my short story ...what you think ?

Simpkin

hi all just thought id stick up my short storry so far...dont hold back tell me what you think please .........

confessions

Confessions of a dead man
1
It is too late to comprehend thought. As I find myself fixed to the TV screen, mouth ajar seeping saliva, the ‘night girls’ come on. The girls alluring, asking for my money and my time. Like a mechanical machine I find the blood rushing from my head and stiffening me up. I proceed to try and tire myself to sleep and rid me of this dream like limbo I am living in. Underlying morality aside I proceed with plaisir érotique, when the TV on its own accord changes to the geriatrics happy hour on the hospice channel. Unable to move, nearing climax, nearing exhaustion, I proceed with my lawful (or not so in this case) activity with an expression of pure disgust as I filter off into a world of lollipops and chocolate raindrops sleep. With an inhalation of terror I awake on one of Ireland’s world-class public transport trams, on my way to a modern day Auschwitz I call work. Trying to connect myself with Bukowski, sipping on a gold-plated flask, not a care in, or for, the world; a wannabe bum, I suck my teeth as the cattle bump and slide into me. ‘I don’t want to relieve you of consciousness, but if you do that again…’ I squeeze out of me. ‘What’ they reply as I sink back into my seat and think of happy thoughts, a futile exercise. As we are hoarded off the tram like pigs to the slaughter, I get a feel of the blonde beauty that rubs against me, cupping her ass my eyes are alight for a few precious seconds, a deviant I know but someone’s got to do it, if not me then a Mr. Rogers lookalike scarring the poor girl for life, the rationale of a true intellect. I step out into the chill morning air, slide on my shades, light a cigarette and meander an hour late to my place of work.
Segregated, as a minority usually is, I was out in the cold desperate to inflict beautiful pain on my timid lungs, a perfect rest bite to a never ending stream of disapointing years. Mucho melodramatic, but melodramatics rule our great nation, keep oil in America’s pockets, starve our Nubian brothers of some much needed fine dining, and keep my home in debt. As I stood there partaking in my death-stick, while the low hum of the air conditioning system droned on behind my well rounded head (and a beautiful one at that) I thought how little I care for big grey ant farms such as this. I hate my job, hardly a new concept for the working class, but a realisation none the less. I finish my smoke and let my smile filter away, until I go for a quiet walk or pleasure myself in the bathroom stalls. With good conversation an oddity, yours truly excluded, I could make Bambi laugh at its dying mother. Human interaction I respectably keep to a minimum, except to charm oh so unavailable, pseudo-powerful women. So I sit and watch a blank computer screen, get deep and read some Kafka, drink a coffee and die a little inside, but it keeps the bank in cheque so I can buy useful life changing oddities, such as Playboy or maybe Nuts. So I put pen to paper and excrete my thoughts so I can bore the crap out of myself; a thorough professional. Not being a person of incandescent repose, I have great joy in talking nonsense, just like late great Nelson Mandela, wait I mean Barack Obama, well someone moronic anyway, ah! how ignorance is bliss. As I look around and see all the happy happy people, and listen to their entire foreign slur, I can’t help but not feel a thing, and I love it, I listen to the lisp of the Spanish and the moan of the Slavs, and I thank god I can’t hear a thing; xenophobia is a dying art, a revival is needed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not racist (far from it); they have a sense of the unknown, they have abandoned home and country. An enticing proposition for a bored and brooding mind.
On my 6th coffee of the day I have found the urge to clock off and spread a bit of psychedelic jazz through my already numb, not so glorious brain; scare my neighbour working as hard as a one eyed potbellied Russian can work, as she watches me stare into the abyss of beauty that is the outside car park. I close my eyes feel the soothing chill of the windowpane on my strained and overworked brow; the only light source not adding to the migraine of my life. One hell of a fusion drum solo kicks in; racing through my ears like a bitch chasing hare, without a blink, a gasp, a nod or a twitch ‘I need a ****’ I say as, almost with a swag, I spin on my heels, strut down the hall and head for the toilet, oh what six coffees and half a pack of smoke-able tar can do to your bowels.
Voltaire once said ‘Work spares us from three evils: boredom, vice and need’. I find this very humorous when my work is spent staring with complete concentration, in such a furious meditative state, at the plant life that surrounds my office, in deep thought whether it breathes or is made of cheap plastic, I have yet to test my horribly mundane query. A flicker of hope as I’m approached by a Dub, an Irish clove and a gentleman, to find out that someone has a package, but it ain’t me. A gleaming ray of conversation brought to dust by a wrong name. So I slouch back into my chair and continue with my not so erotic asphyxiation, and wait till my urge to smoke resurfaces its tang-tasticly tasty head, as I run to the exit before my boss (Willy Nelson, she is rightly referred) flashes her full brutish beard upon my poor adolescent eyes. I pray for sweet relief, but I go to bed, wake up and relive Einstein’s oh so relevant definition of insanity.
So it goes until I put a .45 to my temple, pull a columbine and ****ing murder every last soul in this chicken farm, I never was one for theatrics, so I let this rancid excuse of verbal diarrhoea be my path to inner peace, creating a fictional psychiatrist out of badly premised paragraphs.








Unexpected meet cute
2
I sat wistfully contemplating death and the contents of my turkey sandwich, compliments of a paying institute, chugging down the end of my flask of whiskey. I scan the room with judging eyes, as one usually does when sat alone, watching the Mussolini’s, the General Franco’s, and the Herr Hitler’s of the corporate world look at me, their noses pointed skyward. Then I heard it. A voice, a song, a hymn, an angel. She sat across from my slouched irritable body singing ‘Genesis Hall’, “oh, oh, helpless and slow, and you don’t have anywhere to go.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her, other than telling one of my colleagues where to shove the next word that excreted out of his Middle Eastern mouth, breaking much needed concentration. Her hair was jet black, as smooth as silk, she sat in her stool as straight as a Roman pillar, skinny, not too skinny, just right. Her eyes, pale blue dots, held a sea of mystery, emotions, and perfection, staring straight into my black soul, a hint of a smile radiating from the corner of her mouth. There seemed to be a light at the end of this mediocre (yet dashingly handsome) tunnel that is my life. She rose from her throne wearing a tight yet captivatingly classy dress, legs that could walk you to the moon and back. She walked my direction, with hope in my eyes and stiffness in my trousers, I willed her near. She stood beside me, placed her hand on my quivering shoulder and sang in to my ear as quiet as a mouse:
“Well, one man he drinks up his whiskey
another he drinks up his wine
and they'll drink till their eyes are red with hate
for those of a different kind”
Aphrodite, oh! Peitho, seducing me, I am hypnotized, I strain at the joints, I am yours. Jesus, I sound like a cheating husband groveling at his wife’s feet, I swore I would never do that again. Before I know it, with a smooth and calm gaze over her shoulder, she is gone. Out the door, out of view, and so too goes my sense of delight as I regress back to a state of decay, a drama queen, too light a description. The low growl of the industrial fridges starts to turn my not so obedient stomach. I stand up, take a deep breath and head for the smoking area, or no man’s land we generally title.
A wise woman once said ‘I can’t get you out of my head’. I have never understood the true meaning of Kylie Minogue’s sensationally relevant song, longing for another human being. She is imprinted forever on my weak willed brain. So I revisit our place of conjoined meet cute and wait to no avail. She never arrives, the next day, or the day after that. Pity overruns me as it has done to many a disappointed man.
After a weekend of pity sex, which I ungrudgingly accept, and hard boozing, I find myself back in the office, it’s Monday; oh how life pulls such cruel maneuvers. A coffee break is needed, I stand up and smell the branched yucca that spreads across my desk ‘defiantly not real’ I shout, and realizing there is nobody in the room I let out a heavy sigh, with coffee in hand I make way to the rooftop haven to breathe some non-polluted air. Straining to push the escape door open, breaking a freshly groomed nail, I was out in the fresh-air 12 stories high. There she was staring out into the great abyss, out towards the rising sun coming over the approaching hills. I light my smoke as smoothly as my lately Parkinson’s diseased arm will allow. Pulling myself together I gradually walk, stand next to her and gaze past the horizon out into the unknown, the red and orange of the sunrise eased by my very expensive sun glasses.
‘Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.’ she mumbled, low and solemn.
‘Ich spreche kein Deutsch‘my voice cracking as I speak.
My heart flutters as she giggles with a heavy release of air. Very aroused I try fruitlessly to think of unahappy thoughts, men in drag. Damn think of something else fast.
‘Any chance of a drink. I’m parched’ she says. I offer what’s left of my cold, rusty tasting coffee. Last time I take a free coffee off the office cleaner.
‘No something with a kick’. I take my trusty gold-plated flask out of my inside pocket, she gulps the bourbon down in one go. Butterflies engulf my stomach, my heart melts, and I can’t take my eyes off her. She quickly hands it back and smiles at me. Such a mesmerizingly beautiful smile. That smile could wash away my sins, nearly. I’m head over heels, I think I’m a goner.
"Man is and remains an animal. Here a beast of prey, there a house pet, but always an animal.” Goebbels was right, my animalistic urges are escaping. I have been a house pet for too long and I need to escape. My mind is beginning to open, accepting that we may not be one single unit, uniqueness may not be a rarity in this vast cosmos. She makes me think outside the box, at home, alone or at work my irreverence may be cleansing. For an hour every day I am in heaven as we meet upon the high-rise rooftop. Then she goes, back to work through the escape door, into hell, without a word, a squeak or a smile and my long face reappears, like Shergar on a bad day. Obsession maybe too weak a word. I see her in my sleep, her rosy cheeks, her beautiful petite nose, and her perfectly perched breasts. I see her, working at my fine mahogany desk, watching TV, in the shower, reading a book, and I still don’t know her name.
As I lay flat on my back, ripe for the missionary position, being sucked of heat through the blown dry grass that surrounds the revolving doors of Hades, techno engulfing me from the promotional soft drink sponsors tossing bottles tiredly from person to person, a shadow engulfs my face. I slowly open my eyes and see god, a halo blinds me as the sun irradiates around her head, she leans down and touches her soft supple lips too mine. I’m drowning in a vast ocean of weightlessness, in another dimension being wisped on a cloud to nowhere, I am numb and happy, gods I am a woman.
‘My name is Gaia Summer’ she cried lying next to me caressing my fickle hand.
‘Gaia, Mother of Earth, creator of beauty, l'univers est le vôtre’ I should write this down. With a weak shuffle of my right arm I take a long taste bud blasting drink of my lukewarm bourbon, as an extra chromosome seeps into my body so too does the whisky seep out of my mouth as I dribble it all down my chiseled chin. Gaia stretches across me and with one long swoop of her tongue she licks my face with the grace of a feline princess and kisses the long arch of my nose. I’m beginning to not believe myself, my touch, my heart, my sight. I’m too much of an asshole for such luck to show its flatteringly cruel head.
I see Gaia every day. She is my hobby, my everlasting excitement, joy, love, she is my muse. We are inseparable. Am I happy? Is this what peace feels like? I don’t have a hope in hell of explaining this open gap that has been filled by the simple existence of life. Aphrodite take a bow for the creation and blooming of a withered soul, you have saved one.





A happy ending
3
‘A higher state of consciousness is embodied at the instance of death.’ Gaia repeats this like a sermon every day. She is penitent. We sit together in our one bed apartment, amalgamate our spirit, smoke Dimethyltryptamine and search for a higher string of conscious thought. Repentance is her call. She scares me; being one macho son of a bitch this is quite an accomplishment. She talks of death as an achievement, a means to everlasting tranquility. But god dammit the sex is liberating. Intercourse, oral, tantric, and sodomy; Ron Jeremy eat your heart out. I have found that sexual gratification is something very rare without habitual narcotics. That has been thoroughly washed away hombre. She is my fountain of youth. My libido is a god damn open book and she has filled the pages with pure pleasure, experience and love. Yet my heart grows weary. I catch her sobbing alone in our small, cozy (our land lords pitch) bedroom. I put it down to PMS and brush it off, like a wise man should. Depression is a disease, it has crept into my butterflies beautiful body like a cancer, her cries grow ever more frequent, so too grow the cracks in my healthy heart.
Out of breath from the two-story walk up to our apartment, filling my lungs with the dregs of my cigarette I open my door slowly, a burst of pure sound hits me, the stereo is blaring Black Sabbath. Normally I would accept this with a gleaming smile but the air was thick and gloomy, with the scent of autumn leaves, incense. ‘Gaia’ I cry out, no response. As I walk into the living room my mouth falls to the floor, my eyes widen. Every happy thought shoots through my brain hitting every sensitive nerve as I relive the last year in a collage of still images. There she is two foot off the ground, swaying to and fro like a grandfather clock, pale as an Arctic blizzard, as beautiful as a rising sun, hung with a noose. My brain shuts down, all I can think is who is going to pay her half of the rent. I see a note on the table:
My true love,
I am your tragedy and your fortune.
I am your crisis and delight.
I am your profits and your prophets.
I am your art, I am your vice.
I am your death and your decisions.
I am your passion and your plight.
I am your sickness and convalescence.
I am your weapons and your light.
You wont remember dying.
G.
Lyrics from Alanis ****ing Morissette, our relationship brought to a painfull end with the almighty lyrics of Alanis Morissette. Oh! Happy days. I sit and cry, head buried in my hands until the paramedics arrive, two hours later.
I’m back in work staring into space, lost, confused and scared. Life is an endless void of never ending tragedies. We search for meaning in ourselves, in others, in the actions we take. We may find happiness. We may not. We may be lost forever. We may not. But I thank god everyday, real or not, that my heart was lifted even for a single instance. She has saved a life. So I sit in my gray sullen office and wait, wait for another awakening to flutter by my decomposing bureau and once again save me from the black lagoon.

GalwayGuy2

First things first, you should really put some space between your paragraphs. It makes it a little hard to read.

Second, you can be a little unclear about what's happening. It's kind of hard to tell what's delusion and what's reality. Which, even if it was the point, could use a little tightening up.

Third, I feel like we're in the middle of a story. I think I've done something similar with a story here, but we don't really have any understanding of the past of the character. It's a good character study, but it's just a style that carries a few risks.

Personally, I like it. I don't really have any critique of the writing style per se, but I do have one last critique. The mention of sexuallity isn't really exploring it, in my opinion.