NaNoWriMo is a demanding... cretin (you thought I was going to say lover.. no love here in week #2!). Anyhow...
I took a break from my strange disc found by a metal detector and now in the hands of a bored housewife rather than the alien booked on InterGalactic Flight 1101... and tried to work 'errant' 'hanker' and 'murky' into a story. Enjoy.
I sit on the hard slats of the wooden folding chair, staring at the five—no, make that ten- o’clock shadow—of Bigsworth, or Bozsmouth, or whatever the hell his name is. The harsh fluorescent lights tinge his skin a sickly green. He’s a fucking whiner. He loved crack more than his old lady, his children, his six figure job… whatever. He lost it all and now he’s looking for redemption in the murky depths of a Styrofoam coffee cup. The one perk of Wednesday group therapy: burnt coffee. I hate that mud but by Wednesday morning I’m hankering for it. Maybe that’s how they get us to go to therapy… drug the joe.
“Joe? Would you like to share with us this evening?” I grunt no. Maybe later.
The brassy blonde next to Bigmouth, the one with the deep creases above her lips, deep from puckering them around cigarettes and god knows what else for the past forty years, says in her gravelly voice how sure, she lost it all, gave it away really, but she could do what she fuckin’ had to because of vodka and Quaaludes—that gave her strength. She spreads her legs; I get an errant view of a dick poking between the tear in her orange coveralls.
I never sipped, snorted, smoked or shot up. I have a carton of cigarettes back in the cell and a modified toothpaste tube. I wink at brassy, chin-chuck toward Bigmouth. Yeah, I'll share with them how I got here. Later.