Writing Some Stuffs That'll Go Somwhere?

[Mitch]

[size=1][center]"Cigs"[/center]
Come over here, to the bathroom. If you look close enough you can see him right now. On the stall on the far left, the one that's been broken since who knows when.

This is Ben Coper. He's worked in this building for thirty-five years of his wasted life.

And everyday he comes here. Comes to this stall on the far left, the one that's broken.

What does he do here? Well, if you'd ask him, he'd smile his fake smile and tell you he's simply doing his job. That he's just cleaning the bathrooms.

But that is a lie.

In the stall, his stall, he usually lights up a cig. A Marlboro Light.

Nothing too bad. He sometimes even smokes another two or three. Or even four.

The cigs really clear his head. They allow him to think. And his thoughts are usually clouded. But with the help of the cigarettes it's like he can finally breathe in his dead head.

First it all gets fuzzy. Everything. The way his hands feel as he sits on the toilet gets fuzzy and farther away. His vision gets farther away and al fuzzy too. All of it gets fuzzy.

If you were to walk into the bathroom right when he was smoking in his stall, you'd see smoke almost all over the bathroom. A large and billowing monument of it.

Ben doesn't take chances though. He locks the door each and every time.

This time is no different. But soon it is different. Soon things don't go like they have for thirty-five daring years.

As he's smoking his mind and everything gets fuzzy. Everything starts to dance with an asphyxiation that falls right into Ben's eyes. Right into his soul.

It goes like this for a long time. He smokes slow, uncertainly.

Then his first cig is smoked to a small ashy stump.

From his denim jacket smelling profusely of smoke he reaches into the front pocket. He takes out his package of cigarettes. It's a fresh pack. Only is missing the first cig that Ben just smoked.

That's when it happens. His throat begins to feel like it hasn't ever felt before. His mind begins to think and flutter. His hands begin to shake like there's some earthquake all over the ground.

He falls over.

When he opens his eyes he can hear someone banging on the door. Shouting. Their voice is too muffled though, he can't understand a single word they say.

He is about to stand up, about to go and unlock the door when his eyes fall on them.

The cigarettes are still all over the ground. Without a single afterthought or a single second feeling he reaches out for them.

That is when he is tapped on the shoulder. As he looks up, his entire body shakes as he is shocked in a sudden fear. He almost lets out a scream, but he holds it inward, not wanting to look too much like a coward. That's always been Ben's way. Just stay it cool.

Not just staying cool, but he's always been one of those people that wanted to be cool, that wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be known.

So he keeps his cool as much as he can?holds everything inward as he looks at it. At first the thing looks like what Ben had always feared. He'd always feared clowns. Not just any clowns, but ones that were scary. With big teeth, sharp teeth. And a snarl to match.

That's what he sees at first. He's quite certain it can't be real as he stares it down, looks at it. But, as he rubs his eyes and touches the thing's feet he realizes that it is real.

He almost screams. Almost. But the clown first puts his hand over Ben's mouth, blocking out what would have been a scream. All that comes out is dead air that falls to nothing in the stall that's always been broken, the one on the far left.

Ben just stares at the clown. It's all he can do. He also tries to grab his cigs on the ground, but somehow and someway, he isn't able to?his hands fall right through them. Just like a ghost.

As Ben stares at the clown in bewilderment and makes his wild grab for his cigs, the thing's face begins to change.

It isn't an instant change. It's more like a slow change, a very slow change. The thing looks like a maggot as its face melds into nothing . It sits like this for awhile like it's thinking of what to change to. To what, though, doesn't matter to Ben at all.

All that is going through Ben's mind is to get the hell out of the bathroom. And, secondly, to have a cig. Just one more, he wants just one more. Wants and needs it bad right then. He needs it like he'd always desired to have sex. Like he'd always desired to be cool.

He needs it bad.

But his wild grabs are doing nothing. His fingers, his arm, his entire body won't feel anything. It won't touch the cigs. They just go through them hopelessly. They just go through them without any feeling.

The maggot-like face of what had been the clown now rebegins drastically changing. Not just its face anymore, either. Its entire body is changing, melding, molding. To what, Ben has no clue. And what it's changing into is the last thing on Ben's mind.

Ben finally gives up on his cigs, and he begins to climb onto the broken toilet. But in his stupor and panic, he'd forgotten to close the lid.

He falls right down as he clambers up. Right down onto the tile and hits his head. Hits his head hard. So hard that, as he later learns, he fractures his entire skull.

For now, though, all he is left with is an extremely large open cut on his head. It's over almost his entire head. All of it except for maybe a quarter. A quarter and even less.

The blood begins to flow.

It flows all over the small stall, seeps under the crack of the door.

The blood's also clouding Ben's eyes. He can barely see, and he feels like he's going to pass out. His entire body feels like one big nothing. All he can feel is the endless and numbing pain of the wound that's on his head.

His breathing becomes loud and hard. It's like he's breathing through a mask that's hooked up to some loud and hissing bottle of oxygen. Every breath to Ben's lungs burns and makes his body ache. He's about to pass out.

Then he looks up with the last of his strength. And, to his surprise, there stands the principal. His name is Mr. Hanning. He'd always been nice to Ben. Especially nice.

Through the blood and blurred vision Ben barely makes out that it is Mr. Hanning. He squints more, and he can see that Hanning's holding something out to him. Something white.

It's a cigarette. Ben soon realizes this, and he lets out a large wail. It's a lusty wail. A wail of extreme want and need. Through the pain all over his body, he manages to outpour his hand. His entire hand shakes in this attempt, but he manages to reach out just enough so that he can reach the cig.

His hand touches it?or tries. Not surprisingly to Ben at all his hand falls right through the cigarette. And he cannot hold onto anything any longer. He passes out. Again.

Ben doesn't know where he's at anymore. For a long time there's blackness. A blackness like his lungs probably look like.

Then he starts seeing things again, starts dreaming again. Or whatever you call what he'd seen?the clown and all.

This time it's more of a memory than anything. He remembers it very well, this memory. It's something that he constantly went through all those years he'd sat in the broken stall in his lonely school.

He sees himself in a restaurant. This isn't just any restaurant, it's quite special to him. He had only gone there about three times in his life, but it's still quite special to Ben.

The restaurant's name is Chile's Bar And Grill. It's a simple and homely restaurant. It smells like barbeque sauce. Pretty much breathes it.

There's also peanut shells all over the ground like hair that dots a barber shop's floor. And just like the hair on a barber's floor, these shells are just there. Most people don't even see them, they're just there. To Ben, though, it just makes this memory even more surreal and lively.

He walks into this wonderful part of his memory out of the blackness that he'd so recently had.

He enters and finds himself sitting down right there smack in the front, finds himself waiting for a table. This version of him is much younger. He doesn't have the rough and white beard. He doesn't have the sandy and crude wrinkles all over his face. This Ben is younger. A lot younger.

He watches the younger self with open eyes, sees how ignorant and stupid he looked. How hopeless and without a cause, a reason, or a place.

The younger Ben is, of course, smoking a cig. It's what Ben has done since he was around ten and on.

And the smoke from the cig is falling all over the place, all over this memory and tainting it for him. Every wheeze and trail of smoke that goes around shakes this memory, the restaurant's beautiful feeling itself, into a blankness. Into vagueness.

He watches this asphyxiated: just like he's breathing in the smoke. And it feels like it to him, too. It feels like he can just taste that butt in his mouth, taste all of the smoke going in and through his lungs. It's a wonderful feeling to him, a bad one perhaps, but good all the same.

He continues to stand there, everything blanking out, the smoke asphyxiating him, burning through him. Then the younger Ben puts out the butt in an ashtray right next to his seat, and stands up. He's going to sit down at his table along with the friends that Ben used to have. Used to have.

Ben could care less about these friends. They had long ago left his life. They were not even friends to him at all, not a bit. Never were. He simply thought so.

[center]"Love In Murder Has No Name"[/center]
He sits in his chair, sits in it like he has for years and years. His eyes are tired, likely and palpable in sort to that of a dead cadaver's eyes. There's just something missing from these eyes of his, the ones he's also had for years and years.

And once he settles in his nice chair, his chair, he stares blankly at his desk's flat bottom. Stares at all the material things about and decorating its wooden and downright flimsy and worn and unlusterous appearance. He then sighs, and it's his eyes again, they're tired; they look like two dead rocks just sitting obliviously on the bottom of some long-gone, old, emaciated river; and then he knows it, he just breathes it?through his mouth, and well through his eyes?he can't go on. He thinks this too, more of a long sigh, inundated as it stands, than anything else; but he thinks it.

All over his desk's top, through the untidy piles of paper after paper after paper, there's many things just scribbled right directly on the wood; from his scribbled signature?M.G.S.?to other things, it's easy to tell that he's had this desk for a long while. For not just the worn-out look of it, and dustiness of it, nor the scribbled things, but more for just its entirety. It's just old-looking more or less.

He now focuses on these many phrases and carved things on his desk, reads them over like he has so many times; and, moving the things out of the way, moving a piece of paper here and there, he comes to his phrase that's always been his. SSDD is scribbled right there, over and over again like a wheel spinning round. And here, he takes out his pointed pen, and scribbles even more; his eyes follow the pen in a certain way, almost mechanically. After he's been doing this for a long time, just scribbling his SSDDs and thinking, his phone abruptly rings that's on his desk. He stops and picks it up.

"Ah, Mick," said his wife's voice, abruptly. Mick holds the phone closer.

"Yeah honey?" he says. There's a click-clack silence as he hears his wife typing something up. It soon stops, and she finally speaks again.

"So what's up?" she asks.

"Not too much; same **** different day," Mick says. "Just filling out some job applications." A lie, of course. But that is what he had meant to be doing. "So why'd you call?"

"Well," she starts, "I got this really neat story today at the paper?it's about a murder that just happened?I was just at the crime scene, in fact. Thought you might find it interesting to come to it with me, you know, since it's your kind of thing; murder and all, you know. If you want to see it, though, you'd better hurry?soon the scene's going to be crowded with the fuzz."

Mick had always had a very interesting thing with murders; he'd always watched the shows on TV documenting them; even since he'd been just a kid he'd watched them. From time to time his wife would call just like this, as she got assigned the stories, of course, and he'd most often just go to check things out. It could be said that Mick himself wanted to become something of a police officer himself, but he'd never been able to. He was still just taking his second year of generals at college, and wasn't even sure himself if he'd take the route of a police officer for a job.

He smiled now, a tight smile, a very short-lived smile.

"I'd love to go," he said as the smile left his face, "would absolutely love it honey." Mick could also just see his wife smiling too, and he knew she was. You see, Mick had a very good link, just had this click with his wife; he just knew her, even before he had met her. It was, at times, a strange thing; but it was also something quite sensual and made their entire relationship that more powerful.

And he was right, she was smiling. Her white teeth shone like some wonderful white pearl as she too felt that he was smiling, and she too felt that she'd just made his day, or something near it. "I knew you'd want to, Mick," she said through her smile. "I'll be there to pick you up then, in about ten minutes; first I have to finish the rough of my story, though."

"Okay honey," he said, "la la love you."

"Love ya too Mickey," she said back at him with a half-meaning and half-evil laugh that could only be hers.

These are all rough, and these are all not even finished.[/size]

[Break]

[size=1][color=CC0000]Wow.. that's.. very good, just like everything else you've written. It's all too confusing for a small mind like mine though.. eee... [/size][/color]