novella
Active Member
Give me your ideas!! I want to make this thing fantasterrific.
I might call this story Murder Girl:
It was a stormyish and darkish night packed full of blackness and wetness, in other words rain, which decided to drop out of the sky at the most inconvenient time, right when the girl peeled herself off her carseat onto the sidewalk and started to meander down the street under the neon glow of various signs. Her names was Sarah Anne Blake and she had blue eyes that you couldn’t see in the dark and brown hair blow-dried just so. She guzzled the litre-sized bottle of imported Danish vodka down like it was water out of a waterfall, splashing into the throat of her body. Glug glug. It was agony and ecstasy at the same time and dribbled a bit on her velour hoodie, leaving a dark splash in the shape of a seahorse, but she didn’t notice. She was innocent but nobody thought she was, not even her, even though she was pretty sure she would never murder a person like a cold-blooded murderer. The idea of stabbing made a shiver up her spine. No way. The stars twinkled in her mind’s eye, behind her real eye as the vodka rolled through her bloodstream like clear antifreeze through a motor.
The multitool in her pocket felt confident. It had at least two types of knife on it, plus scissors and a file and other stuff like tweezers, but she never used the tweezers. Her eyebrows were okay as is. It weighed about a pound. She cradled it in her pants pocket like a precocious item, thinking of whether she might have digged it into that dead guy’s flesh they found and blamed her about.
The memory of it whacked her in the head like a bat, but it was still fuzzy. Maybe if she didn’t drink a gallon of vodka every now and then she would think a little more crisply. That might be an idea. Oh, yeah, the memory. Which was this guy looming off a stained green couch from someone’s parents, trying to have a conversation at a party in one of the dormitories, which they weren’t supposed to be having. She was under twenty-one, even though everyone else was drinking too, so she didn’t stand out particularly, though her quantity was precise. She hardly ever went to class so had little notion of who everyone was at the college she went to, just her roommate Kim, a floozy who really went at it all hours of the day and night. Figures. They were get stuck with each other in the same room, so Sarah Anne never went there. She was a fixture in the Ratskeller, a bar most people hated.
The couch guy looked at her with the intensity of a maniac. His name was Norbert Knapsack, which she found out afterwards when they found his dead body lying like a leg of lamb on the dinnertable, except his body was in the parking lot next to the student union, lying around behind one of those ugly cars that looks like a washing machine with a brain tumor, which are surprisingly popular in Europe. He must have writhed in agony at some point, contorting with the pain of being stabbed by a total stranger. Or maybe it was someone who knew him quite well, on a first-name basis. That was what she needed to find out to clear her name of this horrible accusation that had no basis, except that they found her lying around nearby in the same parking lot covered in blood and had not memory. At least that wasn’t foggy. But it was starting to clear up.
The sidewalk came really close to her head as she nearly fell over. She could practically see the old chewing gum blobs ground into the aggregate mix. She tossed the empty bottle into a trash can, making a clashing tinkling noise as it cracked into at least fifty pieces. Life was like that, she thought. Crashing into a trash can like a broken bottle. When would she grow up and smell the coffee?
I might call this story Murder Girl:
It was a stormyish and darkish night packed full of blackness and wetness, in other words rain, which decided to drop out of the sky at the most inconvenient time, right when the girl peeled herself off her carseat onto the sidewalk and started to meander down the street under the neon glow of various signs. Her names was Sarah Anne Blake and she had blue eyes that you couldn’t see in the dark and brown hair blow-dried just so. She guzzled the litre-sized bottle of imported Danish vodka down like it was water out of a waterfall, splashing into the throat of her body. Glug glug. It was agony and ecstasy at the same time and dribbled a bit on her velour hoodie, leaving a dark splash in the shape of a seahorse, but she didn’t notice. She was innocent but nobody thought she was, not even her, even though she was pretty sure she would never murder a person like a cold-blooded murderer. The idea of stabbing made a shiver up her spine. No way. The stars twinkled in her mind’s eye, behind her real eye as the vodka rolled through her bloodstream like clear antifreeze through a motor.
The multitool in her pocket felt confident. It had at least two types of knife on it, plus scissors and a file and other stuff like tweezers, but she never used the tweezers. Her eyebrows were okay as is. It weighed about a pound. She cradled it in her pants pocket like a precocious item, thinking of whether she might have digged it into that dead guy’s flesh they found and blamed her about.
The memory of it whacked her in the head like a bat, but it was still fuzzy. Maybe if she didn’t drink a gallon of vodka every now and then she would think a little more crisply. That might be an idea. Oh, yeah, the memory. Which was this guy looming off a stained green couch from someone’s parents, trying to have a conversation at a party in one of the dormitories, which they weren’t supposed to be having. She was under twenty-one, even though everyone else was drinking too, so she didn’t stand out particularly, though her quantity was precise. She hardly ever went to class so had little notion of who everyone was at the college she went to, just her roommate Kim, a floozy who really went at it all hours of the day and night. Figures. They were get stuck with each other in the same room, so Sarah Anne never went there. She was a fixture in the Ratskeller, a bar most people hated.
The couch guy looked at her with the intensity of a maniac. His name was Norbert Knapsack, which she found out afterwards when they found his dead body lying like a leg of lamb on the dinnertable, except his body was in the parking lot next to the student union, lying around behind one of those ugly cars that looks like a washing machine with a brain tumor, which are surprisingly popular in Europe. He must have writhed in agony at some point, contorting with the pain of being stabbed by a total stranger. Or maybe it was someone who knew him quite well, on a first-name basis. That was what she needed to find out to clear her name of this horrible accusation that had no basis, except that they found her lying around nearby in the same parking lot covered in blood and had not memory. At least that wasn’t foggy. But it was starting to clear up.
The sidewalk came really close to her head as she nearly fell over. She could practically see the old chewing gum blobs ground into the aggregate mix. She tossed the empty bottle into a trash can, making a clashing tinkling noise as it cracked into at least fifty pieces. Life was like that, she thought. Crashing into a trash can like a broken bottle. When would she grow up and smell the coffee?
