Word Dump

Just a thread to encourage me to be more creative. Easy now.

Well I meant for this to be like for lyrics, poems, near-non-fic or short stories I write but I'd love to see more people have a crack at it as well.

I fully intend on getting some prose written over this weekend, it's been nearly four years since my last novel and I've barely put pen to paper since. Cos I'm a f*cking moron, like, too lazy to even bother to do the only one f*cking thing I've ever been good at

No apology necessary.

“Hey, safe, how’s it going?”
The boy was about sixteen years old. He had brown hair that was longer than most and brown, smiling eyes. The person he was talking to carried a less theatrical scowl but just then his expression was attentive, open.
“Yeah. I ain’t too sad. You alright?”He was taller than Lawrence. The short hair on his head had been carefully gelled and spiked. People called him Riggs because he loathed his first name.
They were both dressed in a black school uniform. They wore their ties short. Both were enjoying the slow walk up the road, pleased that they hadn’t yet reached their destination and wouldn’t for a good ten minutes. They knew the route well enough.
“Yeah, mate. A little tired. Up late last night, you know. Did you see the film?” Said Lawrence.
“On three? Yeah. Didn’t rate it. I would’ve gone round Emily’s or arsed about the estate but it was too cold.” Said Riggs.
“You’re telling me. I was mowing the lawn and I’m positive I caught some kind of flu.” Lawrence’s father had decided some months before that it was time for his son to start earning his ample pocket money, and the novelty of their large garden having long worn off, had passed the buck.
Lawrence and Riggs walked on. Past smart suburban homes that had been erected, and allowed several peaceful years to stand before a school, that by a quirk of geography and force of personality became ‘inner-city’, had been built and untidied their safe, liberal values and aspirations. Impeccably neat thirty-somethings, who at university had been communists dead against the very concept of private property, stared out of their windows rasping their palms over their designer stubble and worried what the little hoodlums were doing to their housing value.
They walked by a train track for a while and then the raliway station. Through criss-cross wire fencing they saw grey commuters in grey clothes. The commuters still, waiting for a train and retirement. The trees blocked out most of the sunlight at this time of day, so the road had a green tint. They walked into a dilapidated cornershop which lounged under a cheerful faded yellow soft drink sign. They went inside and found a bald man behind a counter framed by cigarette packets on one side and bottles on the other. Most had a rapport with the man who had long ago discovered a professional friendliness was both easier to hold up and more of a shoplifting deterrent than any misguided hard-faced persona. Riggs picked up a green pack of mint chewing gum that Lawrence paid for with a flourish.
There was a scarcity of conversation to be had in the mornings together that left the naturally verbose Lawrence slightly uncomfortable, disliking the silence. Riggs happily chewed his gum.
“Was there any homework for Turner?”
“Don’t know. Probably.”
“I didn’t do it if there was.” Said Lawrence with a kind of pride.
“Yeah.” Said Riggs, content to leave it at that. They talked about football for a time.
Riggs liked Lawrence, understood him. His Gran and Lawrence’s mother knew each other well. The boys had played together when what would go on to seem like big differences were still unnoticeable. They had gone to the same primary school and had gotten one another out of trouble more than once. Now, even they moved in different crowds, both enjoyed their time together.
Lawrence knew that, football aside, the best thing draw Riggs from his monosyllabacy was the women in his life and decided it would kill the time until they reached the school gates and were seperated for the day until they walked back down that road in the opposite direction.
“How’s your Gran?”
“We ain’t talking at the moment.” Said Riggs after a pause.
“Oh. What’s happening with Emily these days, then?”
Riggs smiled a rarely seen cheeky little boy’s smile that Lawrence felt was unsuited to his face.

The Ballad of Crime & Punishment

A razor-thin man slunk through decay
With a confused head of ice dreams
Rodion Suven stared down the town
To work thru his murderous schemes
A great mind immune to remorse
Working over his old re-used theme

The bloody thoughts once thought a joke
A candid way to pass the time
But lonely days erode goodwill
And those without will lean to crime
He looked so hard but saw none
Of none of the milk of the good & kind

A light wallet and a lighter stomach
Will oft times lead towards a fall
But those you love being worse off
Is the bitterest pill of them all
Yes, those you love, love you back
Would imprison themselves in a wedding shawl

As your sister goes to marry
Not for love, but for you
The guilt that wrenches in your gut
Can nigh-on tear you into two
And to fix it even a good man
Would something horrendous do

Your lifestyle has led to this
Drowning in a sea of debt
You need some cash on your hip
And some way to forget
You think that you could take a life
Then live your life without regret

Feeling this, Rod felt a thirst
Unquenchable by water
Found a place called ‘The Crown’
To sup a jar of porter
Battered polished stool to sit
And eye the landlord’s sweet daughter

Pleasing brown and shining brass
From the ceiling to the door
Dirty suits hang heads to glasses
Sipping away sanguine sores
A fire laughed in the corner
As a good mood was poured

There slimed a slumlord named Smith
Past those worse off than he
A smile upon a haggard face
Pockets lined with poverty
Rod watched as he pass’d by
Seeing the corpse that soon would be

Quote: Mrs Scruff, Jan 2010

It's good!
How old sis you say you were when you wrote it again?

And what have you done with your books?

Eighteen.

My books are sat outside in the communual stairwell outside my flat. There must be at least a hundred quid in second hand prices sat there, at least, so at some point I'm going to get over my eBay phobia, find someone to invest in the initial P&P costs and shot them on.