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Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 19, 2019, 09:54:24 PM »

   The noise he’d been lost in forever suddenly died to silence, leaving Dave with only a ringing in his ears, and then someone was pulling his hands free from one another, and his arms free from around the person he realised he was holding on to. He opened his eyes, noticing he was astride a motorbike. He slid off it awkwardly, almost tipping it over. He was standing in a small garage, shaking from cold. There was a workbench at one wall, a few shelves holding tools and various motorbike parts. Through the windows beside it, he could see a cut-out section of neatly trimmed hedge.
   The driver tapped a button on the wall nearby then waved at him to follow, and the garage door began to tumble down along its tracks from overhead, like a flat, rattling, brown waterfall. Dave turned and saw the strip of sunlight beneath its descending mass grow smaller and smaller before disappearing. He stood detached from the experience, watching without seeing.
   He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned his head to see an Asian woman looking at him with concern, saw her speak words he couldn’t hear. When he didn’t respond, she began steering him towards a door which led from the attached garage into a house.
   The house was dark, decorated in a modern, minimalist style that was completely unfamiliar to him. They moved through a laundry, a kitchen, and into a lounge which held the same rich, dark, luxurious tone. Antique, Asian-style artwork hung on the walls. There were various potted plants in the room’s corners, a large bookshelf stretched along one wall, ending in a small computer desk, but there was no television. A black leather couch with a coffee-table sat on the opposite side of the room to the books and computer. She led him over to it.
   “Sit down,” she said, “I will get you something to drink” before turning and walking away.
   Dave sat and leaned back onto the couch, his body sinking down into the cushions. They felt incredibly soft. He breathed an involuntary sigh. He looked around the room. The books on the shelf didn’t appear to be in English. To his right, large windows had their light dampened by closed blinds. The computer was off, no more life than a dull orange stand-by light. The potted plants were just as mysterious and unknown as everything else. He let himself sink deeper into the couch, trying to escape the cold that was lurking inside him.
   There was a noise to his left, Dave turned his head to see the woman entering the room, carrying a steaming cup. She crouched down beside him and pushed it into his hands.
   “Drink this tea and rest. You will feel better.” she said.
   Dave brought the cup to his lips, the warmth of it a welcome sensation in his hands and the steam pleasantly wafting upon his face. He couldn’t recognize the smell of the drink, didn’t understand the taste, but swallowed anyway, glad of the warmth it brought to his weary head and the way it spread down inside him, sliding around the coldness and beginning to soften the hard edges of its presence.
   When he finished, the woman took the cup from him. Her movements seemed slower, the outline of her hands and face almost leaving trails in the darkened air. He tried to speak but his tongue felt as if it were melting away, the sensation flowing down through his entire being. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His thoughts were nothing. His body was gone. The woman smiled at him, ever so slowly, and walked away.
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 18, 2019, 09:29:53 AM »

   “Alright, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in my house?” said Dave, as he walked into the kitchen to find the woman sitting at his dining table, her motorbike helmet, gloves and backpack lying beside a punnet of half-eaten strawberries. He realised they were his. “Sure, help yourself to my food too,” he said, sarcastically.
   “I love strawberries. I don’t want them to be wasted.” she replied, as if that absolved her of everything.
   “What?” shot Dave, staring at her with puzzled annoyance. “Why’d they be wasted? I was going to eat them. Until you did.”
   “Don’t worry about it. You will know why soon enough. But first you must tell me what happened last night.”
   “Last night? What…?”
   “Did you do anything out of the ordinary?”
   “Out of the ordinary, like managing to demolish my own bathroom while strange women break into my house? No. Everything was just fine until I woke up this morning. Why are you in my house anyway?”
   “What about a dream? Did you have one? Was it usual?”
   “Actually.” said Dave, deciding she might just be crazy, “Now that you mention it, I did have a strange dream last night. I dreamt that a mysterious woman dressed all in black broke into my house and stole all my strawberries. The weirdest thing -” he paused for effect, staring at her with his best wide-eyed-moron impersonation “- is that it came truuuue.”
   “Stop doing that.” she snapped. “I’m serious. Did you have a dream or not?”
   “Fine, fine, whatever. OK. Yes. I did have a weird dream. I can’t remember it properly though. Something bizarre about -” Dave stopped, swallowing in discomfort when he realised that his earlier joke was about to pull a one-eighty on him and slap him in the face. “about… about a family of, uh, some Chinese people. In my house. They wouldn’t leave.”
   The woman seemed to relax, ever so slightly.
   “And anything else?” she asked, looking at him expectantly.
   Dave glanced down at his pants, thinking that it’d be an interesting conversation with a tailor, to be asked Which side do you hang?
   “There might be, but I’m not telling you what it is.” said Dave.
   “Oh?” she replied, with a smile that made her look like the cat that just caught the mouse of knowledge. Dave sat in embarrassed silence, trying to read her mind. It was a futile effort.
   She smirked to herself and ate another strawberry, reaching for one more when there was a new, louder, rolling boom of thunder. Dave felt it shaking up through his chair. The biker woman tensed. She closed the strawberry punnet and put it in her backpack.
   “That’s theft you know” said Dave jokingly, trying to defuse his shame. “Breaking and entering and theft.”
   “We have to go,” said the woman, putting on her helmet. Her voice sounded tight. “Now.”
   “We? No. You can go. You can have the strawberries too. Just leave me alone.”
   She rose from her chair, gloves in one hand, backpack in the other. She swung it over her shoulder and started moving towards the front of the house. The thunder came again, pummelling the air like a heavyweight prizefighter, and this time the whole room shook. Dave felt fear begin squirming inside him, something let loose from a hidden cave of ancient fears that until now he didn’t know he had.
   “I can leave you alone, but I think you will want to come with me, because only I know how to fix your ... little problem.  And if you don’t get out of this house right now, you will probably die in it. No, you will die in it.”
   “What are you talking about? What the fuck is going on, and what’s that noise?” demanded Dave, but the biker woman was already striding for the front door, gloves in hand, pulling a bunch of keys from her pocket. As she passed through it, Dave noticed the broken window, the pieces of glass on the floor.
   “Oh, great. You actually did break into my house. Thanks for that!” He shouted after her. She stopped halfway across the front lawn and turned back to him. She shouted a reply, voice muffled by her helmet. He barely heard it.
   “It doesn’t matter. Hurry up, get out of there!”
   Ignoring her again, Dave stormed back into the house and returned to his kitchen for a coffee, only to find that it was on fire.
   “Fuck! Fuck-fuck!” he swore, watching flames leap and dance from his oven, making their way up the walls and filling his nose with the acrid smell of blistering paint. His range-hood was melting, the curtains ablaze, his tea-towels smouldering. Panic and confusion raced through Dave’s mind, his eyes darting everywhere, fear kicking at his intestines while he stood paralyzed in the middle of his burning kitchen like a stoned rabbit in the headlights of a runaway combine-harvester.
   A sickening noise assaulted his ears, a noise utterly horrendous, like someone shredding a chandelier of blackboards in a giant-sized blender with blades made from fingernails, and at the same time playing the top 10 worst sludge-metal albums of all time, simultaneously, and backwards. The whole house shook ominously. He realised now, that the noise was was coming from beneath the floor.
   Dave’s brain finally crashed into gear. He lurched down the hall towards to his bedroom, grabbed his cellphone and turned on his heel, trying to dial the fire brigade, wondering if surviving an earthquake was possible inside a burning building.
   As he reached the kitchen again he saw the flames had multiplied, spilling out into the hallway, lapping the quickly blackening ceiling. They seemed to pulse in time with the noise, with the shaking now so violent the floorboards were beginning to split apart as he stumbled over them.
   The woman was already on her motorbike, the engine roaring as Dave sprinted out of his doomed house, the infernal noise below growing louder and louder, front door shaking like a leaf, the remaining pieces of broken window-glass jumping from their frame to shatter across the cracking doorstep. He vaulted over it, and with adrenaline-numbed feet slamming against the driveway, ran towards the woman who was patting the seat behind her.
   In a confusion of arms and legs he mounted the pillion, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and as the bike roared and pulled out into the road, Dave turned his head to look back. He wished he hadn’t.
   His house was a towering inferno of orange flames and thick black smoke, its burning carcass shuddering as if pulled at by a million unseen hands, until Dave noticed the ripples in the ground, the waving of the trees, and as the motorbike rounded the corner of the street, he saw his burning house, uprooted garden and entire section collapsing down into a perfectly rectangular sinkhole that exactly followed the outline of his property.
   Dave turned his head back, trying to see where they were going but only receiving a face-full of dusty suburban air that made his eyes water. He lowered his gaze to the bike’s speedometer, trying to read the needle through half-closed eyes while the wind scathed his hair and chilled his arms through thin shirt-sleeves. He tried not to think about what had just happened. He closed his eyes completely, throwing his mind into the roar of the exhaust and the pull of the wind.
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 06:03:35 PM »

   Dave woke with a splitting headache. His arms hurt and his towel felt damp. Something was repeatedly poking him in the ribs and everything was black. A cold, heavy weight scraped against his shoulders. He reached up blindly, his fingers finding someone else’s arm, which he found to be attached to a hand that guided his own to the edge of a broken sink. He grabbed the sink and pushed. As the wreckage of what was once a perfectly good bathroom sink fell away from across his face, the arm revealed itself as belonging to the Chinese woman standing over him. She looked oddly familiar.
   “Get up now, it’s very important.” She poked his ribs with the toe of her shoe again.
   “Oww.” moaned Dave, for real this time, and now that he thought about it, it wasn’t just his head and arms that hurt. His back hurt where the cold door-handle dug into his spine and his left foot throbbed.
   “Get up! You have to hurry. There’s not much time.” She said, urgently.
   Sitting up, Dave tried to focus on her. She was tall with typical straight black Asian hair. She wore a look of deep worry and a red backpack. Her shoes were actually motorbike boots. The rest of her clothes matched them.
   “Who are you? What the hell is going on? Why are you in my house?” questioned Dave.
   The woman seemed to consider something momentarily.
   “Jessica,” she replied. “I can’t explain now. We need to leave now. Get up!”
   “OK, OK, whatever.” muttered Dave, pushing himself off the broken door and onto his knees.
   “Can you .. look the other way, or something?” he said, trying to stop his towel falling off. The woman seemed suddenly embarrassed.
   “Oh! Sorry, I will wait outside. Put some clothes on quickly.” She turned and walked away, her boots thumping on the floor.
   Dave lumbered to his feet, keeping his weight centered over his right leg. He surveyed the smashed door, the demolished sink, his still-wet pants, felt his mind give up on trying to deal with any of it, and limped to his bedroom. He pulled a fresh towel from the closet, pulled off the damp one, and once again came face-to-face with the phallic permutation that had been the beginning to all the events of such a wretched morning.
   “Oh for fuck’s sake” he said loudly to himself, “That’s right. There’s that.”
   Dave stood before his mirror and considered the sight before him. His arms were bruised, his face had a smear of dried blood on it from a cut on his forehead. He was listing to the right, and to top it all off, he had a pair of penises.
   Not one, not like a normal person, no. Of course not. He had to have two, now, for some reason, not that he knew what that reason was.
   The briefest desire to simply lop one of them off skipped across his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but couldn’t. He opened them again. He thought he heard a distant rumbling noise, his brain dismissing it as thunder.
   A second thought found its way into his consciousness, crawling out from under a slimy rock somewhere in his head. It involved various sexual acts between him and two women at the same time. Dave’s mind lingered on it for much longer, his concentration only pulled back into the present by another distant rumble of thunder and then immediately following it, the Chinese biker woman’s voice.
   “Hurry, we have to go now, it’s important!”
   Ignoring her, he tried to contemplate possible causes for his genital predicament. He was at a loss for words. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe it was all some weird nightmare. It certainly made absolutely no sense. People can’t grow any sort of body-part overnight, that’s physically impossible, he told himself. We’re not lizards. Or are we? Maybe I was bitten by a radioactive lizard...
   Dave would have continued that train of thought all the way down the line, but he felt like crap and there was a strange, annoying Chinese woman in his house, and his desire to get rid of her was at that moment greater than his concern for the sudden appearance of a second penis. He started getting dressed.
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 05:20:06 PM »

Dave stepped out of the shower, forcing himself not to look down. His body was on autopilot, his brain caught in thoughtless loops of logical fallacies and confusion. He reached out, his hands finding his towel, his towel finding his waist, then his left foot finding a bar of soap on the floor and flying out from under him. Dave pinwheeled with all the grace of a rabid possum, sprawling against the open shower door and ripping it off its hinges.
   He surfed the door down the pale blue of his bathroom wall, its snapped hinge leaving a choppy wake of torn plaster and paint, the bottom edge of the frame gouging the linoleum until the top end caught on the bathroom sink, stopping momentarily before taking the whole thing with it.
   Lying flat out on the smashed door, Dave could only watch in slow motion as the sink somersaulted overhead, launching his soaking pants towards the ceiling. He watched them arc through the morning light, marveled at the way the early sun lit the pale spray of dilute urine that chased them, too late in noticing the shadow of the sink slicing the edge of his vision.
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 04:55:42 PM »

Dave screamed, the waistband of his pants falling out of his grip and sliding down his skinny legs to fall in the fast-growing puddle of urine at his feet, a puddle fed by twin golden streams that poured forth from the pair of penises that stood proudly side-by-side in the approximate space where the average man would have only one.
   “What the FUCK” said Dave out loud, hands and arms jerking in indecision at his sides, as he tried to reconcile the image he was seeing with what his muscle memory knew, only managing to get his aim corrected at the last second.
   He stood with a penis in each hand, his pants around his ankles and soaked in urine, the toilet water turning only the palest of yellow from the few drops which hadn’t found their way onto the floor.
   “What the FUCK” he said again, as if saying the words twice might make something happen. It didn’t. He stared down at his crotch in disbelief. His head spun. His sodden pants were turning cold, the smell of urea and old sweat floating up to bite his nose.
   “This is fucked,’ Dave exclaimed to the empty air “This is totally fucked!” he continued, letting go of both penises and watching them flop downward. They swung together and whacked into each other, momentarily bouncing apart before coming to rest.
   “Ow.” said Dave. Not because it hurt, but because his brain thought that what he just witnessed looked like it should have.
   Muttering a continuous train of curses which included many instances of the word fuck, Dave, with one eye still on his penises, stepped out of his reeking pants and picked them up off the floor before dumping them into the sink. He turned on the cold water tap. He looked at his penises again. He continued to mouth the word fuck without actually speaking.
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 04:54:46 PM »

It was one of those days.
   You know the kind I mean – the kind where you wake up feeling like Frankenstein’s monster probably would have felt, if Dr. Frankenstein had stitched all those stolen body-parts together blindfolded, then reanimated them with a flat 9-volt battery, and for some inexplicable reason you’ve got the lingering memories of a horrible nightmare involving overstaying Chinese guests, memories you just can’t quite seem to pull from the fading remnants of sleep but that you’d swear were real, if only you hadn’t just pulled your pants down for a morning piss to find that you’ve now got two dicks.
Feedback and Encouragement / The Dubious Story of Dave
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 04:54:28 PM »
This... thing started as a bad dream and a joke with a friend. I hesitated to post it here but then figured perhaps someone would get a laugh out of it.
It's a work in progress. It doesn't have a proper title yet. I apologise in advance for what lies inside. There's probably going to be a lot of swearing.

The Dubious Story of Dave


It was one of those days.
   You know the kind I mean – the kind preceded by a night where you get home late from work, tired and hungry, so you take the easy way out and grab a box of microwavable Chinese-flavour-rice-risotto in the ‘Family Pack’ size, only to find that the box contains an actual Chinese family.
   While this was probably all your own fault, and down to a matter of perspective in the way your exhausted eyes read the wording on the front of the box as you opened it, you can’t help cursing the Karen’s Kitchen company as you drive back into town with said family in tow, trying to concentrate on the GPS while dodging a headache, as your passengers all talk over each other in non-stop mandarin, occasionally glaring at you as if it’s your fault.
   You don’t get to sleep until three in the morning, naturally, and when you do, it’s fitful and useless.
Discussion / Re: Forum updates
« Last post by Agent24 on January 17, 2019, 10:10:58 AM »
I think something has gone wrong again.... I notice my avatar has disappeared, when trying to reupload it I got the error:

"The attachments upload directory is not writable. Your attachment or avatar cannot be saved."
Prompts / Re: The Uncomfortable
« Last post by Agent24 on January 15, 2019, 08:57:19 PM »
True, though I'm glad these particular ones don't exist!
Feedback and Encouragement / Re: The Artist's Way
« Last post by Agent24 on January 15, 2019, 08:55:05 PM »
Hey! I .. uhh..  posted this :P

Reading your posts about this idea has made it sound more intriguing though.... Imaginary lives sound fascinating.

I'm halfway through a novel called "The seven deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle" of which the title made me think of the film " The deaths of Ian Stone" but has little if any similarities.
I shall finish that this week and then unearth my copy of 'vein of gold' and see if I find any leprechauns attached to it.
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