Thread: Full length novel

Results 1 to 4 of 4
  1. #1 Full length novel 
    Extreme Donator
    Avernus's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2016
    Posts
    18
    Thanks given
    5
    Thanks received
    1
    Rep Power
    36
    Inspirations: American Psycho, Fight Club, Requiem for a Dream, Enter the Void, The Divine Comedy, Crime & Punishment, Old Boy, Donnie Darko.


    This is a semi-autobiographical novel.

    Hey everyone. I'm the ghost around here. Decided to suspend uni and do what I want to so since my best friend overdosed at the age of 20 a few months back and my only remaining parent got moved into a nursing home.

    I've been told I'm very good at literacy. I wrote the second draft from scratch and it is of 77,000 words in length. I'll sample you guys a chapter or so. Maybe once you get to know me better I'll send it if you care enough.

    For now, I want to use my language ability for computer language.

    I'd suggest downloading the sample document if you actually care. The novel as a whole is structurally conceptual so you won't truly appreciate it from this extract. The download has an extra chapter all about drugs and shit. Cliche perhaps but I know I'm a good writer.

    There will be a third draft.



    Apartment 7
    Introduction
    Acedia/Purgato


    I sit on this bench opposite three teenagers, who each have smoke rising above their heads. The group consists of two guys and a girl and all I can hear is feigned interest and forced laughter. One dude voices an unmemorable opinion whilst the other eagerly hands out one of his cigarettes in exchange for the girl’s affections. Much to their credit though, they appear to be in good spirits considering this bleak setting. One of them notices my obviously creepy gaze and this causes the entirety of the group to turn their attention solely to me.
    I become increasingly aware of this attention as an elderly woman and her sausage dog intercept it for a few moments. I resolve not to look any stranger than I already do and try not to look at the teenagers, focusing my efforts instead on lighting my final cylinder of government sponsored death. I remain aware of their burning gaze all the while. It’s a shame I’m not a dog-walker, they can frequent public parks without suspicion. As the elderly woman and her dog leave the park in the distance, I consider my options as the voices of the three teenagers start to become more audible.
    “What are you looking at?” Comes the shrill cry of the blonde girl.
    I decide to leave the park at this point with my plans of sitting here in peace and considering my options successfully foiled. I try not to look at them, unwilling to acknowledge the existence of this intrusive group in my world. A more masculine cry can be heard this time:
    “Fuck off you weirdo.”
    I will.
    I limp out of the park as quick as I can with this fractured leg, stopping a moment to wipe the blood so gradually seeping into my eyes as I leave the park through the gate. Luckily for me, it’s too dark out here now for them to notice that at least.
    It’s a dull night and I don’t attribute any poetic significance to this. Nameless cars drive past me, their occupants completely alien to me as they gaze out with their bored expressions, evidently so eager to reach their next destination in this world. The occasional pedestrians that I pass on this evening look away as I limp through the streets of my hometown once more. For now, I live in a world where outward friendliness to a stranger is perceived as an act of strangeness.
    My name is James White and the town I so optimistically navigate at the present is called Nullfield. Should the name of this destination be uttered anywhere more than 70 miles away, it’s almost certain that ‘Where’s Nullfield?’ would be the response. Approximately 7,000 eager consumers live in this isolated countryside town, the majority of which rely upon the one major, highly endorsed supermarket – ‘every purchase counts’ in its boundaries, primed with aspiration. There are exactly seven bakeries, two book makers and five pubs in this unmemorable town, all working to accumulate profit and satisfy the legal (and therefore respectable) vices of their customers.
    Often forgotten, the young people of Nullfield also have a wide range of activities at their disposal, with places like the park and compulsory education giving them all they could ever want in the world. Should that not be enough, the internet, junk food and games consoles should satisfy their need to occupy their limited hours on this earth.
    I eventually leave the main street and pass the Roquentin Library, which stands opposite one of the town’s many untrustworthy pizza outlets. No autodidact inhabits this enclosure, I am met instead by the group of children so contentedly playing phone games outside of it. As I turn another corner, the metropolis that holds a monopoly over the town comes into view. I count out the required change (£7.70) and enter the automatic doors of the DEPENDCO ™ supermarket.
    I approach the elderly lady behind the cigarette counter, who looks horrified as she first catches a glimpse of my face.
    “Are you alright?” She asks, concernedly. “Do you want me to get an ambulance or something?”
    Dismissive, I simply ask for 20 Marlboro cigarettes, which is met at first with bewilderment but then with excellent customer service as she goes to hand me the packet. She decides upon asking me for ID as I wipe a drizzle of blood from beneath my nose. I come to this shop every day.
    “Just give me the fucking cigarettes!”
    Perhaps acknowledging my potential as a murderer in this current state, she hands me the cigarettes, even saying thank you (or was it ‘Fuck you’?) as I hand her the exact change. I leave the shop with considerably less money and a purchase that will bring me closer to death.
    Sheltering my lighter from the wind, I light my cigarette after six or seven attempts, warming myself with the heavily taxed smoke that I so willingly allow to enter my lungs. Walking down Safeholme Avenue, I dodge an elderly couple unwilling to show courtesy to someone that they assume has much longer to live than them.
    With the street now entirely unoccupied, the only sound to be ascertained is the distant humming of televisions in the many houses I pass, warning the viewers of what a horrible world it is we live in and most likely notifying them of what substances do and don’t cause cancer/premature death. Filled with disgust I observe the many freshly painted fences and lawns cut to perfection in this small sample of suburbia. Anger continues to burn up within me as I see perfectly sculpted conifers and flowerbeds, so devotedly crafted by the inhabitants of this street; most likely attempting to assert their gardening superiority over their neighbours.
    A chubby black cat lumbers toward me and eventually rests at my feet; the therapeutic purring it emits doing no wonders for me at this particular moment. I go to stroke it but it runs away, leaving me with only my cigarette for commiseration. I throw it to the ground as it burns to an expected end.
    Eventually I reach the MINWAG industrial estate, which is the location of the Happy Puppy Treat Dispensary ™ which was my workplace seven or so weeks ago. The sounds of machinery clunking through the night invokes some sentiment in me, a reminder almost of the days spent completing mundane production tasks, when the future appeared so bright.
    I eventually reach the front doors of the Happy Puppy Treat Dispensary ™, noticing that it’s unlit and therefore entirely unoccupied. I hastily press the entry code into the side door (0707), feeling fairly lucky that it hasn’t been changed since my dramatic departure all that time ago. The door clunks open, revealing the morbid enclosure that took so many hours from me in the name of monetary survival. Using my phone light I navigate through the warehouse, dodging past the conveyor belts and machinery as I head toward the spiral staircase at the far corner of the room.
    Watching my step through fear of rectifiable injury I climb the metallic ascent, eventually reaching what used to be the office of my old tyrannical working superior. The door is locked so I smash the window beside it and climb through. This venue is perfect.
    My role in the Happy Puppy Treat Dispensary ™ involved packaging (you guessed it) dog treats, and ensuring that the shape and quality of the produce remained consistent. Through my contribution to this business, I liked to think that I was contributing to the joy of canines all around the nation. I wonder now whether these dogs appreciated the so very limited living hours I invested in their survival.
    The answer to that is no, just like Sonia’s response to my hopeless infatuation, or the question of whether or not my life has a purpose. I light another cigarette and drop the rest of them on the floor, emptying my pockets of both my house keys and wallet soon after. They land on a bit of crumpled newspaper laying beneath my feet. The headline on the front of this publication informs me that the ‘ELDERLY ARE UNHAPPY WITH HOW THINGS ARE GOING’. I don’t feel like picking it up and observing it to ease my existential dilemma, such an idea makes me nauseous.
    I head toward the fire door of Tristan’s office and open it, taking another drag on my cigarette as the burglar alarm of the factory starts echoing into Nullfield’s silent night life. Edging toward the descent, I grasp the door frame and swing myself onto the ladder leading to the roof of the factory, being especially cautious not to fall off and merely break one of my legs.
    The alarm grows louder as I ascend the ladder, eventually reaching the roof. Pulling the cigarette out of my mouth, I re-light it. One half of my smoking hourglass remains. Inhale.
    I walk across the roof, observing the monotonous fields and dully lit streets of Nullfield on this Sunday evening. Business as usual, I suppose.
    Inhale. I sit down, dangling my legs over the sizeable two story descent. Inhale. One third remains. The alarm mustn’t be loud enough to garner attention, there’s no morbid curiosity or fire engines arriving to the scene just yet. Inhale. It’s peaceful up here, but such tranquillity won’t last for long amidst this ringing alarm bell. The mostly unnecessary fire brigade of the town will soon be likely to make an ostensible appearance. Inhale.
    I expected my thoughts up here to be profound, or to make sense of everything going on. I can’t really think of anything redeeming or uplifting at this moment, such temporary periods of motivation and enlightenment have drawn thin. Inhale. They are always short lived and never eternal like I so desire. Inhale.
    I’m tired of my introspective tendencies and my incessant questioning of things, just like I’m tired of mirroring people’s expressions in conversation. I’m tired of deluding myself that normality equates to happiness and I’m tired of this alarm ringing. I’m tired of nightmares. I’m tired of the change that never comes. I’m tired of asking why we’re all here and how I’ll feel with the end growing closer and more likely with each year that so hazily passes me by.
    Maybe Jean-Paul was right, there’s always been something a little off about me, In both my nature or my behaviour toward others. I try to do as I see right, but what comes out is a passive aggressive manner of what I believe to be a personification of all that I’ve experienced and find so impossible to consciously acknowledge. In everything I say and do, I feel like some underlying hostility is to be perceived. My facial expression show it. My eyes show it. My tone of voice shows it. Everything within me screams out to show recognition to what I’ve done and change my ways.
    Maybe it’s too late for that now.
    Maybe I’m just a terrible person.
    I throw the filter over the edge of the descent, and my body follows.





    2

    I open my eyes and all I can hear is the sound of static. The lights in my apartment are dimmed and I can just about make out the remains of a pizza, carelessly thrown onto the floor. I unstick my skin from the leather sofa and go looking for the remote. As I search in the dark for a means of turning down this static, I stand on a crumpled bit of newspaper, stained with bong water that it was once used to mop up.
    ELDERLY UNHAPPY WITH HOW THINGS ARE GOING
    Remote found, I sit back on the sofa, wrapping myself in the smelly duvet that so often warms me on these days of solitude. I try to turn down the volume at this point, but it’s to no avail. The intrusive crackling of the static persists. I unwrap myself and try unplugging the television, but the static remains, much to my bewilderment.
    Trying to disregard this occurrence as some sort of psychosis, I pick up my iPhone 7 from the floor and see that it’s 7o’clock at night and I’ve slept for almost fourteen hours. Exasperated, I throw it overarm against the window of my living room and it bounces back, both phone and window completely unscathed. Shaking my head, I reach for the bong, knocking over a few empty cider cans in the process of doing so. Filling it with the appropriate utensils, I shoot it and enjoy the redeeming burn against my chest, filling my lungs with that oh so desirable illusion of happiness.
    SMOKING HARMS OTHERS AROUND YOU
    I decide upon making a coffee and lighting a cigarette, appreciating these comforts as both of them bring me back to a satisfactory level of chemical contentment. The static on the television remains, so I try to drown it out with music played from my phone – and so plays the The Question.
    The coffee tastes good and the cigarette tastes dreadful. I stub it out and proceed to hit a few more bongs. I turn off the music when I reach the point where sleep is once again possible.
    They say it’s the cousin of death, right?
    SOMETIMES I WONDER WHO THE FUCK I AM


    3

    I awaken after dreaming of nothing. The sound of static penetrates my ears and I make the impulsive decision to launch the fucking bong at the television. The foul scent of the murky water it contained enters my sinuses and I feel very angry indeed.
    There’s still no signal on Channel 7 and I attempt once more to turn the television off by the remote. I consider having a bong but that would require an insurmountable amount of effort.
    I force myself back to sleep once more.
    PAINT THE BLACK HOLE BLACKER



    4

    I wake up at 7am, trying not to put much consideration into the fact that both my clock and television are broken. I eventually muster the courage to refill the bong and smoke it, sitting back on the sofa immediately after. My phone has no messages or signal. It seems like the time isn’t changing on my iPhone 7 either. I turn the music back on (Nirvana this time) and pack the crude bong pipe once again.
    I spark the lighter and inhale.
    MY GIRL, MY GIRL, DON’T LIE TO ME, TELL ME WHERE DID YOU SLEEP LAST NIGHT?
    Face down on a parking spot. That hit seemed to spark a dreamlike memory. I get to my feet and go to open the curtains but it makes no difference, the room is still cloaked in darkness. It’s as if the windows are coated in tar. I go to the bathroom and try to look through the window in there, but it’s much the same.
    HIS HEAD WAS FOUND IN A DRIVING WHEEL, BUT HIS BODY NEVER WAS FOUND.
    I see nothing.
    I turn on a lamp, once again dumbstruck by whatever the fuck’s going on in here. It’s been a long time since I’ve touched acid, that can’t be an explanation. The solution to these issues? I reach for the bong once again.
    MY GIRL, MY GIRL, WHERE WILL YOU GO? I’M GOING WHERE THE COLD WIND BLOWS.
    I light the bong.
    I smoke the bong.
    I reach for another.
    IN THE PINES, IN THE PINES, WHERE THE SUN DON’T EVER SHINE
    I smoke the bong.
    I WOULD SHIVER THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH.








    5

    At this moment, I decide things are getting a bit too fucking weird and try opening the front door of my apartment, unsuccessfully. I stumble around the room stoned, looking for the fucking keys and trying to make sense of it all. I stick my hand into the grooves of the sofa only to get my hand defiled by the various sticky substances lodged in there. No key.
    I reach for the bong and I smoke another.
    THAT’S THE ONLY THING THAT KEEPS ME LEVEL UP IN MY CRAZY HEAD.
    The search continues for an hour and ten minutes (exactly), with the bongs rendering me internally conflicted, hindering my search abilities whilst all the while easing my frustration.
    STONED ON THE RUN RUN
    The bag of weed depletes steadily, as it always does.
    I keep searching and find nothing. What a surprise. I try to retrace what I did with them but in this clouded mind-set such recollection isn’t a possibility.
    I build a bong and I fucking smoke it.
    Keys.
    I grab the latch on the living room window, absolute desperation now. It doesn’t move, a metaphoric sword in a stone.
    And I’m no king.
    I try all of the other windows, much to no avail.
    With a burning chest and reddening face, I search under my bed for the baseball bat so discreetly hidden under there. How convenient.
    Without any signal on my phone, this seems to be the only reasonable option. This isn’t something that happens every day.
    This one goes out to you, Liam.
    I swing against the blackened window and it’s a fucking home run, the connection is solid and echoes throughout the room in a way that brings agony to my ears. But there’s no smashed glass, all I’ve got is a sore hand from the impact.
    I swing again.
    DONG
    I swing again.
    DONG
    But no smash.
    I keep going.
    The glass won’t break.
    DONG
    Bong.


    6

    The glass is impenetrable. The keys to my door unfindable. This rare exertion of effort has caused exhaustion in my limbs. I stare at the static coming from my TV and the music still plays.
    The bong still smokes and the clock continues telling me that it’s 7am.
    KINDA FEELS LIKE IT’S A PURGATORY
    I eat a bacon sandwich, deliberating about the situation I now find myself in and considering the fact that a pig died for my gluttonous indulgence. After the slices of animal carcass are in my stomach, however, I once again feel motivated to try and smash the windows of my own apartment.
    Such optimism is short lived.
    Times like these I wish I had a landline phone. My iPhone 7 hasn’t protected me from real life this time around.
    ALL THESE BACKFIRES OF MY EXPERIMENTS WITH DRUGS
    I throw the bat in sheer frustration and it simply bounces off of the television, the unpowered static so annoyingly relentless as it coincides with the sound of the music.
    AND I EXPERIENCED A TOUCH OF MY EPIPHANY IN COLOUR FORM.
    I have another bong.
    DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOVE AND WAR INFORM ME I’M ABOVE THE NORM.
    I make a coffee and sit back on the sofa.
    I just don’t know.
    I dial 999 on my phone and fortunately for you I don’t get through.
    I’d say I have around seven bongs left.













    7

    The music abruptly shuts off at the same time as every bit of lighting that my room has to offer. The crackling of the static on my TV now dissipates, yet the black and white on the screen remains.
    Poltergeist static in a darkened room.
    Channel 7.
    Some sort of divine signal comes through. The static parts vertically from the middle of the screen, like a pair of eyes opening.
    The setting the screen reveals and keeps momentarily blacking out is a familiar one.
    It’s almost like







    Chapter One
    Wrath


    1

    I’m in my childhood bedroom, reluctantly waking up for school, procrastinating and hoping that the day ahead fades into obscurity. It’s 7:17am and this is definitely too early for action. For a while I remain stagnant, lying in bed and savouring these ironically tragic moments where sleep seems pleasurable (when departure is imminent). I fall back to sleep – the picture on the television fades to black.
    By 8:07am I’m awoken by a knock on my bedroom door. The picture comes back into view.
    “You getting up today, Jimmy?” Comes the voice of my father, a voice long forgotten until this moment.
    “Yeah, what time you going to work?” I ask, with a voice so evidently in the process of breaking.
    “In like seven minutes mate, there’s a coffee downstairs if you want it. Don’t stay off today though, they’ll be ringing me up again.”
    “Yeah I know, it doesn’t matter though, it’s not like I ever miss anything important.”
    “You’ve already had a few days off this week,” He says reasonably, “You can’t take advantage, go in today mate.”
    “Alright.” I groan, hapless in regards to the endurance of seven boring hours.
    “Good lad, I’ll see you when I get home, we can watch something if you like.”
    And he’s gone, quick enough for him not to hear my next response.
    “Yeah I’ll find something decent, see you tonight dad.”
    I hear the front door slam shut and I’m left with just my coffee, going cold downstairs.
    On mornings like this one I’d have a difficult decision to make, sanctuary or boredom. On this morning in particular though I had no alternatives. It was time to get myself as ready as I’d ever be for compulsory ‘education’. Once I reach the bathroom I observe myself looking in the mirror, with a face staring back at me that’s younger and more innocent than what I’ve been accustomed to in recent years. I look upon my spotty complexion and soft stubble, then at my eyes. Optimistic would not be a word used to describe them.
    After my shower I get dressed and head downstairs, laying a hand upon the cup of cold coffee sitting in the kitchen. I pour it in the sink and witnessing this causes a sinking feeling in my stomach – wasted effort. My dad left the television on and I can just about hear his breakfast show of choice discussing why something is bad. I sit on the sofa awhile, prolonging my inevitable departure to the greatest extent possible. Seven minutes pass and I’m out of my front door and onto my estate, still illuminated by streetlights on this slushy winter morning.
    I see groups of kids all walking in the same direction, likely talking about their games consoles and how significant and unique they are. School was only a seven or so minute walk away, with the sports fields being visible from my dad’s bedroom window (always a pleasant reminder).
    I reach the middle of the estate and don’t light a cigarette. I keep walking and don’t inhale any toxic fumes into my lungs. I flick to my iPhone 3 and discover that I haven’t received any texts for the past 7 days. Eventually I make it out of this suburban enclosure and onto the main road. Nuclear families drive past me and drop their kids off further down the road as I evade muddy puddles of slush. I walk in front of groups of teenagers that are haphazardly dawdling en-route to Nullfield School. This isn’t to say I was optimistic about reaching the destination, I was simply eager to sit down.
    The school gates finally become visible and I see two (low-ranking) teachers stood next to them on this bleak morning. They are both wielding clip boards, equipped with luminous green jackets, eager to distribute detentions to those that dear arrive more than seven minutes late, be it accidental or not.
    “Morning, you’re just on time.” Smiles one of them, as if considering me lucky.
    I don’t offer him a response.
    Head down I pass the many kids congregating on the school grounds, disinterested as ever in their feeble conversations and meaningless gossip.
    The pupils at Nullfield’s senior school are required to wear identical uniforms. This is a rule strictly enforced by the school’s senior staff, who will later encourage you to ‘be yourself!’ whilst ripping any non-homogenous piece of clothing from your back.
    I walk past some football lovers who are currently amused at the sight of a kid in a wheelchair attempting to push himself up the icy slope into the science building. I help him in to the building and instead of any thanks I receive a look of absolute contempt.
    Oh to be a kid again.
    This is a big school considering the insignificance of the town it’s located in. A vast proportion of the school’s population are made up of kids from surrounding villages; who are ever so eager to learn the government endorsed curriculum, a preparatory necessity for their future career in farming.
    I dodge some smelly younger children and eventually reach my room for registration, realising now that it isn’t the nostalgic sight I thought it would be. About half the room’s occupants are sitting with their heads in their hands, whilst our teacher (in vain) attempts to fill in the register.
    “Abbie?” Calls the elderly Miss Elmer, eternally placid, unyielding in her frequently futile efforts in filling out the register.
    I sit down at my desk next to Sarah, her blonde hair luminous to my weary eyes.
    “You’re not ill today then, Jimmy?” She asks at a standard volume, with the ever so likely hearing impaired Mrs Elmer none the wiser.
    “Not today, I probably will be tomorrow though.”
    She looks to me with genuine concern in her expression, caring for only the half hour where we were forced to associate with each other in these circumstances. “Why? What’s up with you?”
    “I’ve just been feeling depressed and am struggling with an existential crisis at the present, to be honest. What I’m doing on this planet often feels redundant and without purpose and I just can’t seem to get that thought out of my head. Alongside this I have slight anxiety issues and generally just feel disillusioned about my life ambitions.”
    “Really?” She asks ostensibly, looking up from her phone at this moment. “My sister had something like that, she got some antibiotics though. She’s getting married on Wednesday you know!”
    “That’s good, are you going to the wedding?” I say, evidently uninterested.
    “Yeah I can’t wait. I ordered my dress a few days ago, you wanna see it?”
    “Sure.”
    At this point in time I likely found Sarah tolerably attractive enough to warrant such a conversation, devoid of any meaning whatsoever.
    “Abbie?” Comes the voice of Mrs Elmer once again as I disinterestedly look upon the picture Sarah is so proudly brandishing before me.
    “Abbie?”
    The dress is uninteresting to me.
    “That’s a real nice dress. How much was it?”
    “About £70 I think, my mum bought it for me. Do you think it’ll look nice on me?”
    She looks up at me, interested now the subject matter is focused upon her.
    “Probably.”
    At this age I often found myself aspiring to be Ferris.
    More like Cameron.
    “Abbie?”
    Frustration building around the room, Jean-Paul, a friend for the majority of my short lifetime intercepts Mrs Elmer’s unceasing repetition.
    “She’s not here, alright? Jesus!”
    The register continues, enthusiastically read out by our teacher (paid to be here) and is responded to in a contrasting monotonous manner by the pupils (forced to be here). The bell rings and she still isn’t finished. Everybody hastily vacates the room and I’m the last one out. As I pull the door shut behind me, I hear a:
    “Abbie?”





    2

    First period. Health & Social. The room is covered in brochures and leaflets, written in a tone I likely found condescending and obvious even at the younger age I now witness myself living through. These literally marvels warn of all things ranging from ‘unprotected sex’ to ‘doing the wrong thing’.
    Our teacher for this class is Mr Forsyth. In his mid-fifties, he was a god fearing man that likely never questioned his lack of purpose on this planet. Such fears in turn lead him to having low-cholesterol and a high standard of cardiovascular health.
    “What are we doing today sir?” Comes the high pitched intonation of Danny Mullins, his greasy hair and Slipknot hoodie a perfect characterisation for a victim of bullying.
    “Drugs, Danny.” Says Forsyth, “There might be some group work in this lesson if you manage to pressure everyone into participation.”
    “Oh, right…”
    Danny looks around the room at this point, checking to see if anyone’s perception of him has been altered as a result of him asking a question in this public domain. His glance goes from one, two, three, four, five, six people and then to me. I’m the only one that notices this as my attention goes back to wise old Forsyth.
    “Cannabis, Ecstasy, Cocaine and Heroin.” Says Forsyth; “What can you tell me about these?”
    “They’re drugs, sir.” Answers Danny, daring enough to raise his voice once again.
    “That’s right Danny, they’re drugs. What’s bad about drugs, Liam?”
    The answer comes from Liam Hardman, who now looks up from his phone for the first time this lesson.
    “That they’re illegal, sir.”
    “That’s right Liam, drugs are illegal. And if they’re illegal Lydia, what does that mean?”
    “That they’re bad for you?”
    Mr Forsyth grins and nods his head vigorously upon hearing this answer, in line with the ideals he wishes to enforce upon all of us. He draws a deep breath at this point.
    “Yes Lydia, they’re terribly bad for you. The government knows this and that’s why they’re illegal; for your welfare. You’re very likely to get addicted and ruin your life if you use them, so please don’t, do it for me. Freedom of will is out of the question if you decide upon using them even once. You’ll end up addicted.”
    He draws another deep breath, blissfully unaware of the fact that the majority of the class are looking down at their phones. My attention remains solely on him though, I’ve still got no new messages.
    “Not to mention that drugs are sold by very, very bad people.” Shouts Forsyth with emphasis placed upon each noun. “Drug dealers are criminals, they often mix their drugs with things that could kill you! Like rat poison or powdered bleach!
    He notices me genuinely paying attention to him and looks in my general direction.
    “You don’t want to sniff a massive line of powdered bleach through a rolled up ten pound note in a camper van you stole off of your brother, do you, James?”
    “Not really, well….” I stutter, bewildered by this absurdity.
    “You don’t want to idolise Bill Hicks and drop a rolled up Rizla filled with rat poison down your throat, do you, Jimmy?”
    “I don’t think anyone would want to do those things really.”
    “That’s good Jimmy, that’s real good. To make sure you all understand the dangers of DRUGS I’m going to put on one of the school’s most resourceful videos warning of the perils of drug abuse. If you want to watch it again at home, and I’m guessing you all will, the title of this tape is ‘It’s Not Just a Ride’.”
    Forsyth momentarily walks out of the room for a while to go find the tape he believes will save each one of us from ourselves. He returns with his arm held up in the air, the video his sceptre.
    “This video will show you many young people, much like yourselves that made the wrong choices in life. I wish I’d had this sort of my knowledge at my disposal when I was your ages.”
    He puts the tape in the room’s antiquated television and rewinds it.
    ‘DRUGS’ is plastered across the TV screen in menacing red capitals.
    NOT JUST A RIDE.
    The text fades away and we all see a dark, graffiti covered alley, the ultimate association of drug abuse. The camera zooms in and a hooded, pale girl becomes apparent on this television within a television. She looks up towards the camera.
    “My friends told me drugs were fun and that they would make me really cool!” She shouts, almost proud of herself.
    “What else did your friends tell you, Becky?” Asks an objectively concerned female voice from behind the camera.
    “That they would make me feel invincible and make people start liking me!”
    “That’s great, Becky. Why didn’t you realise that drugs are illegal and therefore bad for you?”
    Becky stammers a moment, her lip quivering in this darkened alleyway that is environmentally contributing to the merciless destruction of her pride.
    “All my friends were doing it, so I thought it’d be okay! We started out smoking cannabis and after that I graduated to heroin – it was such a sweet buzz. But yeah, rappers and musicians told me that drugs are acceptable, and I trusted them too! They’re cooler than me and famous too, so I wanted to be like them. I don’t have the ability to make decisions for myself, obviously.”
    Once Becky finishes this monologue, the interviewer comes into view on the screen, pushing little Becky carelessly away as she does so. Microphone held to mouth, with hair perfectly styled she begins to speak (preach) – wide eyed.
    “That’s right kids. I’m Gale Fry and I’m here to tell you that musicians these days work to pollute the minds of our youth and turn them onto the irreversible fate of drug addiction. Even chart music could make you end up addicted to uppers. Have no fear though, little ones, I’m GALE FRY and I’m here to help you say NO to drugs and YES to being a contributing taxpayer!”
    She smiles widely, revealing pearly whites likely paid for by producing ‘educational’ videos such as this one. She points one finger toward the camera – synthetic personalisation – no kid feels left out. This is wisdom for all. Gale walks further down the alley now, maintaining eye contact with the masses as the camera man follows, leaving little Becky smoking a celebratory cigarette in the midst of her new acting career.
    “Let’s get down to business, shall we? What do you know about Cannabis? Well, you know nothing, you’re only minors. What I tell you is going to be the truth and nothing but, alright? No other credible opinion can exist whilst I’m here – I am GALE FRY.”
    Folding her arms for a few moments, Gale gets ready to force her next monologue upon the impressionable minds that are now unquestionably endorsed to listen to her.
    “If you don’t want to end up like that little bitch I just spoke to, then listen here. We’ll start off with Cannabis – which is, as I like to call it, the devil’s lettuce. This, for me, is the most dangerous drug of all. Why? Well, it’s the most common, first of all. It is also a gateway drug that almost always leads onto the harder stuff. Once you get into the hard stuff that is when things get really bad. You will stop contributing to our countries economic growth through being so strung out! Oh, and of course, you could die, too.”
    Gale takes another deep breath, unblinking.
    “Say no to drugs, kids. Stay in education and get a good job. Be a tax-paying citizen and don’t acknowledge the inevitability of death. If there’s ever a point where you want to let loose, drink alcohol – the government profits off of that so it’s alright.”
    The camera goes for a close up on little Becky’s face after this speech. A red sign containing the words “SAY NO!” is plastered over her face as she exhales smoke.
    “It’s not just a ride, kids. To reinforce this idea, I’ve invited an upstanding member of Nullfield’s community, PCSO Websdale.”
    The video zooms out to accommodate for the arrival of PCSO Websdale. He rolls in to view on his bicycle, luminously clothed in his police uniform. He throws his bike to the floor with zeal, like a true badass as he looks toward gale and then the camera with an authoritative grimace. He grabs the microphone, ready to lay down the law.
    “Stay in school, obey the law and don’t do drugs. Those things are addictive, got it? Good. I run these streets and if I catch you smoking the devil’s lettuce, then I’m most certainly going to ruin your future aspirations when I alter your criminal record. Smoking a plant is illegal, alright?”
    At this moment he pulls out his police badge, showily masquerading it to the video camera.
    “You want a house in suburbs?” He asks rhetorically. “You’ve got it. Stick to alcohol and don’t drink in excess. As I say with my boys down at the station, it’s a drink, not a drug. This isn’t about popping molly in the club; life’s all about pints in the pub.”
    Gale quickly grabs her microphone back at this scripted moment and sensually rubs it against PCSO Websdale’s chin.
    “What can you tell the kids about cannabis, Mr Websdale? As this is the gateway drug that initiates the majority of drug addicts, what can you say to discourage them from going down this slippery slope?”
    He takes a moment, likely pondering what the definition of ‘initiate’ is.
    “Well Gale, one of the greatest risks about cannabis is that it can be tainted with other substances like COCAINE or METH. Drug dealers obviously don’t consider their profits or repeat custom, it’s more about ruining people’s lives for them. These people are criminals and in turn they want to ensure that each innocent child is destined for a life of drug addiction.”
    He is proud of his speech and walks back to his bicycle, holding out his steed proudly in front of him.
    “In small villages like the one I police, violent crimes are rarely committed, meaning I’m able to devote all of my time to hindering both the drug trade and drug consumption. Drug users are the main reason I’m employed, so it’s almost certain you’ll be apprehended and face justice for knowingly engaging in such illegal activities.”
    I notice the sullen face of Liam Hardman looking toward slipknot loving Danny with a predatory grin at this moment.
    “You’re going to go to prison soon, Danny boy.”
    This amuses the majority of the room, including myself at this point as I can ashamedly make out the sound of my own laughter, retrospectively echoing out of the television.
    Danny offers no rebuttal to this, doing so would result in likely intimidation. His reaction to this comment is impossible to determine, his facial expressions disguised by a mop of greasy hair.
    “Settle down Mr Hardman.” Says Forsyth; laying down the law. “Don’t you be causing a ruckus in my lesson young man.”
    The laughter instantly ceases and our collective attention is once again focused on this highly (get it?) informative video about drugs. The tiresomely patronising voice of Gale Fry is once again observable.
    “If you don’t want to be dropping the soap in prison, then you’ll remember this video, Say no to drugs. Otherwise, I’ll have to film another filthy addict and tell you more things that you’ve heard seven thousand times before!”
    Gale moves slowly away from the camera at this moment, walking into the distant sunset, an authoritatively ignorant silhouette in the evening light, likely proud of her feeble contribution toward saving the youth of today.
    Liam looks up from his phone once again, ready to accommodate to his own egotistical nature as the unelected class clown.
    “Are we doing an experiment today, sir?” He asks.
    “That’s funny, young Hardman.” Says Forsyth, “But you wouldn’t be laughing if you ended up a down and out like one of the kids in that video. Drugs will do that to you, y’know.”
    Smirking, Liam’s attention once again is directed at Danny, the individual with no means of retort.
    “I know sir, that’s why I worry about Danny, he does it every week or so.”
    A look of genuine concern flashes across Forsyth’s face. “Is this true, Danny?”
    “Urm, no it’s not.” Comes the garbled, anxiety ridden response from Danny Mullins, much to the amusement of the class.
    “Tell the truth, won’t you Danny?” Says Liam with an especially taunting intonation.
    Forsyth’s unperceptive nature is once again clear, with his concern outweighing his logic. “There are always people in the school you can talk to for support, Danny.” He says with an aura of naivety.
    “Are you not talking to me, Danny?” Chimes in Liam once again as the class stare on in amusement, accustomed to the habitual mockery Danny received.
    Danny looks up from his desk at this moment, shaking and uncomfortable in a way I find especially cringe worthy in this retrospective medium. “You’re just a confrontational drone, Liam.” He squeakily states, with a clichéd over formality that could make one destine to school time victimisation.
    This attempt at a retort amuses his tormentor even more, leading Liam to use numbers in his verbal assault. “What’s this guy talking about, Ralph? Sounds like a scientist or something.” Collective laughter is to be observed throughout the room.
    Ralph Wiggins decides to include himself in this mockery at this point. “I don’t have a clue mate, he needs to wash his hair though. Spastic.”
    This is the point where Forsyth decided to intervene. “Now boys, let’s get back onto the subject of drug addiction.” But it was too late. With tears evidently building up in his eyes, Danny decides to pull out the big guns.
    “Why’ve you got to be a cunt all the time, Liam?”
    This enrages Forsyth. Jovial bullying he wasn’t perceptive to, but bad language he certainly was.
    “I won’t be taking language like that in my room, Daniel, you little shit!” Shouts Forsyth. “My god child, can’t you take a joke? Get out!”
    Danny’s eyes grow redder, his conflicted bodily functions evident as he tries to hold back tears. He puts on his Slipknot hoodie once more and pulls his schoolbag over him, head down and filled with humiliation. The majority of the room, my shameful younger self included laugh at the consequence of Danny not taking what could have been the seven hundredth joke aimed his way.
    Reply With Quote  
     

  2. #2  
    Registered Member Mudboy's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2016
    Posts
    113
    Thanks given
    16
    Thanks received
    23
    Rep Power
    42
    I mean good for you, but the real props goes to whoever reads this wall of text. Not much of a literature person as I have enough in school, good luck glad to see something captivating you
    Reply With Quote  
     

  3. #3  
    Donator

    Kickyamom's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2010
    Posts
    1,606
    Thanks given
    208
    Thanks received
    157
    Rep Power
    835
    Might come back and give another look at this when I've got the time to read through it all.

    Could be interesting


    Spoiler for Respect for the Truest:

    #TWTMP GANG 4 LYFE
    Reply With Quote  
     

  4. #4  
    Extreme Donator
    Avernus's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2016
    Posts
    18
    Thanks given
    5
    Thanks received
    1
    Rep Power
    36
    There's a hyperlink in my OP to a publishing standard formatting word document. Not sure if it works.
    Reply With Quote  
     


Thread Information
Users Browsing this Thread

There are currently 1 users browsing this thread. (0 members and 1 guests)


User Tag List

Similar Threads

  1. Replies: 3
    Last Post: 05-01-2014, 02:44 AM
  2. Novel Owner/Developer Needed (FULL BENEFITS)
    By saucyjake in forum Requests
    Replies: 4
    Last Post: 11-18-2013, 12:54 AM
  3. Replies: 3
    Last Post: 05-25-2009, 11:12 PM
  4. [Huge-Tut]MagicHandler.java [Basically full magic]..
    By Santa Clause in forum Tutorials
    Replies: 55
    Last Post: 05-16-2007, 11:55 AM
  5. More of my sigs (Other Topic got full)
    By Aces in forum Showcase
    Replies: 12
    Last Post: 04-04-2007, 03:38 AM
Posting Permissions
  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •