third man girl
New Member
This is the first ‘complete’ story I have written. I’ll give you the intro, and then an excerpt from later on in the story.
I would appreciate comments from anyone who could take the time to read this, readers and writers alike. I’m not too confident about writing action stuff (eg the car race) and I wonder if it sounds authentic?
Warning: I have rated it ‘18’, because there is sex in it. No violence. Some swearing.
For non-Brits:
Rangers – a big Scottish football team. big big. Analogy: Mapleleafs hockey team to Canada
Durex – brand of condom.
Vehicles – your offside is our nearside (obviously
)
Capri – a type of Ford motor car.
Bedford – a type of van.
The narrator is Pete (the ‘guardian’ in my Crimson Tears poem, and the guy with the toddler in Another Man’s Child). He is sixteen in the story, not naïve, but a ‘late starter’ compared with his mates, if you get my drift . . .
‘The Penetrator’ is a souped-up van belonging to his brother. It has a three-seater bench at the front. The back is load-holding space, but has been converted for comfort: mattresses, cushions, etc. Pete can drive, but is underage, legally. The scene is set in the late eighties.
INTRO
There was nothing remarkable about my family: I had a father, a mother, a sister, a brother. My brother Stephen, taller and broader than I would ever become, and as blond and blue-eyed as the rest of the family, earned the nickname ‘Norse’ at school. The name suited and stuck. Norse was to blame for my first fag, my first drink and my first fight; even, debatably, my first ****. He claimed that I needed encouragement. But it was our younger sister who was christened the war-child, not because of any specific war raging at the time of her birth, but because she agitated conflict wherever she went. Abbie rarely became entangled in the trouble she created; however, she was the catalyst who sparked off my parents’ quarrels and frequent punch-ups between Norse and myself. She was often to blame for spiteful weeping outbursts amongst her own girlfriends. Abbie was a calculating tease, and my brother and I spent many a moonlit hour guarding her virtue.
Norse treated me as an irritation until I turned sixteen. Two years older, he had deflected the parental flak for years, cleaving a path for Abbie and me between our mother’s tantrums and our father’s exasperation. He was never a delinquent, his only crime being an attempt to grow up. Along the way, he had puffed a mountain of dope from our bedroom window, spewed drunken trails of chicken chow mein through the streets of our town, and impregnated his best friend’s girlfriend. Norse had always been my hero. On my sixteenth birthday, he became my mentor.
His gift to me, presented, ironically, while my birthday candles snuffed their last, was a packet of Kensitas Club. My father clasped a hand to his palpitations, while my mother, tight-lipped, turned the cutting of the cake into a slasher movie. It was my fourteen-year-old sister, already a five-a-day girl, who noticed the pack wasn’t sealed. I opened it to find a Durex tucked inside, ribbed – my brother later explained – to give the lucky girl a half-chance of satisfaction. Norse remained with my parents at the kitchen table, arguing the merits of birth control versus his own six-month-old foetus; meanwhile, my sister and I escaped to the bedroom, laden with slabs of marzipan topped with Rangers-blue icing. Abbie pursed her lips round the first fag of the evening, snapped open her lighter and sucked at the flame like an athlete drawing air. She taught me to inhale between gobs of sponge and jam, and I puked on the carpet four fags later. I haven’t touched a cigarette since.
I would appreciate comments from anyone who could take the time to read this, readers and writers alike. I’m not too confident about writing action stuff (eg the car race) and I wonder if it sounds authentic?
Warning: I have rated it ‘18’, because there is sex in it. No violence. Some swearing.
For non-Brits:
Rangers – a big Scottish football team. big big. Analogy: Mapleleafs hockey team to Canada
Durex – brand of condom.
Vehicles – your offside is our nearside (obviously
)Capri – a type of Ford motor car.
Bedford – a type of van.
The narrator is Pete (the ‘guardian’ in my Crimson Tears poem, and the guy with the toddler in Another Man’s Child). He is sixteen in the story, not naïve, but a ‘late starter’ compared with his mates, if you get my drift . . .
‘The Penetrator’ is a souped-up van belonging to his brother. It has a three-seater bench at the front. The back is load-holding space, but has been converted for comfort: mattresses, cushions, etc. Pete can drive, but is underage, legally. The scene is set in the late eighties.
INTRO
There was nothing remarkable about my family: I had a father, a mother, a sister, a brother. My brother Stephen, taller and broader than I would ever become, and as blond and blue-eyed as the rest of the family, earned the nickname ‘Norse’ at school. The name suited and stuck. Norse was to blame for my first fag, my first drink and my first fight; even, debatably, my first ****. He claimed that I needed encouragement. But it was our younger sister who was christened the war-child, not because of any specific war raging at the time of her birth, but because she agitated conflict wherever she went. Abbie rarely became entangled in the trouble she created; however, she was the catalyst who sparked off my parents’ quarrels and frequent punch-ups between Norse and myself. She was often to blame for spiteful weeping outbursts amongst her own girlfriends. Abbie was a calculating tease, and my brother and I spent many a moonlit hour guarding her virtue.
Norse treated me as an irritation until I turned sixteen. Two years older, he had deflected the parental flak for years, cleaving a path for Abbie and me between our mother’s tantrums and our father’s exasperation. He was never a delinquent, his only crime being an attempt to grow up. Along the way, he had puffed a mountain of dope from our bedroom window, spewed drunken trails of chicken chow mein through the streets of our town, and impregnated his best friend’s girlfriend. Norse had always been my hero. On my sixteenth birthday, he became my mentor.
His gift to me, presented, ironically, while my birthday candles snuffed their last, was a packet of Kensitas Club. My father clasped a hand to his palpitations, while my mother, tight-lipped, turned the cutting of the cake into a slasher movie. It was my fourteen-year-old sister, already a five-a-day girl, who noticed the pack wasn’t sealed. I opened it to find a Durex tucked inside, ribbed – my brother later explained – to give the lucky girl a half-chance of satisfaction. Norse remained with my parents at the kitchen table, arguing the merits of birth control versus his own six-month-old foetus; meanwhile, my sister and I escaped to the bedroom, laden with slabs of marzipan topped with Rangers-blue icing. Abbie pursed her lips round the first fag of the evening, snapped open her lighter and sucked at the flame like an athlete drawing air. She taught me to inhale between gobs of sponge and jam, and I puked on the carpet four fags later. I haven’t touched a cigarette since.
