The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Hey everybody, well this is the first story I've written in a long while so I'm probably very rusty. It's also in a style I've never really taken on before, so it's probably a bit naff. I haven't read through it either, as I wrote it all tonight and just want to post it now, so please forgive any obvious grammatical errors. There are also some light swear words where I have replaced letters with apostrophes to get past that darn filter. :P Thanks, Ant. {:) Oh, and sorry it's so long...
___________________________________
It was one of those moments. Staring at the calendar, I checked, double-checked and triple-checked the day, date and month. In my disbelief, I even ripped it from its hook to confirm that it was the correct year. In 3 minutes time, I was due to meet my fiancée, Rachel, at our favourite restaurant to celebrate the anniversary of our relationship. We hadn’t been out together in months, we’d hardly seen each-other for weeks, and it was always my fault. Due to work and family commitments (my elderly mother demanded that I play Mastermind with her at least twice weekly,) I simply struggled to find any time for her. Tonight was meant to be OUR night…and if I didn’t make it, our relationship was over. She always returned home from work far earlier than I, and so doubtless she was already there…waiting for me.
“Bo’locks.” I stated a matter-of-factly, to no one in particular. In fact, not even that word could account for the sense of rising panic and dread that slowly flooded my entire body. My first reaction was that of, unsurprisingly, anger. I instantly kicked the nearest kitchen cupboard, and then for added effect kicked it again. It hurt. Consequently, I threw a number of obscenities at the spacious compartments that stored my plates and bowls, and followed this up by rather stupidly kicking the washing machine instead. This also hurt, and therefore I became even angrier, and therefore I wanted to kick something else! But, from experience, I knew this would hurt, so alternatively I clenched my fists, and whilst standing, facing the emotionless yet evil washing machine, attempted to screw myself into a little ball as best as I could. How this would achieve anything, I didn’t know, but I suppose I was just trying to squeeze all the fear, sadness and anger out.
After a minute or so of this, I relinquished my stance. I didn’t feel any better, but I did need to go to the toilet.
Relieved, I rushed out the front door, and athletically leapt over the front gate. Once I’d picked myself up, and dusted myself off, I headed off. I’d never been much of an athlete. A couple of minutes into my journey, I realised something was wrong. I slowed my pace to a walk, and considered what it might be. I had exactly 1 minute to reach my destination and be on time, and both cars were in for servicing. I checked my pockets…wallet? Yes. Phone? Nope, okay, so I’d forgotten that…but that wasn’t it. Tic-Tacs? Yes, they were there. So I continued on…and then stopped still.
I was going the wrong way.
By now I was all cursed out, so I simply twisted around and ran in the opposite direction. After a few minutes I turned left into the high-street, and ran into the largest man I’d ever encountered. My head snapped back and I fell to the pavement, grazing my arm on the cracked gravel. I winced, looked up, and then winced again. The latter wince was down to a number of reasons. Now, I’ve never been one to stereotype, but the bloke I’d just run into was sure to be a member of the You – Run – Into – Me – And – I – Knock – Your – Block – Off – With – A – Knuckle - Sandwich Club. He was built like a steamroller, and his bulging biceps, triceps, abs, pecs and God-knows-what were just crying out to burst from his tight suit. He just didn’t look right in a suit, he was one of those guys who got home, tore the suit off, called a few of his similar-sized mates round, and then proceeded to get oiled up, pose in front of the mirror and compare body fat percentages.
Anyway, he also had a shaved head, which was undoubtedly of some use for head-butting his wife whenever she got out of line, and he had a pierced cheek. Yes, a pierced cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about him, was that his suit was covered in the remains of a large steak and kidney pie. I slowly got up, pointed at him and said, “you’ve ruined your tie!”
This probably wasn’t the best thing to say, as it was plainly obvious that it was my fault his stylish, previously bright white tie was covered in smooth, warm gravy and the odd onion. He grimaced, and pulled his fist back. Fortunately, the sinking feeling in my stomach soon disappeared, as Mr Steak and Kidney Pie Tie (“how amusing, that rhymes!” I thought to myself at the time) hit me slap-bang in the middle of my face. My nose literally exploded, and suddenly all I could think about was the time in infant school when I threw up all over Christine Winterbottom’s painting of a happy dog. Funnily enough, as blood poured from my nose, I was sick as well, concocting a rather lovely custard and strawberry sauce mixture.
I sat on the ground nursing the remnants of my nose for a minute or so, Mr Meat Fist long gone. Most people who walked past just gave me strange looks, apart from one small boy who pointed me out to his mother and shrilled, “mummy! Mummy! It’s the elephant man!” She dragged him away, claiming I was a ‘an old homeless bu’ger who couldn’t be bothered to get off my lazy ar’e and get a damn job.’ Finally, an elderly lady waddled up to me and handed me a tissue. I smiled as best I could, thanked her and then staggered to my feet, my head spinning. I was determined to get to the restaurant, even thought I was almost 20 minutes late now.
I stumbled along the street, the cold winter air ripping at my deformed face. My eyes blurred, my ears rung and my nose…well my nose hurt. I vaguely noticed a bright spark, followed by an ear-shattering roar of thunder. And then just to compound things, it began to p!ss down. Every so often, intrusive car headlights lit up the road, or at least I assumed they were headlights. Holding the tissue firmly to my nose, I squinted at my surroundings. I must have been walking for around 10 minutes, and by the looks of things I was almost opposite the restaurant! I faced the road, and, not noticing any obvious headlights, staggered across, by now almost in a trance-like state. But I had to make it.
The ear-splitting crunch of metal on metal awoke me from my trance. I was almost at the curb now, but the utter resonance of the collision behind me caused me to lose my bearings. I twisted and turned desperately as people all around me screamed and shouted. Suddenly, another crash, and then another. I somehow managed to make it to the other side of the road, and I stumbled onwards, ignoring the blaring alarms and scared cries behind me. Although I tried to ignore it, it was glaringly obvious that the pile-up I had left in my wake, was of my own fault.
Finally, I reached the front door of the restaurant. As my head began to clear, I used the only clean bit of my bloody tissue to wipe my eyes, and I stepped inside. I gazed around fearfully, hoping that my stare would fall upon the woman I love, my fiancée. But she was no where to be seen.
As my heart dropped, so did my trousers. I looked down uncaringly, to find that my belt was broken. The waiter who had been heading toward me quickly moved away, and as I returned my stylishly tight boxer shorts to their rightful home, inside my trousers, I heard the fateful sound of sirens. They became louder and louder, and then stopped. Car doors were opened, and were shut again. Behind me, I heard the front door of the restaurant open.
“Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you down to the station to answer some questions.”
For the fourth time that evening, I wanted to kick something. At this point I was past caring, so I did. The next thing I knew, I was being handcuffed and shoved into a police car. As we drove away, I stared out of the window…and there she was! My beautiful fiancée, heading toward the restaurant! I flailed desperately to catch her attention, smashing the window with my cuffed hands and even my head. She looked up, and saw me! At least she would know that I turned up!
But she just shook her head, and carried on her way. She hadn’t recognised me. I sat back, or rather a copper forced me to, and breathed a deep sigh, contemplating all that had happened in the past hour. I was only supposed to be going out for dinner.
_____________________________________
As Rachel walked briskly toward the restaurant, she glanced at the 3-car smash that had clearly taken place just a few minutes ago. Then a Police car drove by, and some dirty perv in the backseat tried to holler and whistle at her. She ignored him and carried on her way, after all, she was already an hour late.
___________________________________
It was one of those moments. Staring at the calendar, I checked, double-checked and triple-checked the day, date and month. In my disbelief, I even ripped it from its hook to confirm that it was the correct year. In 3 minutes time, I was due to meet my fiancée, Rachel, at our favourite restaurant to celebrate the anniversary of our relationship. We hadn’t been out together in months, we’d hardly seen each-other for weeks, and it was always my fault. Due to work and family commitments (my elderly mother demanded that I play Mastermind with her at least twice weekly,) I simply struggled to find any time for her. Tonight was meant to be OUR night…and if I didn’t make it, our relationship was over. She always returned home from work far earlier than I, and so doubtless she was already there…waiting for me.
“Bo’locks.” I stated a matter-of-factly, to no one in particular. In fact, not even that word could account for the sense of rising panic and dread that slowly flooded my entire body. My first reaction was that of, unsurprisingly, anger. I instantly kicked the nearest kitchen cupboard, and then for added effect kicked it again. It hurt. Consequently, I threw a number of obscenities at the spacious compartments that stored my plates and bowls, and followed this up by rather stupidly kicking the washing machine instead. This also hurt, and therefore I became even angrier, and therefore I wanted to kick something else! But, from experience, I knew this would hurt, so alternatively I clenched my fists, and whilst standing, facing the emotionless yet evil washing machine, attempted to screw myself into a little ball as best as I could. How this would achieve anything, I didn’t know, but I suppose I was just trying to squeeze all the fear, sadness and anger out.
After a minute or so of this, I relinquished my stance. I didn’t feel any better, but I did need to go to the toilet.
Relieved, I rushed out the front door, and athletically leapt over the front gate. Once I’d picked myself up, and dusted myself off, I headed off. I’d never been much of an athlete. A couple of minutes into my journey, I realised something was wrong. I slowed my pace to a walk, and considered what it might be. I had exactly 1 minute to reach my destination and be on time, and both cars were in for servicing. I checked my pockets…wallet? Yes. Phone? Nope, okay, so I’d forgotten that…but that wasn’t it. Tic-Tacs? Yes, they were there. So I continued on…and then stopped still.
I was going the wrong way.
By now I was all cursed out, so I simply twisted around and ran in the opposite direction. After a few minutes I turned left into the high-street, and ran into the largest man I’d ever encountered. My head snapped back and I fell to the pavement, grazing my arm on the cracked gravel. I winced, looked up, and then winced again. The latter wince was down to a number of reasons. Now, I’ve never been one to stereotype, but the bloke I’d just run into was sure to be a member of the You – Run – Into – Me – And – I – Knock – Your – Block – Off – With – A – Knuckle - Sandwich Club. He was built like a steamroller, and his bulging biceps, triceps, abs, pecs and God-knows-what were just crying out to burst from his tight suit. He just didn’t look right in a suit, he was one of those guys who got home, tore the suit off, called a few of his similar-sized mates round, and then proceeded to get oiled up, pose in front of the mirror and compare body fat percentages.
Anyway, he also had a shaved head, which was undoubtedly of some use for head-butting his wife whenever she got out of line, and he had a pierced cheek. Yes, a pierced cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about him, was that his suit was covered in the remains of a large steak and kidney pie. I slowly got up, pointed at him and said, “you’ve ruined your tie!”
This probably wasn’t the best thing to say, as it was plainly obvious that it was my fault his stylish, previously bright white tie was covered in smooth, warm gravy and the odd onion. He grimaced, and pulled his fist back. Fortunately, the sinking feeling in my stomach soon disappeared, as Mr Steak and Kidney Pie Tie (“how amusing, that rhymes!” I thought to myself at the time) hit me slap-bang in the middle of my face. My nose literally exploded, and suddenly all I could think about was the time in infant school when I threw up all over Christine Winterbottom’s painting of a happy dog. Funnily enough, as blood poured from my nose, I was sick as well, concocting a rather lovely custard and strawberry sauce mixture.
I sat on the ground nursing the remnants of my nose for a minute or so, Mr Meat Fist long gone. Most people who walked past just gave me strange looks, apart from one small boy who pointed me out to his mother and shrilled, “mummy! Mummy! It’s the elephant man!” She dragged him away, claiming I was a ‘an old homeless bu’ger who couldn’t be bothered to get off my lazy ar’e and get a damn job.’ Finally, an elderly lady waddled up to me and handed me a tissue. I smiled as best I could, thanked her and then staggered to my feet, my head spinning. I was determined to get to the restaurant, even thought I was almost 20 minutes late now.
I stumbled along the street, the cold winter air ripping at my deformed face. My eyes blurred, my ears rung and my nose…well my nose hurt. I vaguely noticed a bright spark, followed by an ear-shattering roar of thunder. And then just to compound things, it began to p!ss down. Every so often, intrusive car headlights lit up the road, or at least I assumed they were headlights. Holding the tissue firmly to my nose, I squinted at my surroundings. I must have been walking for around 10 minutes, and by the looks of things I was almost opposite the restaurant! I faced the road, and, not noticing any obvious headlights, staggered across, by now almost in a trance-like state. But I had to make it.
The ear-splitting crunch of metal on metal awoke me from my trance. I was almost at the curb now, but the utter resonance of the collision behind me caused me to lose my bearings. I twisted and turned desperately as people all around me screamed and shouted. Suddenly, another crash, and then another. I somehow managed to make it to the other side of the road, and I stumbled onwards, ignoring the blaring alarms and scared cries behind me. Although I tried to ignore it, it was glaringly obvious that the pile-up I had left in my wake, was of my own fault.
Finally, I reached the front door of the restaurant. As my head began to clear, I used the only clean bit of my bloody tissue to wipe my eyes, and I stepped inside. I gazed around fearfully, hoping that my stare would fall upon the woman I love, my fiancée. But she was no where to be seen.
As my heart dropped, so did my trousers. I looked down uncaringly, to find that my belt was broken. The waiter who had been heading toward me quickly moved away, and as I returned my stylishly tight boxer shorts to their rightful home, inside my trousers, I heard the fateful sound of sirens. They became louder and louder, and then stopped. Car doors were opened, and were shut again. Behind me, I heard the front door of the restaurant open.
“Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you down to the station to answer some questions.”
For the fourth time that evening, I wanted to kick something. At this point I was past caring, so I did. The next thing I knew, I was being handcuffed and shoved into a police car. As we drove away, I stared out of the window…and there she was! My beautiful fiancée, heading toward the restaurant! I flailed desperately to catch her attention, smashing the window with my cuffed hands and even my head. She looked up, and saw me! At least she would know that I turned up!
But she just shook her head, and carried on her way. She hadn’t recognised me. I sat back, or rather a copper forced me to, and breathed a deep sigh, contemplating all that had happened in the past hour. I was only supposed to be going out for dinner.
_____________________________________
As Rachel walked briskly toward the restaurant, she glanced at the 3-car smash that had clearly taken place just a few minutes ago. Then a Police car drove by, and some dirty perv in the backseat tried to holler and whistle at her. She ignored him and carried on her way, after all, she was already an hour late.
Page:
There have been no replies to this thread yet.
Hey everybody, well this is the first story I've written in a long while so I'm probably very rusty. It's also in a style I've never really taken on before, so it's probably a bit naff. I haven't read through it either, as I wrote it all tonight and just want to post it now, so please forgive any obvious grammatical errors. There are also some light swear words where I have replaced letters with apostrophes to get past that darn filter. :P Thanks, Ant. {:) Oh, and sorry it's so long...
___________________________________
It was one of those moments. Staring at the calendar, I checked, double-checked and triple-checked the day, date and month. In my disbelief, I even ripped it from its hook to confirm that it was the correct year. In 3 minutes time, I was due to meet my fiancée, Rachel, at our favourite restaurant to celebrate the anniversary of our relationship. We hadn’t been out together in months, we’d hardly seen each-other for weeks, and it was always my fault. Due to work and family commitments (my elderly mother demanded that I play Mastermind with her at least twice weekly,) I simply struggled to find any time for her. Tonight was meant to be OUR night…and if I didn’t make it, our relationship was over. She always returned home from work far earlier than I, and so doubtless she was already there…waiting for me.
“Bo’locks.” I stated a matter-of-factly, to no one in particular. In fact, not even that word could account for the sense of rising panic and dread that slowly flooded my entire body. My first reaction was that of, unsurprisingly, anger. I instantly kicked the nearest kitchen cupboard, and then for added effect kicked it again. It hurt. Consequently, I threw a number of obscenities at the spacious compartments that stored my plates and bowls, and followed this up by rather stupidly kicking the washing machine instead. This also hurt, and therefore I became even angrier, and therefore I wanted to kick something else! But, from experience, I knew this would hurt, so alternatively I clenched my fists, and whilst standing, facing the emotionless yet evil washing machine, attempted to screw myself into a little ball as best as I could. How this would achieve anything, I didn’t know, but I suppose I was just trying to squeeze all the fear, sadness and anger out.
After a minute or so of this, I relinquished my stance. I didn’t feel any better, but I did need to go to the toilet.
Relieved, I rushed out the front door, and athletically leapt over the front gate. Once I’d picked myself up, and dusted myself off, I headed off. I’d never been much of an athlete. A couple of minutes into my journey, I realised something was wrong. I slowed my pace to a walk, and considered what it might be. I had exactly 1 minute to reach my destination and be on time, and both cars were in for servicing. I checked my pockets…wallet? Yes. Phone? Nope, okay, so I’d forgotten that…but that wasn’t it. Tic-Tacs? Yes, they were there. So I continued on…and then stopped still.
I was going the wrong way.
By now I was all cursed out, so I simply twisted around and ran in the opposite direction. After a few minutes I turned left into the high-street, and ran into the largest man I’d ever encountered. My head snapped back and I fell to the pavement, grazing my arm on the cracked gravel. I winced, looked up, and then winced again. The latter wince was down to a number of reasons. Now, I’ve never been one to stereotype, but the bloke I’d just run into was sure to be a member of the You – Run – Into – Me – And – I – Knock – Your – Block – Off – With – A – Knuckle - Sandwich Club. He was built like a steamroller, and his bulging biceps, triceps, abs, pecs and God-knows-what were just crying out to burst from his tight suit. He just didn’t look right in a suit, he was one of those guys who got home, tore the suit off, called a few of his similar-sized mates round, and then proceeded to get oiled up, pose in front of the mirror and compare body fat percentages.
Anyway, he also had a shaved head, which was undoubtedly of some use for head-butting his wife whenever she got out of line, and he had a pierced cheek. Yes, a pierced cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about him, was that his suit was covered in the remains of a large steak and kidney pie. I slowly got up, pointed at him and said, “you’ve ruined your tie!”
This probably wasn’t the best thing to say, as it was plainly obvious that it was my fault his stylish, previously bright white tie was covered in smooth, warm gravy and the odd onion. He grimaced, and pulled his fist back. Fortunately, the sinking feeling in my stomach soon disappeared, as Mr Steak and Kidney Pie Tie (“how amusing, that rhymes!” I thought to myself at the time) hit me slap-bang in the middle of my face. My nose literally exploded, and suddenly all I could think about was the time in infant school when I threw up all over Christine Winterbottom’s painting of a happy dog. Funnily enough, as blood poured from my nose, I was sick as well, concocting a rather lovely custard and strawberry sauce mixture.
I sat on the ground nursing the remnants of my nose for a minute or so, Mr Meat Fist long gone. Most people who walked past just gave me strange looks, apart from one small boy who pointed me out to his mother and shrilled, “mummy! Mummy! It’s the elephant man!” She dragged him away, claiming I was a ‘an old homeless bu’ger who couldn’t be bothered to get off my lazy ar’e and get a damn job.’ Finally, an elderly lady waddled up to me and handed me a tissue. I smiled as best I could, thanked her and then staggered to my feet, my head spinning. I was determined to get to the restaurant, even thought I was almost 20 minutes late now.
I stumbled along the street, the cold winter air ripping at my deformed face. My eyes blurred, my ears rung and my nose…well my nose hurt. I vaguely noticed a bright spark, followed by an ear-shattering roar of thunder. And then just to compound things, it began to p!ss down. Every so often, intrusive car headlights lit up the road, or at least I assumed they were headlights. Holding the tissue firmly to my nose, I squinted at my surroundings. I must have been walking for around 10 minutes, and by the looks of things I was almost opposite the restaurant! I faced the road, and, not noticing any obvious headlights, staggered across, by now almost in a trance-like state. But I had to make it.
The ear-splitting crunch of metal on metal awoke me from my trance. I was almost at the curb now, but the utter resonance of the collision behind me caused me to lose my bearings. I twisted and turned desperately as people all around me screamed and shouted. Suddenly, another crash, and then another. I somehow managed to make it to the other side of the road, and I stumbled onwards, ignoring the blaring alarms and scared cries behind me. Although I tried to ignore it, it was glaringly obvious that the pile-up I had left in my wake, was of my own fault.
Finally, I reached the front door of the restaurant. As my head began to clear, I used the only clean bit of my bloody tissue to wipe my eyes, and I stepped inside. I gazed around fearfully, hoping that my stare would fall upon the woman I love, my fiancée. But she was no where to be seen.
As my heart dropped, so did my trousers. I looked down uncaringly, to find that my belt was broken. The waiter who had been heading toward me quickly moved away, and as I returned my stylishly tight boxer shorts to their rightful home, inside my trousers, I heard the fateful sound of sirens. They became louder and louder, and then stopped. Car doors were opened, and were shut again. Behind me, I heard the front door of the restaurant open.
“Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you down to the station to answer some questions.”
For the fourth time that evening, I wanted to kick something. At this point I was past caring, so I did. The next thing I knew, I was being handcuffed and shoved into a police car. As we drove away, I stared out of the window…and there she was! My beautiful fiancée, heading toward the restaurant! I flailed desperately to catch her attention, smashing the window with my cuffed hands and even my head. She looked up, and saw me! At least she would know that I turned up!
But she just shook her head, and carried on her way. She hadn’t recognised me. I sat back, or rather a copper forced me to, and breathed a deep sigh, contemplating all that had happened in the past hour. I was only supposed to be going out for dinner.
_____________________________________
As Rachel walked briskly toward the restaurant, she glanced at the 3-car smash that had clearly taken place just a few minutes ago. Then a Police car drove by, and some dirty perv in the backseat tried to holler and whistle at her. She ignored him and carried on her way, after all, she was already an hour late.
___________________________________
It was one of those moments. Staring at the calendar, I checked, double-checked and triple-checked the day, date and month. In my disbelief, I even ripped it from its hook to confirm that it was the correct year. In 3 minutes time, I was due to meet my fiancée, Rachel, at our favourite restaurant to celebrate the anniversary of our relationship. We hadn’t been out together in months, we’d hardly seen each-other for weeks, and it was always my fault. Due to work and family commitments (my elderly mother demanded that I play Mastermind with her at least twice weekly,) I simply struggled to find any time for her. Tonight was meant to be OUR night…and if I didn’t make it, our relationship was over. She always returned home from work far earlier than I, and so doubtless she was already there…waiting for me.
“Bo’locks.” I stated a matter-of-factly, to no one in particular. In fact, not even that word could account for the sense of rising panic and dread that slowly flooded my entire body. My first reaction was that of, unsurprisingly, anger. I instantly kicked the nearest kitchen cupboard, and then for added effect kicked it again. It hurt. Consequently, I threw a number of obscenities at the spacious compartments that stored my plates and bowls, and followed this up by rather stupidly kicking the washing machine instead. This also hurt, and therefore I became even angrier, and therefore I wanted to kick something else! But, from experience, I knew this would hurt, so alternatively I clenched my fists, and whilst standing, facing the emotionless yet evil washing machine, attempted to screw myself into a little ball as best as I could. How this would achieve anything, I didn’t know, but I suppose I was just trying to squeeze all the fear, sadness and anger out.
After a minute or so of this, I relinquished my stance. I didn’t feel any better, but I did need to go to the toilet.
Relieved, I rushed out the front door, and athletically leapt over the front gate. Once I’d picked myself up, and dusted myself off, I headed off. I’d never been much of an athlete. A couple of minutes into my journey, I realised something was wrong. I slowed my pace to a walk, and considered what it might be. I had exactly 1 minute to reach my destination and be on time, and both cars were in for servicing. I checked my pockets…wallet? Yes. Phone? Nope, okay, so I’d forgotten that…but that wasn’t it. Tic-Tacs? Yes, they were there. So I continued on…and then stopped still.
I was going the wrong way.
By now I was all cursed out, so I simply twisted around and ran in the opposite direction. After a few minutes I turned left into the high-street, and ran into the largest man I’d ever encountered. My head snapped back and I fell to the pavement, grazing my arm on the cracked gravel. I winced, looked up, and then winced again. The latter wince was down to a number of reasons. Now, I’ve never been one to stereotype, but the bloke I’d just run into was sure to be a member of the You – Run – Into – Me – And – I – Knock – Your – Block – Off – With – A – Knuckle - Sandwich Club. He was built like a steamroller, and his bulging biceps, triceps, abs, pecs and God-knows-what were just crying out to burst from his tight suit. He just didn’t look right in a suit, he was one of those guys who got home, tore the suit off, called a few of his similar-sized mates round, and then proceeded to get oiled up, pose in front of the mirror and compare body fat percentages.
Anyway, he also had a shaved head, which was undoubtedly of some use for head-butting his wife whenever she got out of line, and he had a pierced cheek. Yes, a pierced cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about him, was that his suit was covered in the remains of a large steak and kidney pie. I slowly got up, pointed at him and said, “you’ve ruined your tie!”
This probably wasn’t the best thing to say, as it was plainly obvious that it was my fault his stylish, previously bright white tie was covered in smooth, warm gravy and the odd onion. He grimaced, and pulled his fist back. Fortunately, the sinking feeling in my stomach soon disappeared, as Mr Steak and Kidney Pie Tie (“how amusing, that rhymes!” I thought to myself at the time) hit me slap-bang in the middle of my face. My nose literally exploded, and suddenly all I could think about was the time in infant school when I threw up all over Christine Winterbottom’s painting of a happy dog. Funnily enough, as blood poured from my nose, I was sick as well, concocting a rather lovely custard and strawberry sauce mixture.
I sat on the ground nursing the remnants of my nose for a minute or so, Mr Meat Fist long gone. Most people who walked past just gave me strange looks, apart from one small boy who pointed me out to his mother and shrilled, “mummy! Mummy! It’s the elephant man!” She dragged him away, claiming I was a ‘an old homeless bu’ger who couldn’t be bothered to get off my lazy ar’e and get a damn job.’ Finally, an elderly lady waddled up to me and handed me a tissue. I smiled as best I could, thanked her and then staggered to my feet, my head spinning. I was determined to get to the restaurant, even thought I was almost 20 minutes late now.
I stumbled along the street, the cold winter air ripping at my deformed face. My eyes blurred, my ears rung and my nose…well my nose hurt. I vaguely noticed a bright spark, followed by an ear-shattering roar of thunder. And then just to compound things, it began to p!ss down. Every so often, intrusive car headlights lit up the road, or at least I assumed they were headlights. Holding the tissue firmly to my nose, I squinted at my surroundings. I must have been walking for around 10 minutes, and by the looks of things I was almost opposite the restaurant! I faced the road, and, not noticing any obvious headlights, staggered across, by now almost in a trance-like state. But I had to make it.
The ear-splitting crunch of metal on metal awoke me from my trance. I was almost at the curb now, but the utter resonance of the collision behind me caused me to lose my bearings. I twisted and turned desperately as people all around me screamed and shouted. Suddenly, another crash, and then another. I somehow managed to make it to the other side of the road, and I stumbled onwards, ignoring the blaring alarms and scared cries behind me. Although I tried to ignore it, it was glaringly obvious that the pile-up I had left in my wake, was of my own fault.
Finally, I reached the front door of the restaurant. As my head began to clear, I used the only clean bit of my bloody tissue to wipe my eyes, and I stepped inside. I gazed around fearfully, hoping that my stare would fall upon the woman I love, my fiancée. But she was no where to be seen.
As my heart dropped, so did my trousers. I looked down uncaringly, to find that my belt was broken. The waiter who had been heading toward me quickly moved away, and as I returned my stylishly tight boxer shorts to their rightful home, inside my trousers, I heard the fateful sound of sirens. They became louder and louder, and then stopped. Car doors were opened, and were shut again. Behind me, I heard the front door of the restaurant open.
“Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you down to the station to answer some questions.”
For the fourth time that evening, I wanted to kick something. At this point I was past caring, so I did. The next thing I knew, I was being handcuffed and shoved into a police car. As we drove away, I stared out of the window…and there she was! My beautiful fiancée, heading toward the restaurant! I flailed desperately to catch her attention, smashing the window with my cuffed hands and even my head. She looked up, and saw me! At least she would know that I turned up!
But she just shook her head, and carried on her way. She hadn’t recognised me. I sat back, or rather a copper forced me to, and breathed a deep sigh, contemplating all that had happened in the past hour. I was only supposed to be going out for dinner.
_____________________________________
As Rachel walked briskly toward the restaurant, she glanced at the 3-car smash that had clearly taken place just a few minutes ago. Then a Police car drove by, and some dirty perv in the backseat tried to holler and whistle at her. She ignored him and carried on her way, after all, she was already an hour late.
Page: