Laundry Hell, de o parte
Laundry Hell
My normal cure for a block is to dust off a plot bunny and flesh it out a little. This one came out of absolutely nowhere, and I blame my cat for it. I have no clue how it ties together, or what's going on in that beginning bit, other than it kinda sounds like one side of a conversation. Comments? Advice? Reactions and critiques? It's weirdly terrifyingly engrossing to me, and I kinda want to (meaning, I feel like I'll fall apart if I don't) continue it. I just hope it's as not-sucky and not-clichéd as my ego thinks it is.
also posted to the writers_loft community (I'm lame and don't know how to link coms)
A/N: I've edited part 1 slightly - Morph has a brother now, not a sister; Josh is now Joshua; and I changed the last line.
Warnings: Creepy laundry rooms, explanations of feline behavior, trippy sci-fi ravings, unnecessary Broken Hearts Club reference.
Rating: Mild language, brief mention of hot, gay sex.
~
Laundry Hell
~
I’ve heard many plausible explanations for what cats are really doing, when they stare off into middle-space with that inscrutable look. None of them are true, though some of them make me laugh. They’re not seeing ghosts, or manipulating the energies of the universe, thinking about a tasty mouse (well, sometimes), or solving quantum equations. Cats are mammals. Pets, sometimes. Creatures of playful ferocity. But they are also eyes. The silent, watching presence. Cameras, if you will. The same as we all are. Self repairing, self replicating cameras. Everything we see, sense, is being watched by other eyes, recorded, manipulated. The difference is, cats know. And that absent, inscrutable look? That’s when they’re fighting back.
It wasn’t always this way. Not until the dinosaurs left. Yes, that’s right, left.
There’s a reason humanity seems to have lost interest in space travel. It’s not conducive to the research.
What research? The death of a planet.
As with any other major undertaking, there are side projects as well.
Like war. Manipulation. Governing systems. Curiosity. Emotion.
We aren’t the only life forms in this universe. But we are the only ones that feel.
Because we were designed that way.
~
I gave the washing machine a good thump with the heel of my shoe, and it settled down. No matter how high or low class an apartment complex was, if it had communal washers and dryers, they were crap. At least that was my observation. At least in this new place, I didn’t have to worry about my clothes being chewed apart, like I had in the past. The big problem here was theft. So I brought a book and headphones and read, sitting on top of the washer or dryer I was using. No chance of getting distracted and having my clothes swiped in front of me without realizing it, if I was sitting on the lid. I’d learned from experience. Not that my clothes were fancy, or expensive, or irreplaceable, but replacing clothes costs money, money that I really don’t have. As evidenced by my current living situation. Not that my apartment was bad, or anything. It just wasn’t nice.
The washer stopped rumbling. Either my clothes were done, or the washer had died. I was hoping for the former. Fortunately, I was in luck. I tossed my no-longer-filthy clothes into a dryer, fed it its customary meal of time-and-a-half the asking price, and jumped on top of that machine to continue reading. My music was turned up loud enough that tinny overspill was echoing from my fancy noise-cancelling earbuds, enough so I felt alone in the bustling laundry room. It’s not that I mind interacting with people, precisely, but there’s just something weird and creepy about acknowledging people or talking to them while one or the other of you is handling underwear. Especially women. After that granny-folding-a-thong incident, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on whatever’s in my own hands, and don’t look up. Ever. I’ve never really wanted to know what women were hiding under their clothes in the first place, and that incident pretty much scarred me for life.
I worked as a mechanic, and didn’t have a large wardrobe, so I tended to spend a lot of time in the laundry room. So I knew laundry-room etiquette fairly well. Rule number one: don’t stare at the weirdo sitting on the dryer so long he can feel the pressure of your eyes boring holes into him. I didn’t know who was staring, because I didn’t want to look up and be possibly scarred for life again, but it was really starting to creep me out - which, conversely, pissed me off. Especially if someone was trying to cruise me in the freaking laundry room. Some things just aren’t sexy. At all.
I was just about ready to give it up and leave, to risk coming back to my clothes later, just to escape the staring, when the vibration of the machine under me stopped. It hadn’t been nearly long enough for my clothes to be dry, but it was excuse enough for me. I’d either drape them off the balcony or come back and finish drying them later. I hopped off the dryer and stuck the paperback into my back pocket, never taking my eyes off the floor in front of me, and turned and started pulling my damp clothes out of the dryer and into my arms. Keeping my blinkered eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of me, I made my way to the door, which someone held open for me. Nodding a thanks in the general direction of where a person was probably standing, I made my grateful way out of the laundry-hell and pounded up the service stairs to the safety of my floor and apartment.
~
It was the third time I’d been to laundry-hell in as many weeks. The world seemed to be conspiring against my clean clothes, and that only made it worse. Because every time I went down there, Staring Person was there. It only added to the creepy factor of the basement laundry room. It was getting bad enough that I’d started contemplating taking my laundry to my brother’s house and doing it there - that should tell you how bad it was. He lived two hours away. I’d even tried bribing my best friend since high school, Gina, into doing my laundry for me, but she just thought the whole thing, especially my description of ‘laundry-hell’, fucking hilarious, and began teasing me unmercifully about it.
This time, rather than bringing a book, I’d brought my Sidekick. If I had to be subjected to this, so did Gina. Vicariously, through text. It was my revenge on her for refusing to be a good fag hag and do my laundry for me. It’s fucking creepy, I can *feel* their eyes.
dude. man up and look back. it’s probably gramma wanting to show u her panties again.
I shuddered. I regret telling you anything. Never happen again.
suure. just look back already, bitch.
I rolled my eyes at the phone’s screen. Yeah, right. If I make eye contact, they’re gonna want to *talk* to me. Hell no.
swut sunglasses are for.
I pulled my shades down off my head and over my eyes. Will it shut you up? Secretly, though, I was glad of the moral support. Not that I’d ever tell her. But I’d never dare this on my own. How much more of a little girl could I be? Not much, barring pigtails. My hair may be long enough, but that was never, ever going to happen.
only if u provide gratuitous detail.
It was really annoying that she’d spell gratuitous correctly, but never you. Always the annoying texting u. God, I hated my generation sometimes. Maybe Gina was my punishment for majoring in English Lit in college. Under the cover of my mirrored shades, I scanned the room surreptitiously while jumping off the machine. I managed not to focus on what anyone was holding, but I did catch a guy staring at me from the corner of his eye. I opened the lid of the washer to have a reason to get down - yep, still full of soapy water and clothes. Slamming the lid, I hopped back on the washer and pulled my phone back out of my pocket. Hmm in corner, but eh for cruising LH. Brief you later. Over the years, Gina and I had developed a somewhat transparent code for ranking men. Eh meant loser, and hmm was gorgeous. And LH was obviously laundry hell. The longer the hmm, the better looking. And this one, from the quick glance I had of him, was a full five second hmm. I was a sucker for the punks, always had been. Especially with piercings and tattoos. Hot.
Knowing who was cruising me in laundry hell made my penance slightly more bearable, but only slightly. As soon as my clothes were done, I bundled them in my arms and raced up the stairs to my floor as quickly as usual. That five storey dash every few days, lifting parts at the shop, and my youthful metabolism were probably the only things keeping me skinny, considering I lived on peanut M&Ms and Rockstar exclusively, not counting cigarettes or the weekly 3 course ‘girl talk’ meals Gina bullied me into at her place.
I’d been reading in the sanctuary of my apartment for almost an hour, when someone knocked on my door. “Dammit Gina, I said I’d call you later,” I yelled as I marked my place in my book and went to open the door. I froze after I opened the door.
“Not Gina,” the punk from laundry hell grinned at me. He was even hotter up close.
“God, stalk much?” I commented reflexively.
He gave me a quick once-over, taking in my longish brown hair, young face, narrow shoulders and waist in my standard white t-shirt and faded jeans. I still had my Chucks on, because no way in hell was I walking on an apartment floor in bare feet. I knew I still looked like the skateboarding college kid I’d been, even though I was over three years out.
“Joshua,” he said sticking his hand out.
I shook it automatically. “Morph. Seriously, what are you doing here?” The fact that he’d been staring at me for weeks in laundry hell was still creeping me the fuck out. Not even his considerable hotness could make up for that.
“Morph? Seriously? What are you, some kind of superhero?” he asked with a grin, apparently taking something I’d said as an invitation to come in, because he brushed by me and started wandering around my apartment.
“College nickname that stuck,” I muttered, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms folded across my chest, willing him to leave.
“Kinda random,” he remarked, turning to face me, sticking his hands in a pocket. “Still not convinced you’re not a superhero, though.”
“Whatever.” I refused to explain the origins of my nickname to the people I worked with, let alone Laundry Hell Guy. Why should he need to know that it came from my only mildly geeky hobby of researching the morphology of words in my spare time. Plus, anything was better than Bradley, especially since no one seemed to think I looked like a Brad. “What do you want?”
Apparently reminded, he pulled a crumpled flyer out of his pocket and thrust it towards me. “I overheard what you were listening to the other day, and thought I’d ask you to come see my band. We’re kinda like that. You could bring Gina,” he added with a wink.
Feeling oddly let down that he’d been creepily trolling for fans and not creepily cruising me, I shrugged and took the flyer. “Sure.” Just my luck, not only do I get a creepy stalker, I get a hot straight one. Completely lose/lose. I waved halfheartedly as he left, and locked the door behind him, smoothing the flyer out against my thigh. From the badly photocopied photo on the flyer, Joshua (aka LHG) played the bass. Surprisingly, it looked like they had a girl fronting them. Gina would like that. She was all about girl power.
There was another knock on the door. “Stop stalking me!” I yelped manfully, startled.
“No, at least not until you start answering your phone.” Gina told me as I opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said regretfully - no, wait - with relief, and shut the door to the apartment as she dashed over to jump on the couch, bouncing my book to the floor.
“Oh, my god. You thought I was him? Wait, he followed you home?” She squealed, though I don’t know if it was in horror or delight. Girl squeals all sound the same to me once they pass a certain frequency. Which Gina’s did. Regularly. “Is he cute? Did he ask you out? Did you have hot, gay sex?”
I cringed for a second at Gina’s enthusiasm. “Yes, he followed me home. No, we did not have hot, gay sex. And he asked us out.” I tossed the flyer in her lap and slouched down next to her. Gina got a speculative look in her eye as I pointed him out on the flyer. When she opened her mouth, I guessed where her thoughts were going and clapped my hand over her mouth in horror. “Don’t even say it. He wants more fans, not a threesome. God, ew.” She scowled at me and licked my palm. I wiped my hand off on her shirt with a disgusted sound. “How old are you, eight?”
“Wait, he thought you were straight?” she asked, ignoring me.
“Yeah, and so’s he.” I slouched deeper into the couch.
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s perfect for you.”
I groaned. All the good ones were either straight or taken.
~
One Two Three Four Five
My normal cure for a block is to dust off a plot bunny and flesh it out a little. This one came out of absolutely nowhere, and I blame my cat for it. I have no clue how it ties together, or what's going on in that beginning bit, other than it kinda sounds like one side of a conversation. Comments? Advice? Reactions and critiques? It's weirdly terrifyingly engrossing to me, and I kinda want to (meaning, I feel like I'll fall apart if I don't) continue it. I just hope it's as not-sucky and not-clichéd as my ego thinks it is.
also posted to the writers_loft community (I'm lame and don't know how to link coms)
A/N: I've edited part 1 slightly - Morph has a brother now, not a sister; Josh is now Joshua; and I changed the last line.
Warnings: Creepy laundry rooms, explanations of feline behavior, trippy sci-fi ravings, unnecessary Broken Hearts Club reference.
Rating: Mild language, brief mention of hot, gay sex.
~
Laundry Hell
~
I’ve heard many plausible explanations for what cats are really doing, when they stare off into middle-space with that inscrutable look. None of them are true, though some of them make me laugh. They’re not seeing ghosts, or manipulating the energies of the universe, thinking about a tasty mouse (well, sometimes), or solving quantum equations. Cats are mammals. Pets, sometimes. Creatures of playful ferocity. But they are also eyes. The silent, watching presence. Cameras, if you will. The same as we all are. Self repairing, self replicating cameras. Everything we see, sense, is being watched by other eyes, recorded, manipulated. The difference is, cats know. And that absent, inscrutable look? That’s when they’re fighting back.
It wasn’t always this way. Not until the dinosaurs left. Yes, that’s right, left.
There’s a reason humanity seems to have lost interest in space travel. It’s not conducive to the research.
What research? The death of a planet.
As with any other major undertaking, there are side projects as well.
Like war. Manipulation. Governing systems. Curiosity. Emotion.
We aren’t the only life forms in this universe. But we are the only ones that feel.
Because we were designed that way.
~
I gave the washing machine a good thump with the heel of my shoe, and it settled down. No matter how high or low class an apartment complex was, if it had communal washers and dryers, they were crap. At least that was my observation. At least in this new place, I didn’t have to worry about my clothes being chewed apart, like I had in the past. The big problem here was theft. So I brought a book and headphones and read, sitting on top of the washer or dryer I was using. No chance of getting distracted and having my clothes swiped in front of me without realizing it, if I was sitting on the lid. I’d learned from experience. Not that my clothes were fancy, or expensive, or irreplaceable, but replacing clothes costs money, money that I really don’t have. As evidenced by my current living situation. Not that my apartment was bad, or anything. It just wasn’t nice.
The washer stopped rumbling. Either my clothes were done, or the washer had died. I was hoping for the former. Fortunately, I was in luck. I tossed my no-longer-filthy clothes into a dryer, fed it its customary meal of time-and-a-half the asking price, and jumped on top of that machine to continue reading. My music was turned up loud enough that tinny overspill was echoing from my fancy noise-cancelling earbuds, enough so I felt alone in the bustling laundry room. It’s not that I mind interacting with people, precisely, but there’s just something weird and creepy about acknowledging people or talking to them while one or the other of you is handling underwear. Especially women. After that granny-folding-a-thong incident, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on whatever’s in my own hands, and don’t look up. Ever. I’ve never really wanted to know what women were hiding under their clothes in the first place, and that incident pretty much scarred me for life.
I worked as a mechanic, and didn’t have a large wardrobe, so I tended to spend a lot of time in the laundry room. So I knew laundry-room etiquette fairly well. Rule number one: don’t stare at the weirdo sitting on the dryer so long he can feel the pressure of your eyes boring holes into him. I didn’t know who was staring, because I didn’t want to look up and be possibly scarred for life again, but it was really starting to creep me out - which, conversely, pissed me off. Especially if someone was trying to cruise me in the freaking laundry room. Some things just aren’t sexy. At all.
I was just about ready to give it up and leave, to risk coming back to my clothes later, just to escape the staring, when the vibration of the machine under me stopped. It hadn’t been nearly long enough for my clothes to be dry, but it was excuse enough for me. I’d either drape them off the balcony or come back and finish drying them later. I hopped off the dryer and stuck the paperback into my back pocket, never taking my eyes off the floor in front of me, and turned and started pulling my damp clothes out of the dryer and into my arms. Keeping my blinkered eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of me, I made my way to the door, which someone held open for me. Nodding a thanks in the general direction of where a person was probably standing, I made my grateful way out of the laundry-hell and pounded up the service stairs to the safety of my floor and apartment.
~
It was the third time I’d been to laundry-hell in as many weeks. The world seemed to be conspiring against my clean clothes, and that only made it worse. Because every time I went down there, Staring Person was there. It only added to the creepy factor of the basement laundry room. It was getting bad enough that I’d started contemplating taking my laundry to my brother’s house and doing it there - that should tell you how bad it was. He lived two hours away. I’d even tried bribing my best friend since high school, Gina, into doing my laundry for me, but she just thought the whole thing, especially my description of ‘laundry-hell’, fucking hilarious, and began teasing me unmercifully about it.
This time, rather than bringing a book, I’d brought my Sidekick. If I had to be subjected to this, so did Gina. Vicariously, through text. It was my revenge on her for refusing to be a good fag hag and do my laundry for me. It’s fucking creepy, I can *feel* their eyes.
dude. man up and look back. it’s probably gramma wanting to show u her panties again.
I shuddered. I regret telling you anything. Never happen again.
suure. just look back already, bitch.
I rolled my eyes at the phone’s screen. Yeah, right. If I make eye contact, they’re gonna want to *talk* to me. Hell no.
swut sunglasses are for.
I pulled my shades down off my head and over my eyes. Will it shut you up? Secretly, though, I was glad of the moral support. Not that I’d ever tell her. But I’d never dare this on my own. How much more of a little girl could I be? Not much, barring pigtails. My hair may be long enough, but that was never, ever going to happen.
only if u provide gratuitous detail.
It was really annoying that she’d spell gratuitous correctly, but never you. Always the annoying texting u. God, I hated my generation sometimes. Maybe Gina was my punishment for majoring in English Lit in college. Under the cover of my mirrored shades, I scanned the room surreptitiously while jumping off the machine. I managed not to focus on what anyone was holding, but I did catch a guy staring at me from the corner of his eye. I opened the lid of the washer to have a reason to get down - yep, still full of soapy water and clothes. Slamming the lid, I hopped back on the washer and pulled my phone back out of my pocket. Hmm in corner, but eh for cruising LH. Brief you later. Over the years, Gina and I had developed a somewhat transparent code for ranking men. Eh meant loser, and hmm was gorgeous. And LH was obviously laundry hell. The longer the hmm, the better looking. And this one, from the quick glance I had of him, was a full five second hmm. I was a sucker for the punks, always had been. Especially with piercings and tattoos. Hot.
Knowing who was cruising me in laundry hell made my penance slightly more bearable, but only slightly. As soon as my clothes were done, I bundled them in my arms and raced up the stairs to my floor as quickly as usual. That five storey dash every few days, lifting parts at the shop, and my youthful metabolism were probably the only things keeping me skinny, considering I lived on peanut M&Ms and Rockstar exclusively, not counting cigarettes or the weekly 3 course ‘girl talk’ meals Gina bullied me into at her place.
I’d been reading in the sanctuary of my apartment for almost an hour, when someone knocked on my door. “Dammit Gina, I said I’d call you later,” I yelled as I marked my place in my book and went to open the door. I froze after I opened the door.
“Not Gina,” the punk from laundry hell grinned at me. He was even hotter up close.
“God, stalk much?” I commented reflexively.
He gave me a quick once-over, taking in my longish brown hair, young face, narrow shoulders and waist in my standard white t-shirt and faded jeans. I still had my Chucks on, because no way in hell was I walking on an apartment floor in bare feet. I knew I still looked like the skateboarding college kid I’d been, even though I was over three years out.
“Joshua,” he said sticking his hand out.
I shook it automatically. “Morph. Seriously, what are you doing here?” The fact that he’d been staring at me for weeks in laundry hell was still creeping me the fuck out. Not even his considerable hotness could make up for that.
“Morph? Seriously? What are you, some kind of superhero?” he asked with a grin, apparently taking something I’d said as an invitation to come in, because he brushed by me and started wandering around my apartment.
“College nickname that stuck,” I muttered, leaning against the doorjamb with my arms folded across my chest, willing him to leave.
“Kinda random,” he remarked, turning to face me, sticking his hands in a pocket. “Still not convinced you’re not a superhero, though.”
“Whatever.” I refused to explain the origins of my nickname to the people I worked with, let alone Laundry Hell Guy. Why should he need to know that it came from my only mildly geeky hobby of researching the morphology of words in my spare time. Plus, anything was better than Bradley, especially since no one seemed to think I looked like a Brad. “What do you want?”
Apparently reminded, he pulled a crumpled flyer out of his pocket and thrust it towards me. “I overheard what you were listening to the other day, and thought I’d ask you to come see my band. We’re kinda like that. You could bring Gina,” he added with a wink.
Feeling oddly let down that he’d been creepily trolling for fans and not creepily cruising me, I shrugged and took the flyer. “Sure.” Just my luck, not only do I get a creepy stalker, I get a hot straight one. Completely lose/lose. I waved halfheartedly as he left, and locked the door behind him, smoothing the flyer out against my thigh. From the badly photocopied photo on the flyer, Joshua (aka LHG) played the bass. Surprisingly, it looked like they had a girl fronting them. Gina would like that. She was all about girl power.
There was another knock on the door. “Stop stalking me!” I yelped manfully, startled.
“No, at least not until you start answering your phone.” Gina told me as I opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said regretfully - no, wait - with relief, and shut the door to the apartment as she dashed over to jump on the couch, bouncing my book to the floor.
“Oh, my god. You thought I was him? Wait, he followed you home?” She squealed, though I don’t know if it was in horror or delight. Girl squeals all sound the same to me once they pass a certain frequency. Which Gina’s did. Regularly. “Is he cute? Did he ask you out? Did you have hot, gay sex?”
I cringed for a second at Gina’s enthusiasm. “Yes, he followed me home. No, we did not have hot, gay sex. And he asked us out.” I tossed the flyer in her lap and slouched down next to her. Gina got a speculative look in her eye as I pointed him out on the flyer. When she opened her mouth, I guessed where her thoughts were going and clapped my hand over her mouth in horror. “Don’t even say it. He wants more fans, not a threesome. God, ew.” She scowled at me and licked my palm. I wiped my hand off on her shirt with a disgusted sound. “How old are you, eight?”
“Wait, he thought you were straight?” she asked, ignoring me.
“Yeah, and so’s he.” I slouched deeper into the couch.
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s perfect for you.”
I groaned. All the good ones were either straight or taken.
~
One Two Three Four Five