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Desire is a strange thing. Fickle.
It starts as a gentle tingle, pleasant, sweeping a smile to your face and a song to your heart. But if you don’t act quick enough ... if you don’t give it what it wants, what you want ... then it turns and bears teeth. It sinks inside, to a tight, hard, cold fist in your stomach. The tingle leaves, and the ache sets in, throbbing through your every thought. And the desire is deeper, sharper - you need, not want, and that need becomes you.
Soon the fist opens up, showing clearly the palmed intent. And it spreads with clawing fingers into every level of your life ... until there is nothing. Nothing but that consuming need to be satisfied. By then, you are the victim and the slave - overwhelmed and utterly helpless.
I walk with the fist inside me, catching on my shallow breath. It has not opened yet, but the fingers are restless, writhing and sending barbs of red-stroked malice through my mind from between the shifted gaps. A weary, heavy hunger weighs me down.
I’m no hero ... such illusions long deserted me, as the last sunbeams were crushed under lung-heavy smoke and the buildings rose up and leant together, locking away the sky above. Maybe slightly more aware than others - a fraction more objective about what makes us who we are, what controls how we move, why we live. But, all in all, just another faceless inhabitant - hunched, huddled and bruised against the splinters of a dream once held. Trying to keep twisted, malevolent desire at bay and slowly, ever so slowly, slipping away into it - destined to be crushed.
I pull my coat closer in around me and skirt a brown-red puddle swelling dense and pungent on the pavement. Someone groans and gasps at me from the shadows and I hear footsteps - retreating, luckily. I walk on, eyes front, focussed on one thing alone. Tonight, the hunger will be sated and calmed, at least for a while.
It’s a grubby place - cracked and flaking, layered deep in shed skin and the dirt from their torn fingernails. But that goes for pretty much everywhere in the city. Old, stained and broken.
Still ... I can get what I want here, and it’s always worth the price.
I’m the only customer, and a girl is ushered into greeting me by a thick-set, snarling man standing further back into the shadows. I smile sadly in greeting ... she is young, too young by far. Again, nothing strange in this city, but saddening nonetheless. Probably forced into it by her father, brother, mother even - for the rent or, more likely, funds soon swallowed by a swelling fetish of sweat or substance.
The man in the back gives me a brief nod - welcome back, says the slight tilt of his head, I’d knew you would return. He raises a low-burning cigarette to his black lips and then wipes the grease around his face with the back of his hand.
The girl smiles at me with tight mouth and glazed eyes - well trained, at least, to never flinch, no matter what they ask. But I see her hands, gripping the countertop so hard they are shaking, knuckles flared white, and her breath come ragged and frightened. She leans forward slightly, and the stained uniform follows, revealing harsh ridges of rib through sallow skin before the shallow, uncupped swell.
“Can I interest you in anything?”
The man grunts and nods his head, apparently satisfied with this performance.
I place a ripped and wrinkled note on the counter top with a fat, skin-stretched hand.
“I’ll have an extra large cheese feast family meal deal ... “
Her eyes widen in surprise but she nods nonetheless, bladed pity showing through the enforced façade.
“... and some onion rings.”
She turns back to the man, mouth hanging open slightly, and gives a little helpless shrug. He stares me down, deep, black eyes taking in every inch of my desire-swollen body - the thick, flaccid rings of fat stacked high from groin to chest to the streaks of dirt collected tight in folds of chin and neck.
I place another note on the chipped and dusty counter and stare down at the floor.
He turns with a sigh and flicks the singed cigarette filter into the deep fat fryer.
“Give the man what he wants.”
It starts as a gentle tingle, pleasant, sweeping a smile to your face and a song to your heart. But if you don’t act quick enough ... if you don’t give it what it wants, what you want ... then it turns and bears teeth. It sinks inside, to a tight, hard, cold fist in your stomach. The tingle leaves, and the ache sets in, throbbing through your every thought. And the desire is deeper, sharper - you need, not want, and that need becomes you.
Soon the fist opens up, showing clearly the palmed intent. And it spreads with clawing fingers into every level of your life ... until there is nothing. Nothing but that consuming need to be satisfied. By then, you are the victim and the slave - overwhelmed and utterly helpless.
I walk with the fist inside me, catching on my shallow breath. It has not opened yet, but the fingers are restless, writhing and sending barbs of red-stroked malice through my mind from between the shifted gaps. A weary, heavy hunger weighs me down.
I’m no hero ... such illusions long deserted me, as the last sunbeams were crushed under lung-heavy smoke and the buildings rose up and leant together, locking away the sky above. Maybe slightly more aware than others - a fraction more objective about what makes us who we are, what controls how we move, why we live. But, all in all, just another faceless inhabitant - hunched, huddled and bruised against the splinters of a dream once held. Trying to keep twisted, malevolent desire at bay and slowly, ever so slowly, slipping away into it - destined to be crushed.
I pull my coat closer in around me and skirt a brown-red puddle swelling dense and pungent on the pavement. Someone groans and gasps at me from the shadows and I hear footsteps - retreating, luckily. I walk on, eyes front, focussed on one thing alone. Tonight, the hunger will be sated and calmed, at least for a while.
It’s a grubby place - cracked and flaking, layered deep in shed skin and the dirt from their torn fingernails. But that goes for pretty much everywhere in the city. Old, stained and broken.
Still ... I can get what I want here, and it’s always worth the price.
I’m the only customer, and a girl is ushered into greeting me by a thick-set, snarling man standing further back into the shadows. I smile sadly in greeting ... she is young, too young by far. Again, nothing strange in this city, but saddening nonetheless. Probably forced into it by her father, brother, mother even - for the rent or, more likely, funds soon swallowed by a swelling fetish of sweat or substance.
The man in the back gives me a brief nod - welcome back, says the slight tilt of his head, I’d knew you would return. He raises a low-burning cigarette to his black lips and then wipes the grease around his face with the back of his hand.
The girl smiles at me with tight mouth and glazed eyes - well trained, at least, to never flinch, no matter what they ask. But I see her hands, gripping the countertop so hard they are shaking, knuckles flared white, and her breath come ragged and frightened. She leans forward slightly, and the stained uniform follows, revealing harsh ridges of rib through sallow skin before the shallow, uncupped swell.
“Can I interest you in anything?”
The man grunts and nods his head, apparently satisfied with this performance.
I place a ripped and wrinkled note on the counter top with a fat, skin-stretched hand.
“I’ll have an extra large cheese feast family meal deal ... “
Her eyes widen in surprise but she nods nonetheless, bladed pity showing through the enforced façade.
“... and some onion rings.”
She turns back to the man, mouth hanging open slightly, and gives a little helpless shrug. He stares me down, deep, black eyes taking in every inch of my desire-swollen body - the thick, flaccid rings of fat stacked high from groin to chest to the streaks of dirt collected tight in folds of chin and neck.
I place another note on the chipped and dusty counter and stare down at the floor.
He turns with a sigh and flicks the singed cigarette filter into the deep fat fryer.
“Give the man what he wants.”
Cheers all. I'm collecting 2nd places like they're going out of fashion - still waiting on my £5 book vouchers and Blue Peter badges, though.
*pose*
*pose*
Aye, fantasmic. Not your best, but hey, you do a lot of fantasmic stories.
Fantasmic. Hmmm.
Fantasmic. Hmmm.
Great writing - the journey through the city is wonderfully described. The ending though, is perhaps a little understated, and doesn't have the impact of the rest of the piece.
Oo, grimy. What's the speciality . . . rat steak and chips.
Yes, as usual, I enjoyed the tapestry-like weaving of words and imagery.
Yes, as usual, I enjoyed the tapestry-like weaving of words and imagery.
Now all you need is somebody to reply telling you it was brilliant. Not crossbob though, he thinks that everything's brilliant. Anyway, I've some of your other stuff, I know you're a story writing genius really.
*Cue for Black Glove or Meka Dragon to appear and tell me it was FFF's best story ever*
*Cue for Black Glove or Meka Dragon to appear and tell me it was FFF's best story ever*
Hurrah
You want a response do you? Fine, it was, erm, interesting. Odd though. And I didn't like it. Probably because I don't appreciate good literature like you SSC veterans.
Fantastic! I love you!
Desire is a strange thing. Fickle.
It starts as a gentle tingle, pleasant, sweeping a smile to your face and a song to your heart. But if you don’t act quick enough ... if you don’t give it what it wants, what you want ... then it turns and bears teeth. It sinks inside, to a tight, hard, cold fist in your stomach. The tingle leaves, and the ache sets in, throbbing through your every thought. And the desire is deeper, sharper - you need, not want, and that need becomes you.
Soon the fist opens up, showing clearly the palmed intent. And it spreads with clawing fingers into every level of your life ... until there is nothing. Nothing but that consuming need to be satisfied. By then, you are the victim and the slave - overwhelmed and utterly helpless.
I walk with the fist inside me, catching on my shallow breath. It has not opened yet, but the fingers are restless, writhing and sending barbs of red-stroked malice through my mind from between the shifted gaps. A weary, heavy hunger weighs me down.
I’m no hero ... such illusions long deserted me, as the last sunbeams were crushed under lung-heavy smoke and the buildings rose up and leant together, locking away the sky above. Maybe slightly more aware than others - a fraction more objective about what makes us who we are, what controls how we move, why we live. But, all in all, just another faceless inhabitant - hunched, huddled and bruised against the splinters of a dream once held. Trying to keep twisted, malevolent desire at bay and slowly, ever so slowly, slipping away into it - destined to be crushed.
I pull my coat closer in around me and skirt a brown-red puddle swelling dense and pungent on the pavement. Someone groans and gasps at me from the shadows and I hear footsteps - retreating, luckily. I walk on, eyes front, focussed on one thing alone. Tonight, the hunger will be sated and calmed, at least for a while.
It’s a grubby place - cracked and flaking, layered deep in shed skin and the dirt from their torn fingernails. But that goes for pretty much everywhere in the city. Old, stained and broken.
Still ... I can get what I want here, and it’s always worth the price.
I’m the only customer, and a girl is ushered into greeting me by a thick-set, snarling man standing further back into the shadows. I smile sadly in greeting ... she is young, too young by far. Again, nothing strange in this city, but saddening nonetheless. Probably forced into it by her father, brother, mother even - for the rent or, more likely, funds soon swallowed by a swelling fetish of sweat or substance.
The man in the back gives me a brief nod - welcome back, says the slight tilt of his head, I’d knew you would return. He raises a low-burning cigarette to his black lips and then wipes the grease around his face with the back of his hand.
The girl smiles at me with tight mouth and glazed eyes - well trained, at least, to never flinch, no matter what they ask. But I see her hands, gripping the countertop so hard they are shaking, knuckles flared white, and her breath come ragged and frightened. She leans forward slightly, and the stained uniform follows, revealing harsh ridges of rib through sallow skin before the shallow, uncupped swell.
“Can I interest you in anything?”
The man grunts and nods his head, apparently satisfied with this performance.
I place a ripped and wrinkled note on the counter top with a fat, skin-stretched hand.
“I’ll have an extra large cheese feast family meal deal ... “
Her eyes widen in surprise but she nods nonetheless, bladed pity showing through the enforced façade.
“... and some onion rings.”
She turns back to the man, mouth hanging open slightly, and gives a little helpless shrug. He stares me down, deep, black eyes taking in every inch of my desire-swollen body - the thick, flaccid rings of fat stacked high from groin to chest to the streaks of dirt collected tight in folds of chin and neck.
I place another note on the chipped and dusty counter and stare down at the floor.
He turns with a sigh and flicks the singed cigarette filter into the deep fat fryer.
“Give the man what he wants.”
It starts as a gentle tingle, pleasant, sweeping a smile to your face and a song to your heart. But if you don’t act quick enough ... if you don’t give it what it wants, what you want ... then it turns and bears teeth. It sinks inside, to a tight, hard, cold fist in your stomach. The tingle leaves, and the ache sets in, throbbing through your every thought. And the desire is deeper, sharper - you need, not want, and that need becomes you.
Soon the fist opens up, showing clearly the palmed intent. And it spreads with clawing fingers into every level of your life ... until there is nothing. Nothing but that consuming need to be satisfied. By then, you are the victim and the slave - overwhelmed and utterly helpless.
I walk with the fist inside me, catching on my shallow breath. It has not opened yet, but the fingers are restless, writhing and sending barbs of red-stroked malice through my mind from between the shifted gaps. A weary, heavy hunger weighs me down.
I’m no hero ... such illusions long deserted me, as the last sunbeams were crushed under lung-heavy smoke and the buildings rose up and leant together, locking away the sky above. Maybe slightly more aware than others - a fraction more objective about what makes us who we are, what controls how we move, why we live. But, all in all, just another faceless inhabitant - hunched, huddled and bruised against the splinters of a dream once held. Trying to keep twisted, malevolent desire at bay and slowly, ever so slowly, slipping away into it - destined to be crushed.
I pull my coat closer in around me and skirt a brown-red puddle swelling dense and pungent on the pavement. Someone groans and gasps at me from the shadows and I hear footsteps - retreating, luckily. I walk on, eyes front, focussed on one thing alone. Tonight, the hunger will be sated and calmed, at least for a while.
It’s a grubby place - cracked and flaking, layered deep in shed skin and the dirt from their torn fingernails. But that goes for pretty much everywhere in the city. Old, stained and broken.
Still ... I can get what I want here, and it’s always worth the price.
I’m the only customer, and a girl is ushered into greeting me by a thick-set, snarling man standing further back into the shadows. I smile sadly in greeting ... she is young, too young by far. Again, nothing strange in this city, but saddening nonetheless. Probably forced into it by her father, brother, mother even - for the rent or, more likely, funds soon swallowed by a swelling fetish of sweat or substance.
The man in the back gives me a brief nod - welcome back, says the slight tilt of his head, I’d knew you would return. He raises a low-burning cigarette to his black lips and then wipes the grease around his face with the back of his hand.
The girl smiles at me with tight mouth and glazed eyes - well trained, at least, to never flinch, no matter what they ask. But I see her hands, gripping the countertop so hard they are shaking, knuckles flared white, and her breath come ragged and frightened. She leans forward slightly, and the stained uniform follows, revealing harsh ridges of rib through sallow skin before the shallow, uncupped swell.
“Can I interest you in anything?”
The man grunts and nods his head, apparently satisfied with this performance.
I place a ripped and wrinkled note on the counter top with a fat, skin-stretched hand.
“I’ll have an extra large cheese feast family meal deal ... “
Her eyes widen in surprise but she nods nonetheless, bladed pity showing through the enforced façade.
“... and some onion rings.”
She turns back to the man, mouth hanging open slightly, and gives a little helpless shrug. He stares me down, deep, black eyes taking in every inch of my desire-swollen body - the thick, flaccid rings of fat stacked high from groin to chest to the streaks of dirt collected tight in folds of chin and neck.
I place another note on the chipped and dusty counter and stare down at the floor.
He turns with a sigh and flicks the singed cigarette filter into the deep fat fryer.
“Give the man what he wants.”