So I've never really been big on writing, it's only really here on forum I've ever done much of it, but I've always fancied having a go at creative writing and have constant ideas for stories.
SO I finally got round to giving it a go and here's the first couple of pages of what I'm working on. I'd really appreciate some honest feedback from any writers or anyone interested in reading fiction
Chelsea Boots are not made for running
A short story by Enid Blighted (AKA Mr Bumble)
Waking up on a Sunday morning after a good night’s sleep and knowing you have nothing more important to do than read the Sunday rag and drink coffee, is one of the most satisfying simple pleasures life has to offer. Well that’s what “Arty” Arthur Bryant- Smith had always thought and he wasn’t one to be satisfied with “life simple pleasures” On days like that life seemed to slowly phase into existence with the rising of the sun.
This is not how his day started today. For starters he had not had a good nights sleep, you couldn’t really call it sleep at all, more like a total system failure of all but his vital organs as he passed out onto the crack house floor. It also wasn’t Sunday, or even Saturday, it was Friday and he should have been at work 2 hours ago. And slowly phasing into existence was not in anyway the right description of how he awoke this morning.
Rather then slowly phasing into existence he was booted into it with a searing pain in his stomach, a burning sensation in his throat and a sudden sense of urgency to get to the bathroom before something really bad happened.
His face was stuck to grimy kitchen floor with some unidentified sticky substance.
As he pulled himself to his feet, a loose lino tile most probably laid in the 70’s came with him stuck to his cheek. He batted at his face like a cat swatting flies as he lurched across the room, his eyes doing there best to focus on the door and his legs to propel him in the direction he wanted to go.
Both however failed to do there jobs correctly and he slammed into the kitchen table with enough force to send weeks, possibly months worth of beer cans, fag butts, take away boxes and all other manner of detritus in to the air. He spun in an almost perfect pirouette and landed amongst the rubbish smashing his head on the floor, CRACK his ears rang and for a moment time seemed to stop, but then it returned along with the sense of urgency which was now at a critical level.
Still stunned from the fall and now in even less of a state to regain control of his legs and balance, he scuttled on all fours across the kitchen and towards the bathroom.
He moved in a manner that could be best described as half like a blind, drunk, arthritic dog chasing a ball, and half like the hopeless and desperate attempts of a woodlouse trapped in a jar and trying to escape the heat of the sun focused through a Childs magnifying glass.
Desperate his attempt was but possibly not hopeless yet he thought as he made it to the bathroom door and saw that the toilet lid was up; in fact it was missing completely along with the seat. Critical mass had now been reached, the pain in his stomach was now a torrent of vile tasting green vomit surging up his throat and spraying out of his mouth. In one last valiant effort he dived towards the toilet spraying it, the wall behind and his own hands with his own brand of bio paint before he could focus the tsunami of sick into the bowl.
He gasped and choked between the endless waves of sick, yet seemed unable to synchronise the spasms in his stomach and the simple act of breathing. Coughing and spluttering he felt he would suffocate for certain, before finally managing to regain enough control over his bodily function to inhale a deep breath of air.
The air he breathed in however stung his throat. It stung worse than the acid that had accumulated in his stomach following the 3 courses of outrageously rich food, copious amount of red wine and the many hours of larger drinking and cocaine taking that had followed it the day before today.
His eyes focus on the source of the stench which was the now overflowing toilet bowl he had just emptied his guts into. It was probably the most disgusting site he had ever seen and would have made him retch even if it hadn’t been accompanied by a stench that could strip wall paper.
The toilet was quite clearly blocked, but this fact had not stopped it being used, and by the looks of it many times. His own vomit, and god knows how many of London’s crack heads urine and feces was inches from his face and pouring over the side of the toilet bowl his was holding onto.
Upon this grim realisation he jumped back and began to vomit and gasp for air once more, although this time without any consideration such as aiming it at the toilet.
He regained a little composure. Looking at the vile broth he considered flushing the toilet, but came to his senses realising that flushing a block toilet would just lead to further overflow of the shit, piss and sick cocktail.
“Fucking animals” he crooked as he stood there with his dripping hands held out in front of him. The room swayed as he tried to pull himself together and recover after the trauma of the last few minutes. He was thirsty, really bloody thirsty, but knew the first course of action had to be to wash the shit of his hands. He inspected the sink, and although filthy with soap scum, toothpaste and what looked like a few drops of blood, compared to the toilet it looked positively gleaming. He turned both taps on full but left the plug out and thoroughly rinsed his hands.
Water clearly wasn’t going to be enough to cleanse the filth and bacteria from his hands, so he was pleasantly surprised to see that the cabinet above the sink was stocked full of cleaning products and toiletries.
The reason he was surprised was due to the utterly disgusting state the entire flat was in, every room had its own distinct smell and grim centre piece.
The bedroom was piled high with moulding cloths surrounding a half collapsed bed. The sheets had gone black with colony of bacteria that was steadily evolving into a sentient life form, born from the sweet of the numerous addicts who had past out in it. Its scent was a mix of stagnant urine, sweat and mould.
The hallway connecting the rooms was piled with black rubbish bags that someone had taken the time to fill, but not to carry the twenty yards out the front door to the rubbish shoot; the smell was that of a landfill site.
The kitchen/living room was filled with torn and broken 70’s furniture; the lino floor was black with a layer of cigarette ash. It’s centre piece was a large round table that Arty had crashed into, it was covered with overflowing ashtrays, half full beer cans and rotting takeaway leftovers and all manner of drug paraphernalia, the over powering smell in here was that chemical smell that seeps into everything it touches, the smell of crack cocaine.
And of course the bathroom with its toilet, the contents of which Arty was now trying to clean from his hands. Cleaning was clearly not high on the list of priorities for the occupants of the flat, so it seemed curious they would have such a selection of cleaning products and toiletries.
He rifled through the cabinet casually discarding bottles and such on the floor as he went. He found and unopened bottle of disinfectant and poured half its contents onto his hands before resuming his search. Something caught his eye, it was a bar of soap, one of those small wrapped bars you get free into hotel rooms, and this one bore a mark he recognised, it was from the Savoy Hotel. “Like any of these disgusting fucking peasants has ever stayed in the Savoy” he said to himself.
It always surprised him the places crack addicts would manage to get into and the things they would steal, but how they had come into per session of a bar of soap was of little importance.
He unwrapped it and began to wash, he soaped and rinsed several times before emptying the rest of the disinfectant on his hands and throwing the empty bottle over his shoulder, soaped and rinsed another two times and chucked the soap as well.
He needed to drink but still very aware of what had just covered his hands and he didn’t dare cup water into them, so bending over he carefully positioned himself making sure his lips and face did not make contact with the tap or sink he gulped down water.
After satisfying his thirst and rinsing his mouth he splashed cold water onto his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He stood up still holding his hands to his face and groaned. “Oh my fucking head” it was pounding; every beat of his heart felt like it pumped pure pain into his temples. He closed the cabinet door and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. He looked like he felt, and he felt like shit.