’t a single coin in it. He scratched the back of his black-haired head again. “Listen, Ed. Screw this, it isn’t working. Nobody likes us performing. Let’s go”
Ed swore under his breath. “Where?”
“Just around I guess. I have five bucks. Hungry?”
“Yeah, sure.” Ed picked up the bucket. In it were a few pieces of chalk, that’s how they delineated the area of the street used as a stage. Nobody walked inside, knowing by their amateur skills that they were acting to get a few bucks. Instead, people went and bought vegetables and jams from the stands, cheese and meat from the stores, or they went and stared at the fire-breathers and singers. Those were out of view, and Ed hoped that being around the corner from them would keep the audience free from distractions. There was no audience except the old hobo, and she didn’t pay attention or say a word. She sat there eating a pear.
One would expect Ed and Nick to be a great comedy pair. Nick was short, scrawny and black-haired, while Ed had a skilful command of facial expressions and a comic red shag on his head. They walked and turned the corner, onto what must be Larimer, because the fire-breathers were visible.
They walked past green-covered stands, the smell of greens mixing with the scent of fresh paint and cheeses. An occasional trace of gasoline hit the nose, from the fire guys or the homeless. The sky above was a clear blue, and Ed let a smile at last. Large clouds drifted across the sky, white and unthreatening. Ed and Nick kept walking.
“Maybe it’s just not realistic enough,” muttered Nick.
“What?”
“Well the whole thing we acted back there was about two stoners who try to come up with a street performance about weed and booze.”
Ed nodded.
“We don’t do weed. Maybe if we did more would come to watch, you know.”
“You’re not serious. Where are we eating? I’m hungry like I have the munchies.”
Nick shook his head and stated, “My cash, my choice.”
Nick knew the way around downtown anyway, so it didn’t bother Ed much. A good place would be found. They turned onto Lennox Street, where a construction crew dug incessantly beneath the warm sun. They passed tattoo parlours and brand-name stores. One had the exact same jacket that Nick was wearing: Ed long ago abandoned questioning his friend’s fashion decisions and was convinced that Nick loved extreme heat and cold. A black jacket would be ridiculous this day.
Another corner was turned, onto Ross Avenue, and Nick soon found his choice. It was a private sandwich shop, Nick’s favourite. Ed did not come often downtown, so this was the first time he saw the shop. A low, rumbling, apocalyptic-sounding song came from unseen speakers. A sleepy attendant made sandwiches at a speed that betrayed her extensive experience here. A diagonally-cut toasted salami sandwich for Ed, and a toasted cheese sandwich for Nick.
Still chewing, Nick said, “So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Ed, picking up his sandwich. It became more and more distant as he looked at it, and it didn’t really have any smell. Nick wasn’t saying anything, and he was indistinct as well. It was hard to remember the name of the store, or the street. What had just happened, and why? He saw his own face and lights flickering.
Ed hit his head on a glass pane and snapped out of it. He found himself facing the window as the trees and lampposts rushed by. It fogged with his breath, and he closed his mouth. The bizarre yellow glow on this bus hurt his eyes, and he could see a headache coming soon, like an outline of a train or bus on the horizon. Inevitable.
Beside Ed, Mary was sound asleep. Something was in his ear; he pulled it out, a black earbud. That’s where the apocalyptic music came from. He reached in his jacket pocket to put away the wires, and his hand slid on a plastic bag. He could feel something rough and crackling in it. The stuff.
A headache hit him now as he thought back. At Wayne’s they had been drinking – how much? Nick, surprisingly as always, drank so much and felt nothing despite his scrawny frame. Ed scratched his head. He was going to tell Nick about his idea – a street play written for two – but he just couldn’t when everyone was there. And now, on the bus, it just occurred to him how terrible it would be. Maybe he should never have ideas anymore. Ed should just… he didn’t know what to do. His mind was free from ideas now.
There was an idea back at Wayne’s. Luc had mentioned it: there was a drug deal that the police knew about and they were going to bust it. It was gonna be a big one. Luc’s uncle, you know man, he’s a cop. Luc didn’t know the guys dealing, and it didn’t matter. They were gonna dump their stuff, and Luc knew the area well. Nick was always open to crazy ideas, and he said yes before Luc finished. They could pick up the weed.
What the hell are they gonna do with weed? Wayne said he wasn’t a pothead, and neither was anyone there. Wayne’s sister begged him not to go through with this, weed is bad for you. Luc shrugged his shoulders. Nick explained they should go to the south, where all the potheads were, and sell the stuff. But what if they were attacked? It was 2 in the morning now. They would bring knives. Wayne brought his goddamn sword with. Luckily it was cold so they could keep all this under jackets.
They got the stuff, already in four bags, and got on the bus. The group: Wayne, Luc, Mary (who they woke up and gave a knife to), Ed, Nick, they must have been the strangest pack of drunks the driver had ever seen. They had trouble putting the money in the slots to get on, but they were dead silent and very, very polite.
But what if the police came for them? What if they try to sell it and someone pulls out a gun? Knives can’t stop bullets. Another pain hit the inside of Ed’s head. He stood up shaking and walked carefully over to Wayne.
“Listen, Wayne,” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t do this.” Ed paused, “I’m not open to ideas today.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just take the goddamn stuff.” Ed, making sure the bus driver looked away, carefully pulled out the plastic bag and handed it to Wayne, who quickly pocketed it.
“Alright, man, but you’re not getting any of the money.”
“I don’t want to get shot.”
Ed stumbled off of the bus on the next stop. It was on a busy road, but no traffic was there at 3 in the morning. Good thing, too, because Ed would definitely not have been able to make it to the other side of the road in that condition. He took the next bus home.
“So did you give him back the knife?” I asked after Ed told me this.
“Yeah, like a week later. I didn’t want to pull it out on the bus, that the driver would have seen right away.” He leaned back and played a little solo on his unplugged guitar.
I thought a little, then inquired, “So did the others make any money?”
Ed replied, “Nah, they couldn’t find anyone.”
“So what did they do with the weed?”
“I dunno, put it back in place or something. I didn’t ask.”
“So is there a point to this?”
“Yeah. Taught me that you shouldn’t mess with street performers. They’re way more entertaining than you are.”
I laughed.
“Oh yeah, and also, don’t deal drugs.” Ed finished his solo and added, “So I think in life you gotta make mistakes.” He headed down the hallway to the summer math class. “So you know what you will never end up doing.”
That’s good advice, I think, and that’s also how I spent my summers: finding out what I will never become. I doubt I could ever be a drug dealer.
