A Story About Nothing #21465869
Gosh beth, were you waiting for me? I was merely asking a question...but, anyway, here's a story. Forgive the length; I found it quite a challenge to insert the words in w/o making it seem too contrived.
Title: A Story About Nothing
Genre: Contemporary? I really don't know.
Rating: Young Adult? Contains suggestions of drug-use and sex, but with none actually taking place.
Author Notes: I use British spelling. And a bit of made-up slang.
Word Count: ~1300.
She stood under the harsh glow of a streetlamp, smoking. From a short distance away, Darric eyed her: blond beneath the beanie, tight figure under the jacket, nice legs. It wasn’t snowing but it was windy, and the skirt was an anomaly in this cold for it barely reached her knees. Though she didn’t look the type, there didn’t seem to be anyone else outside the harpies and he was starting to get a little desperate.
Finally he approached her. Their eyes met and arrived at what Darric hoped to be an understanding. He sniffed a couple of times meaningfully; she smiled at him. “Two gee,” said Darric in a low voice, “How much?” She placed the cigarette between her lips and waggled all ten fingers at him.
“Ten?” He frowned. “That's more than twice what I usually pay.”
“Well, I wouldn't know. I'm not really a hooker,” she said. “But since you asked, and I'm kind of in the mood…I’m making you a one-time special offer.” She winked.
At first he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then it dawned on him. “Nah, I thought…I thought you were a pusher. I just want some Pipe is all.’
She slid a hand over his shoulder. “Darling, when we're through, you'll wonder what’s so good about Pipe.” She smiled lazily and blew a stream of smoke into his face.
Darric turned his head and surveyed the place. Tranzies stalked the street like vultures scouring for meat. They called out to the passing men-aliens from other ports, most likely-in strangled, unnatural voices; it gave Darric the creeps. Where the hell were all the pushers tonight? Laying low, apparently. Maybe there had been a crackdown, or there will be. Probably he should keep his head down, too. He regretted not stocking up on the stuff when he had the chance, though he did not trust himself not to overindulge. Pipe was a soft drug, meaning it was non-addictive, although one could certainly form a habit out of using it. But then one could form a habit out of anything. There was a lot of talk in the papers and on the Net about legalising the substance, and he was sure the debate would spill over into Parliament eventually. For now though, it remained banned.
He turned back to face her. Her smile seemed warm but weary. He said, “Must be my lucky night tonight. C’mon.”
She took his arm as they walked down the street, to a rickety little place called “Blind Mice”. It was mostly made of wood and squeaked noisily underfoot; a fact which probably accounted for half its name.
Darric wasted no time and tumbled some cash across the counter. “Room for the night,” he said to the crone on duty. She swept the cash into a drawer seemingly without counting and held out an old-fashioned copper key with the number 14 inscribed into its bow. ‘Third floor,’ rasped she. Darric took the key. They headed for the stairs.
Room 14 contained much darkness and very little else. The lights on the ceiling, when activated, eked out a feeble orange glow. The only furniture was the low bed and a clothes-stand. The windows were rusted fast and so dirty nothing could be seen through them.
“What is that feculent smell?” she asked, “Like something rotting.”
“Read this story in the papers once,” he said, taking off his coat and hooking it onto the stand. “Couple making love in a motel. Wasn’t after a while till they noticed the smell. When they peeled back the mattress, they found a corpse underneath.”
“That might’ve been funny were we somewhere else doing something else, and you told me that. I might have laughed out loud. Putting it into context though, I just wanna fricking puke.”
He fell back onto the bed, laughing. “Sorry.”
She gave a little shiver. “C’mon, let’s get it on. My skin’s a-crawling. Can’t wait to get all this excitement outta my system.” She shrugged off her clothes and boots and climbed in.
“Sorry, again. I’m all limp. I need to recharge on Pipe. I can hardly stand, as it is. Think I’ll just die here. Cover me with a mattress later so the next couple who comes in won’t see my poor dead body.”
“Honey, I understand. You’re paralysed by my awesome beauty. It happens. Allow me to assist,” she said, sliding her hands over him. Her breaths on his mouth became a harsh susurrus.
“I said no!” He flung her grasping hands away.
“Well, it's your loss you frickin’ weirdo!” She got up and went towards her jacket, fumbling in one of the pockets for a cigarette. She found one, lit it, and slipped underneath the sheets to smoke.
Darric wondered why she didn't just go. But he was glad she didn't. He appreciated her presence, somehow. After a moment's silence he said, “If you're not a hooker nor a pusher, then what the hell are you doing in a place like this?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders and tapped ash onto the floor. “To draw and soak in all the corruption and filth. Makes me feel like a frickin’ angel, to be in the midst of all these scum and yet remain apart from it all-it's my way of achieving catharsis.”
“You offered to hump. In return for money.”
“You caught me at a vulnerable moment, is all.”
“‘Ha. And you call me a weirdo.”
“So? Nothing wrong with the pot calling the kettle black. Black is black, regardless of whether it's the pot or the ladle that calls you that.”
That made Darric smile. “I have a headache. I’m gonna try and sleep it off. Feel free to rob me, or whatever. But close the door when you leave.” He kicked off his shoes and slipped under the blanket, laying on his side and facing away.
A moment later, he sensed the light going off and something like an arm slide around his waist.
When Darric awoke the next morning, he found her seated cross-legged on the floor, dressed, a cigarette between her lips, and flipping through an exercise book. His exercise book surely. She became aware of his gaze. “I found this in your coat. Hope you don't mind,” she said, smiling without a trace of guilt or shame.
“Not at all,” said Darric.
“You’re a writer?” she asked. “What’s all this?”
“No. Those are just stories that I do when I'm bored, and I snap out of Pipe. It’s really just one story, rewritten many times: two vapid strangers meeting randomly in a random place, with nothing meaningful happening. With each new rewrite, I change maybe the names, the venue, dialogue, et cetera...But it’s essentially the same old story about nothing.”
“A story about nothing is no story at all.”
He smiled, shrugged. “I guess.”
“I took all your money by the way. That's for spurning me. Thanks for nothing.”
“Alright. You have a nice day.”
She stood up, tugged her boots on, and turned back for one last parting smile before she left. Darric wondered vaguely how he was going to get home without any money.
Title: A Story About Nothing
Genre: Contemporary? I really don't know.
Rating: Young Adult? Contains suggestions of drug-use and sex, but with none actually taking place.
Author Notes: I use British spelling. And a bit of made-up slang.
Word Count: ~1300.
She stood under the harsh glow of a streetlamp, smoking. From a short distance away, Darric eyed her: blond beneath the beanie, tight figure under the jacket, nice legs. It wasn’t snowing but it was windy, and the skirt was an anomaly in this cold for it barely reached her knees. Though she didn’t look the type, there didn’t seem to be anyone else outside the harpies and he was starting to get a little desperate.
Finally he approached her. Their eyes met and arrived at what Darric hoped to be an understanding. He sniffed a couple of times meaningfully; she smiled at him. “Two gee,” said Darric in a low voice, “How much?” She placed the cigarette between her lips and waggled all ten fingers at him.
“Ten?” He frowned. “That's more than twice what I usually pay.”
“Well, I wouldn't know. I'm not really a hooker,” she said. “But since you asked, and I'm kind of in the mood…I’m making you a one-time special offer.” She winked.
At first he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then it dawned on him. “Nah, I thought…I thought you were a pusher. I just want some Pipe is all.’
She slid a hand over his shoulder. “Darling, when we're through, you'll wonder what’s so good about Pipe.” She smiled lazily and blew a stream of smoke into his face.
Darric turned his head and surveyed the place. Tranzies stalked the street like vultures scouring for meat. They called out to the passing men-aliens from other ports, most likely-in strangled, unnatural voices; it gave Darric the creeps. Where the hell were all the pushers tonight? Laying low, apparently. Maybe there had been a crackdown, or there will be. Probably he should keep his head down, too. He regretted not stocking up on the stuff when he had the chance, though he did not trust himself not to overindulge. Pipe was a soft drug, meaning it was non-addictive, although one could certainly form a habit out of using it. But then one could form a habit out of anything. There was a lot of talk in the papers and on the Net about legalising the substance, and he was sure the debate would spill over into Parliament eventually. For now though, it remained banned.
He turned back to face her. Her smile seemed warm but weary. He said, “Must be my lucky night tonight. C’mon.”
She took his arm as they walked down the street, to a rickety little place called “Blind Mice”. It was mostly made of wood and squeaked noisily underfoot; a fact which probably accounted for half its name.
Darric wasted no time and tumbled some cash across the counter. “Room for the night,” he said to the crone on duty. She swept the cash into a drawer seemingly without counting and held out an old-fashioned copper key with the number 14 inscribed into its bow. ‘Third floor,’ rasped she. Darric took the key. They headed for the stairs.
Room 14 contained much darkness and very little else. The lights on the ceiling, when activated, eked out a feeble orange glow. The only furniture was the low bed and a clothes-stand. The windows were rusted fast and so dirty nothing could be seen through them.
“What is that feculent smell?” she asked, “Like something rotting.”
“Read this story in the papers once,” he said, taking off his coat and hooking it onto the stand. “Couple making love in a motel. Wasn’t after a while till they noticed the smell. When they peeled back the mattress, they found a corpse underneath.”
“That might’ve been funny were we somewhere else doing something else, and you told me that. I might have laughed out loud. Putting it into context though, I just wanna fricking puke.”
He fell back onto the bed, laughing. “Sorry.”
She gave a little shiver. “C’mon, let’s get it on. My skin’s a-crawling. Can’t wait to get all this excitement outta my system.” She shrugged off her clothes and boots and climbed in.
“Sorry, again. I’m all limp. I need to recharge on Pipe. I can hardly stand, as it is. Think I’ll just die here. Cover me with a mattress later so the next couple who comes in won’t see my poor dead body.”
“Honey, I understand. You’re paralysed by my awesome beauty. It happens. Allow me to assist,” she said, sliding her hands over him. Her breaths on his mouth became a harsh susurrus.
“I said no!” He flung her grasping hands away.
“Well, it's your loss you frickin’ weirdo!” She got up and went towards her jacket, fumbling in one of the pockets for a cigarette. She found one, lit it, and slipped underneath the sheets to smoke.
Darric wondered why she didn't just go. But he was glad she didn't. He appreciated her presence, somehow. After a moment's silence he said, “If you're not a hooker nor a pusher, then what the hell are you doing in a place like this?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders and tapped ash onto the floor. “To draw and soak in all the corruption and filth. Makes me feel like a frickin’ angel, to be in the midst of all these scum and yet remain apart from it all-it's my way of achieving catharsis.”
“You offered to hump. In return for money.”
“You caught me at a vulnerable moment, is all.”
“‘Ha. And you call me a weirdo.”
“So? Nothing wrong with the pot calling the kettle black. Black is black, regardless of whether it's the pot or the ladle that calls you that.”
That made Darric smile. “I have a headache. I’m gonna try and sleep it off. Feel free to rob me, or whatever. But close the door when you leave.” He kicked off his shoes and slipped under the blanket, laying on his side and facing away.
A moment later, he sensed the light going off and something like an arm slide around his waist.
When Darric awoke the next morning, he found her seated cross-legged on the floor, dressed, a cigarette between her lips, and flipping through an exercise book. His exercise book surely. She became aware of his gaze. “I found this in your coat. Hope you don't mind,” she said, smiling without a trace of guilt or shame.
“Not at all,” said Darric.
“You’re a writer?” she asked. “What’s all this?”
“No. Those are just stories that I do when I'm bored, and I snap out of Pipe. It’s really just one story, rewritten many times: two vapid strangers meeting randomly in a random place, with nothing meaningful happening. With each new rewrite, I change maybe the names, the venue, dialogue, et cetera...But it’s essentially the same old story about nothing.”
“A story about nothing is no story at all.”
He smiled, shrugged. “I guess.”
“I took all your money by the way. That's for spurning me. Thanks for nothing.”
“Alright. You have a nice day.”
She stood up, tugged her boots on, and turned back for one last parting smile before she left. Darric wondered vaguely how he was going to get home without any money.