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Dedicated to Borat.
Gordon sat at his flimsy Formica table, his elbows resting on the hard material and his hands cradling his tired head. He was sick. It was not the kind of sickness any doctor would diagnose or ever recognise but he felt it and it was all too real to him. He had no real troubles or worries in life, just the vastness of existence scared him to a point he felt suffocated by it all. He had a good job; he worked as a human resources manager of a high street business. Each and every day he met new people, but they were all the same. Each one of them money-driven, power-hungry, selfish deluded fools, blinded by their falsifying dreams of being anything more than a statistic on a spreadsheet in a government office.
He knew the reason for his depression and uttermost spite for the whole system. The entire generation are the middle children of history, born to believe that life has always been so easy and simple and brought up without an instinct to survive. Born with everything and not having to struggle for anything; no meaningful goals or dreams left to be fulfilled. Gordon had a family, two spiteful parents that disowned him at a young age and immigrated to Mexico, leaving him in the custody of his malevolent grandparents who plagued his mind with their wretched ways. He never forgave his parents for that and hadn’t spoken to them for over 17 years.
Gordon stood up from the Formica table and paced across the sparsely tiled floor to a singular cabinet. He open the beige cupboard door that squeaked horrifically as it opened, he swore one day he would oil the hinge but then again he had sworn that for the past six months. He selected a high brimmed coffee mug and poured a heavy measure of vodka into it, he returned to his cheap wooden chair at the flimsy Formica table and began to drink. Drinking was the only way to take his mind off the world that tormented him so. After he had finished the mug full, the effects of the alcohol begin to kick in. Gordon felt his head spin and his arms felt heavy, he tried to stand up from the flimsy Formica table and toppled backwards onto the sparsely tiled floor.
He drunkenly clambered to his feet and staggered to the sliding doors of his 8th floor balcony, bringing his vodka bottle with him. He held on to the cold metal railings and peered down at the busy road below, each pair of traffic headlights as insignificant as the next. After another swig of the luke-warm liquid he made the most important decision he was ever likely to make in his mediocre letdown of a life. He hurled the bottle over the balcony and heard it satisfyingly smash on the concrete floor far below. He clutched the cold metal railing with his hands and put one foot up onto the top and pulled his entire body up. And there, teetering on the brink he let go. He fell through the void of malfunction into the simplicity he would find only in death. The penultimate thud was the last sound he heard as his body met the ground below, rending his body dead. But the fall didn’t kill his soul, his soul died long ago.
Gordon sat at his flimsy Formica table, his elbows resting on the hard material and his hands cradling his tired head. He was sick. It was not the kind of sickness any doctor would diagnose or ever recognise but he felt it and it was all too real to him. He had no real troubles or worries in life, just the vastness of existence scared him to a point he felt suffocated by it all. He had a good job; he worked as a human resources manager of a high street business. Each and every day he met new people, but they were all the same. Each one of them money-driven, power-hungry, selfish deluded fools, blinded by their falsifying dreams of being anything more than a statistic on a spreadsheet in a government office.
He knew the reason for his depression and uttermost spite for the whole system. The entire generation are the middle children of history, born to believe that life has always been so easy and simple and brought up without an instinct to survive. Born with everything and not having to struggle for anything; no meaningful goals or dreams left to be fulfilled. Gordon had a family, two spiteful parents that disowned him at a young age and immigrated to Mexico, leaving him in the custody of his malevolent grandparents who plagued his mind with their wretched ways. He never forgave his parents for that and hadn’t spoken to them for over 17 years.
Gordon stood up from the Formica table and paced across the sparsely tiled floor to a singular cabinet. He open the beige cupboard door that squeaked horrifically as it opened, he swore one day he would oil the hinge but then again he had sworn that for the past six months. He selected a high brimmed coffee mug and poured a heavy measure of vodka into it, he returned to his cheap wooden chair at the flimsy Formica table and began to drink. Drinking was the only way to take his mind off the world that tormented him so. After he had finished the mug full, the effects of the alcohol begin to kick in. Gordon felt his head spin and his arms felt heavy, he tried to stand up from the flimsy Formica table and toppled backwards onto the sparsely tiled floor.
He drunkenly clambered to his feet and staggered to the sliding doors of his 8th floor balcony, bringing his vodka bottle with him. He held on to the cold metal railings and peered down at the busy road below, each pair of traffic headlights as insignificant as the next. After another swig of the luke-warm liquid he made the most important decision he was ever likely to make in his mediocre letdown of a life. He hurled the bottle over the balcony and heard it satisfyingly smash on the concrete floor far below. He clutched the cold metal railing with his hands and put one foot up onto the top and pulled his entire body up. And there, teetering on the brink he let go. He fell through the void of malfunction into the simplicity he would find only in death. The penultimate thud was the last sound he heard as his body met the ground below, rending his body dead. But the fall didn’t kill his soul, his soul died long ago.
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Page two of this forum, called "short story".
English_Bloke wrote:
> Hey Kyz, can you give my very short story about the alcoholic a read?
Yeah, where is it?
and the lexical patterning was intentional so the story moved from A to B to A to B to X, whether that makes an ounce of sense is a different matter
> Hey Kyz, can you give my very short story about the alcoholic a read?
Yeah, where is it?
and the lexical patterning was intentional so the story moved from A to B to A to B to X, whether that makes an ounce of sense is a different matter
He did this.
He did that.
Flimsy Formica table.
Sparsely tiled floor.
I don’t know if you were intentionally making it repetitive, to show the repetitive nature of his life? But, I would have preferred it to sound a little less mechanical.
You build up a bit more character, seems fed up with most things, with his mediocre life. But you still don’t really sense just how desperate he is.
I was also going to write that I liked the last line, but I shall just say, “What Borat said”.
Hey Kyz, can you give my very short story about the alcoholic a read?
He did that.
Flimsy Formica table.
Sparsely tiled floor.
I don’t know if you were intentionally making it repetitive, to show the repetitive nature of his life? But, I would have preferred it to sound a little less mechanical.
You build up a bit more character, seems fed up with most things, with his mediocre life. But you still don’t really sense just how desperate he is.
I was also going to write that I liked the last line, but I shall just say, “What Borat said”.
Hey Kyz, can you give my very short story about the alcoholic a read?
Microchips wrote:
> Still smells, even after reading it twice.
My posts are like Marmite, love em or hate em.
I dont write for a broad audience or to appeal to everyone. I write for myself.
> Still smells, even after reading it twice.
My posts are like Marmite, love em or hate em.
I dont write for a broad audience or to appeal to everyone. I write for myself.
Do you see how the other thread was a different angle on the subject then?
I like to keep the stories I write brief as if they are long they tend to ramble a bit and lose the interest of the readers.
I like to keep the stories I write brief as if they are long they tend to ramble a bit and lose the interest of the readers.
*post about
Still smells, even after reading it twice.
*Yawwwwwwwwwn*
Challenge for you: Make a good, and I mean good, about trouser snakes.
Go on.
*Yawwwwwwwwwn*
Challenge for you: Make a good, and I mean good, about trouser snakes.
Go on.
Yeh. Like I commented before when you posted that, the last line made it.
The 'dedicated to Borat' bit makes it sound like I killed myself!
Is pretty good that, you can feel the pain of the character and the utter hopelessness he feels. To really identify with him though the story would need to be much longer and describe in detail what is breaking his spirit and destroying his soul.
The last line is great though - "Rending his body dead, but the fall didn't kill his soul, that died years ago".
depressing, but good
Is pretty good that, you can feel the pain of the character and the utter hopelessness he feels. To really identify with him though the story would need to be much longer and describe in detail what is breaking his spirit and destroying his soul.
The last line is great though - "Rending his body dead, but the fall didn't kill his soul, that died years ago".
depressing, but good
No wait I saw the other thread.
I get it now.
I get it now.
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