Post by TSP on Mar 22, 2007 18:29:21 GMT -5
When I'm bored, I come up with stories.
Most of them are short lived and hardly make it past the first few lines - some make it past a few paragraphs.
I'm going to post something here that I wrote a while back during a stressful time in my life for myself and for my family - rated PG13 for substance abuse, and foul language. Note that all characters mentioned are fictional, any relation to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Thank you ^_^
Kevyn was having a rough day, Hell, he was having a rough week. He turned the bright orange jar around in his large hands a few more times before absentmindedly looking at the label again.
Pills. goddamned bloody pills.
All for what? Hyper Tension. The mother of all Stress. Built up for the last few months, and why?
He chuckled to himself as he popped open the jar.
"fucking job." he muttered, tapping the orange tube gently with his index finger. Two chalky white pills fell into his cavernous palm, and he looked down upon them with tired, red-rimmed eyes. How were these supposed to help him?
"Do you make the world a better place?" he murmured, his thoughts tumbling back over the last week in a horrendous blur, "Are you supposed to make the lawsuits, the hatred, and the misunderstandings disappear?"
His eyes wandered back to the label.
Nope. But they did make the world disappear, if only for a few hours at a time. fucking hyper relaxants.
He threw the pills into his mouth, and washed them down with a glass of luke-warm water. His face twisted for a moment in disgust. He hated pills, always had, and yet he found himself taking more and more now that he was older.
Vitamins, Salmon oil this, and glucosemine that. Not to mention the calcium pills, the zinc pills and the protein milkshakes.
He sighed, rather heavily, and his mind turned over to new thoughts. What was on TV tonight?
Kevyn flipped through the channels of the TV with the sticky, crumb-encrusted controller, not really paying any mind to the shows that flickered on the screen. He wanted a drink.
No, he NEEDED a drink.
He found himself making a rum and coke before he knew it. Amazing what routine does to you. A life made simple by routine. He could probably turn his mind off and still get through the day thanks to his routine, his rut, his boring and hellish life.
Channel surfing resumed, and it fell into a cadence, following a beat that wasn't there. The short and sudden noises from the TV cutting the silence for a moment before another merciless change.
The volume was too high, and the tint was off, and yet none of that registered with him.
The ice shifted and clinked. Condensation gathered and fell. The glass was brought to his lips and replaced. Over and over again, until the glass was emptied; refilled again, and again, emptied. Routine.
Kevyn's eyes glazed over slightly as he stared at the television without seeing. Why was he letting all of this bother him so much? He didn't DO anything. He didn't deserve this.
His vision was getting softer around the edges, and his mind stumbled over his thoughts, and he found himself smiling at nothing, and thinking of nothing in particular. Wait. What WAS he thinking about?
Nothing important, surely.
Ahh, work.
He grew angry at that. His once sharp gaze fell to look at his once-again empty glass. How many had he had already? He forgot.
A tear, followed closely by another, gently cleared a path down his face, through the unshaven stubble, to fall unceremoniously into his glass.
He had a fleeting thought to fill the glass with tears, perhaps. No doubt he could do it, what with the combination of drugs and alcohol spinning his emotions out of control.
Instead he crossed his strong arms in front of him and leaned forward onto the kitchen table from his seat, and placed his weary head upon them. He should be doing better now.
"I've left work, I'm going to be all right." he grumbled, though his words made little sense to him.
Nothing would be all right, not with those cursed women getting what they wanted.
"They have us by the balls, and they're not letting go." he managed to say, choking back a sob.
The female firefighters of Richmond had, over the past few years, been making claims against their coworkers, filing suits for harassment and abuse where abuse and harassment were never present. Only now, and why now, have the papers responded. Over the past week, there have been headlines reading "Richmond Firefighters undergoing Sensitivity Training to better the working relationship between men and women" and "Fire[men] have been bringing prostitutes into their workplaces" and "'----- was harassed at the workplace constantly, waking upon a call to find human feces in her boots, and finding that, arriving upon a scene, no water had been directed to her hose-line'". nuts like that.
Kevyn Ruther had never done ANYTHING to make the female staff feel harassed. He was polite, and, if anything, avoided any sort of confrontation with them, knowing that anything he said could be taken the wrong way.
And yet, with all of that said, he and his honorable and trustworthy pals at the station were being harassed - by the public! The public that they're out there to save, serve and protect!
His back shook with laughter for a few moments, 'One day, we're going to be doing a rescue, only to find that no one will want to be rescued by us.' he thought, 'The public is eating this up.'
Most of them are short lived and hardly make it past the first few lines - some make it past a few paragraphs.
I'm going to post something here that I wrote a while back during a stressful time in my life for myself and for my family - rated PG13 for substance abuse, and foul language. Note that all characters mentioned are fictional, any relation to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Thank you ^_^
Kevyn was having a rough day, Hell, he was having a rough week. He turned the bright orange jar around in his large hands a few more times before absentmindedly looking at the label again.
Pills. goddamned bloody pills.
All for what? Hyper Tension. The mother of all Stress. Built up for the last few months, and why?
He chuckled to himself as he popped open the jar.
"fucking job." he muttered, tapping the orange tube gently with his index finger. Two chalky white pills fell into his cavernous palm, and he looked down upon them with tired, red-rimmed eyes. How were these supposed to help him?
"Do you make the world a better place?" he murmured, his thoughts tumbling back over the last week in a horrendous blur, "Are you supposed to make the lawsuits, the hatred, and the misunderstandings disappear?"
His eyes wandered back to the label.
Nope. But they did make the world disappear, if only for a few hours at a time. fucking hyper relaxants.
He threw the pills into his mouth, and washed them down with a glass of luke-warm water. His face twisted for a moment in disgust. He hated pills, always had, and yet he found himself taking more and more now that he was older.
Vitamins, Salmon oil this, and glucosemine that. Not to mention the calcium pills, the zinc pills and the protein milkshakes.
He sighed, rather heavily, and his mind turned over to new thoughts. What was on TV tonight?
Kevyn flipped through the channels of the TV with the sticky, crumb-encrusted controller, not really paying any mind to the shows that flickered on the screen. He wanted a drink.
No, he NEEDED a drink.
He found himself making a rum and coke before he knew it. Amazing what routine does to you. A life made simple by routine. He could probably turn his mind off and still get through the day thanks to his routine, his rut, his boring and hellish life.
Channel surfing resumed, and it fell into a cadence, following a beat that wasn't there. The short and sudden noises from the TV cutting the silence for a moment before another merciless change.
The volume was too high, and the tint was off, and yet none of that registered with him.
The ice shifted and clinked. Condensation gathered and fell. The glass was brought to his lips and replaced. Over and over again, until the glass was emptied; refilled again, and again, emptied. Routine.
Kevyn's eyes glazed over slightly as he stared at the television without seeing. Why was he letting all of this bother him so much? He didn't DO anything. He didn't deserve this.
His vision was getting softer around the edges, and his mind stumbled over his thoughts, and he found himself smiling at nothing, and thinking of nothing in particular. Wait. What WAS he thinking about?
Nothing important, surely.
Ahh, work.
He grew angry at that. His once sharp gaze fell to look at his once-again empty glass. How many had he had already? He forgot.
A tear, followed closely by another, gently cleared a path down his face, through the unshaven stubble, to fall unceremoniously into his glass.
He had a fleeting thought to fill the glass with tears, perhaps. No doubt he could do it, what with the combination of drugs and alcohol spinning his emotions out of control.
Instead he crossed his strong arms in front of him and leaned forward onto the kitchen table from his seat, and placed his weary head upon them. He should be doing better now.
"I've left work, I'm going to be all right." he grumbled, though his words made little sense to him.
Nothing would be all right, not with those cursed women getting what they wanted.
"They have us by the balls, and they're not letting go." he managed to say, choking back a sob.
The female firefighters of Richmond had, over the past few years, been making claims against their coworkers, filing suits for harassment and abuse where abuse and harassment were never present. Only now, and why now, have the papers responded. Over the past week, there have been headlines reading "Richmond Firefighters undergoing Sensitivity Training to better the working relationship between men and women" and "Fire[men] have been bringing prostitutes into their workplaces" and "'----- was harassed at the workplace constantly, waking upon a call to find human feces in her boots, and finding that, arriving upon a scene, no water had been directed to her hose-line'". nuts like that.
Kevyn Ruther had never done ANYTHING to make the female staff feel harassed. He was polite, and, if anything, avoided any sort of confrontation with them, knowing that anything he said could be taken the wrong way.
And yet, with all of that said, he and his honorable and trustworthy pals at the station were being harassed - by the public! The public that they're out there to save, serve and protect!
His back shook with laughter for a few moments, 'One day, we're going to be doing a rescue, only to find that no one will want to be rescued by us.' he thought, 'The public is eating this up.'