Scuttlebutt

Bookslug

Real name Alan Thompson.

Works in accounting.
At night he stares at the fluorescent screen of his computer.
He doesn't know why.

Pale and uninteresting.
He doesn't like people.
He likes to balance numbers.

His favourite pastime is to buy a new shirt.
Every two months.
Only if there's a sale.

He's started to fantasise about bad things .
This worries him.
He thinks some parts of his brain are burning away.

Recently he's gone to church.
He dips his fingers into the hot candle wax.
This has become tiresome.

Someone phoned him today.
Unusual.
Missed the call.
Unknow number.

He's not going to work tomorrow.

He's going to take a walk instead, high into the hills.
He needs oxygen.
His tie is hurting, it's strangling him.

His pants feel coarse against his legs.
His skin is itchy and sore.
He sometimes scratches it 'til
It bleeds.

He misses his mother.

He doesn't take a walk.

He goes to work.

Bookslug

Weapon

Alan went to the hardware store.
He picked up a shovel.

The grip was made of rubber.
The shaft was strong.
The spade curved to a point.

He felt the weight in his hand and smiled. 
50% off. Good.

He paid in cash and left.

He sat at his computer, the fluorescent light cast his face with a sickly pallor.

His mouth twitched.
The shovel perched on a chair opposite him.

His reflection distorted by the curved spade.
His Tongue flicked at spittle at the corner of mouth.

His mouth twitched.

He missed his mother.

His weapon smiled back.

Bookslug

Feedback and critique appreciated.

cobsie

these are good, but the emotional pay-off is not quite there. Alan acts like a man about to crack - but what's making him crack? work? loneliness? what is the tipping point? direct us a tiny bit more in how you want us to see this man. the shovel is a weapon but who is the target? if you can give more insight into why he feels the way he does, you'll bring us closer to identifying with him.

"he thinks some parts of his brain are burning away" is a great line

Bookslug

Thanks cobsie.
Am just playing around with this at the moment.

Not too happy with next bit. Am in danger of some serious disappearing up backsiditis.

Anyways here goes.

At least there was one decent line in that little lot

Bookslug

The Incident

Can't sleep.
Get up.
Wash dishes.
Go out.

Streets wet and slimy.
Rivers of swill, making him retch.
Neon lights and swirling rain.
Orange phantasms burning wet.

A pile of rags in a doorway.
Moaning and rasping.
Grasping and tearing.
Holding, crying, needing, lying.

Alan wipes rain from his eyes.
His chest constricted, can't breath.
Suffocating.
Heart beating.
Faster.
Teeth bared, rictus grin.
He loosens his tie.
Goes to work.

He starts to dig.
He flattens and smashes.
Like animals they scream.

Bone and brain exposed.
Seep into the gutter.
Bile rises and burns.
He turns and runs.

He cleans his weapon

He washes his hands

He misses his mother.

Real name Alan Thompson.

Accountant.

Balances numbers.

Brain burns bright.

An ember fading in the night.

He sleeps.

Bullchomper

I actually thought the 'flow' (?) of the second post was perfect for the piece. By this I mean the way the short sentences ran longer and then shorter again and also the way the part about 50% off was thrown in as a kind-of reminder of reality and then back to potential homicide. I actually was not cracked about the brain burning line, I thought it was too cliched (but of course this is all personal taste so you take what feels right to you). I think the last piece maybe needed more structure like the second part, more atmosphere less word running???? I may be talking through my ass piece as well but hey!