An exerpt...or however you spell it
I was in a writing mood tonight and I wanted to share some of the work I did on my novel. Remember that story Butterfly Wings and Useless Things? Well, this is that, only longer and more thought out. Characters are still the same, at least the important ones, but now there are a few others that feature.
The part I worked on this evening takes place after Tim's apartment burns down near the end of the story. And just for reference, Patricia and Cynthia are Timothy's sisters. In the first version he didn't have any of those. Here's what I have for you:
Of course Patricia offered to take him in. It was, after all, the good Christian thing to do. He told her to rot in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks and that he would burn there with her before he took up residence in her rose-printed guest room. He considered sleeping in the men’s bathroom at the YMCA a preferable alternative. Of course she burst into tears after that, and made a sniffling retreat, which was really what Tim wanted anyway, so it worked out. Cynthia offered as well, in so much as she could. However, ‘Do you want to come sleep on a piss-smelling cot with me and four other crack-head junkies?’ was not an offer Tim was going to leap at either. Though he did say he would seriously consider it if the choice between that and Patricia’s house came up again.
What he really wanted, though, was to stay with Devon. Being able to spend quality time in a home where he did not feel alienated would be more than he could have asked for and would be the sole ray of light in a darkening existence. Sure, Devon didn’t love him and didn’t want to shag him madly, but that wasn’t really the issue. Devon was his friend and as long as they were still friends they could sit on the couch watching Japanese game shows at two in the morning and drinking margaritas. And if Tim’s hand should occasionally, in a drunken stupor, stray to Devon’s upper thigh during one of their impromptu wrestling matches, then so much the better for him. He would even make pancakes for the two girls if they could stop being self-absorbed for two minutes. It was the perfect scenario.
There was only one problem: Laura. Who was, of course, always the problem.
Even though they were technically separated and well along the rocky path to Divorce, Laura was still living in the house and therefore had a say in who stayed there; and Tim knew that she would have let a herd of wildebeests, the whole of the WWE and four hundred dirty Mexican orphans into her guest bedroom before she would even conceive of having Tim store his hatbox in there. Tim wasn’t a betting man, but he had a strong suspicion that the odds of him getting to sleep within a ten mile radius of Devon’s bedroom were not good.
The first night he spent in a hard metal chair underneath a bright red tent. The ‘temporary shelter’ had been erected by volunteers who were terribly concerned about the welfare of those recently made homeless by the tragic, senseless blaze. Tim thought that if they were so concerned they might spring for a pizza rather than feeding them meals from plastic microwaveable trays. He had been given Chicken Marsala, which tasted like Chicken Ass and had promptly thrown it away after the first tiny nibble.
Someone had given him another coat, a long brown leather affair with a worn collar and the faded scent of cigarette smoke about it. Tim laid it across his lap as he settled down to rest that night and thought, strangely, of his grandfather who had emitted a similar odor. His grandfather also smelled of shit most of the time, but Tim chose not to focus on that. Instead he thought of the time that they all went to the park, Tim throwing a baseball up into the air and rushing to catch it.
“Plays by himself a lot, doesn’t he?” Grandpa Peter had asked Tim’s mom.
She nodded, looking fidgety. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t get along with the other kids? Punches them?”
“No, no! Timothy doesn’t hit.”
But of course, by this point Timothy had already hit several boys his own age; he had just been smart enough to persuade them not to talk about it. He continued rushing through the grass, throwing the ball up, dashing around beneath it, and eventually catching it with a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“Then why the hell doesn’t he have more friends, Maurine?” Grandpa Peter had asked, wheezing a little as they went up a hill.
“I don’t know, Dad! He doesn’t want friends. Timothy doesn’t like other children, he prefers to just keep to himself and play with Cynthia.”
Grandpa had given her a sideways look. “Plays dolls, with her, does he?”
“I don’t know, sometimes. I suppose he does.”
Grandpa huffed. Timothy threw the ball very high up in the air and, while rushing about beneath it, missed his catch and got clipped on the temple instead. He collapsed onto the grass, trying not to cry and Maurine, with only a moment’s hesitation, rushed to see to him. Grandpa took his time, laboring along as a jogger passed with his Labrador, ignoring the whole business.
Tim was sniffling and wiping his eyes, though he refused to acknowledge that he was actually crying. Maurine fussed about the lump forming on his head and said things like, “Oh, I hope we don’t have to take you to the emergency room. I don’t even have the number for your father’s work…”
When Grandpa Peter finally reached them he settled himself down into a squat, his great, greasy black walrus moustache ruffling as he breathed. His eyebrows settled like angry birds perched over the watery pools of his eyes and he said in a voice formed by years of smoking and overuse, “That’s what happens to kids who play alone, son. They end up hurting themselves. And then there’s no one else to blame, is there?”
Man it feels good to write something that I don't feel is crappy. I wrote a whole four pages tonight. *is productive*
Of course all this productiveness means I've blown off most of the studying I need to do for my French final tomorrow. So really it's not all that productive, is it? But I'll have some time to study tomorrow before the test, so it should be ok. Hopefully. *wibble*
The part I worked on this evening takes place after Tim's apartment burns down near the end of the story. And just for reference, Patricia and Cynthia are Timothy's sisters. In the first version he didn't have any of those. Here's what I have for you:
Of course Patricia offered to take him in. It was, after all, the good Christian thing to do. He told her to rot in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks and that he would burn there with her before he took up residence in her rose-printed guest room. He considered sleeping in the men’s bathroom at the YMCA a preferable alternative. Of course she burst into tears after that, and made a sniffling retreat, which was really what Tim wanted anyway, so it worked out. Cynthia offered as well, in so much as she could. However, ‘Do you want to come sleep on a piss-smelling cot with me and four other crack-head junkies?’ was not an offer Tim was going to leap at either. Though he did say he would seriously consider it if the choice between that and Patricia’s house came up again.
What he really wanted, though, was to stay with Devon. Being able to spend quality time in a home where he did not feel alienated would be more than he could have asked for and would be the sole ray of light in a darkening existence. Sure, Devon didn’t love him and didn’t want to shag him madly, but that wasn’t really the issue. Devon was his friend and as long as they were still friends they could sit on the couch watching Japanese game shows at two in the morning and drinking margaritas. And if Tim’s hand should occasionally, in a drunken stupor, stray to Devon’s upper thigh during one of their impromptu wrestling matches, then so much the better for him. He would even make pancakes for the two girls if they could stop being self-absorbed for two minutes. It was the perfect scenario.
There was only one problem: Laura. Who was, of course, always the problem.
Even though they were technically separated and well along the rocky path to Divorce, Laura was still living in the house and therefore had a say in who stayed there; and Tim knew that she would have let a herd of wildebeests, the whole of the WWE and four hundred dirty Mexican orphans into her guest bedroom before she would even conceive of having Tim store his hatbox in there. Tim wasn’t a betting man, but he had a strong suspicion that the odds of him getting to sleep within a ten mile radius of Devon’s bedroom were not good.
The first night he spent in a hard metal chair underneath a bright red tent. The ‘temporary shelter’ had been erected by volunteers who were terribly concerned about the welfare of those recently made homeless by the tragic, senseless blaze. Tim thought that if they were so concerned they might spring for a pizza rather than feeding them meals from plastic microwaveable trays. He had been given Chicken Marsala, which tasted like Chicken Ass and had promptly thrown it away after the first tiny nibble.
Someone had given him another coat, a long brown leather affair with a worn collar and the faded scent of cigarette smoke about it. Tim laid it across his lap as he settled down to rest that night and thought, strangely, of his grandfather who had emitted a similar odor. His grandfather also smelled of shit most of the time, but Tim chose not to focus on that. Instead he thought of the time that they all went to the park, Tim throwing a baseball up into the air and rushing to catch it.
“Plays by himself a lot, doesn’t he?” Grandpa Peter had asked Tim’s mom.
She nodded, looking fidgety. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t get along with the other kids? Punches them?”
“No, no! Timothy doesn’t hit.”
But of course, by this point Timothy had already hit several boys his own age; he had just been smart enough to persuade them not to talk about it. He continued rushing through the grass, throwing the ball up, dashing around beneath it, and eventually catching it with a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“Then why the hell doesn’t he have more friends, Maurine?” Grandpa Peter had asked, wheezing a little as they went up a hill.
“I don’t know, Dad! He doesn’t want friends. Timothy doesn’t like other children, he prefers to just keep to himself and play with Cynthia.”
Grandpa had given her a sideways look. “Plays dolls, with her, does he?”
“I don’t know, sometimes. I suppose he does.”
Grandpa huffed. Timothy threw the ball very high up in the air and, while rushing about beneath it, missed his catch and got clipped on the temple instead. He collapsed onto the grass, trying not to cry and Maurine, with only a moment’s hesitation, rushed to see to him. Grandpa took his time, laboring along as a jogger passed with his Labrador, ignoring the whole business.
Tim was sniffling and wiping his eyes, though he refused to acknowledge that he was actually crying. Maurine fussed about the lump forming on his head and said things like, “Oh, I hope we don’t have to take you to the emergency room. I don’t even have the number for your father’s work…”
When Grandpa Peter finally reached them he settled himself down into a squat, his great, greasy black walrus moustache ruffling as he breathed. His eyebrows settled like angry birds perched over the watery pools of his eyes and he said in a voice formed by years of smoking and overuse, “That’s what happens to kids who play alone, son. They end up hurting themselves. And then there’s no one else to blame, is there?”
Man it feels good to write something that I don't feel is crappy. I wrote a whole four pages tonight. *is productive*
Of course all this productiveness means I've blown off most of the studying I need to do for my French final tomorrow. So really it's not all that productive, is it? But I'll have some time to study tomorrow before the test, so it should be ok. Hopefully. *wibble*