Erm...

thethemeis: Shame
theauthoris: Deadbeat

I just stood there starring at the floor.

“What the fuck man!”

The only bare section of carpet in which a complete version of it’s pattern could be seen was between the chair and the wall. Five and a half pattern lengths by eight and a bit the room was.

“Are you actually going to say anything?”

My fingers were dancing. It wasn’t their usual measured & co-ordinated jig. They skittered and tripped, frantically trying to work out the pressure growing in my pounding head. It was a futile effort.

“Do you even remember what you did last night?”

It was something to do with the kitchen. I’m sure there were many things, but the really bad one involved the kitchen. I couldn’t see it from where I was standing. I’d been confronted before I had the opportunity to check on the results of my previous night's actions. Perhaps i'm wrong. Domestic issues can be easily forgiven, he looks far angry than that. How long has that newspaper been under the sofa.

"You do this all the fucking time! You get so pissed up that you don't know what you're doing and you fuck it up for the rest of us."

This is definitely about more than the kitchen (unless i've broken his Jura Impressa 27, chrome). I must've done something to damage our reputation. That's always the problem when I get on the charlie. Nine times out of ten i'm the bomb. My wits are sharp, the girls love me and the guys hate me. But every now and then it goes horribly wrong and I come off as an absolute cock. Perhaps that's it, maybe I went rogue and fucked it up for the other guys who were onto a sure thing.

I switch my view from the floor to the new Sony 65" LED backlight TV, HD & 3D. The news is on, something about atrocities in some North African country. I know it's important to stay on top of current affairs, but I struggle to motivate myself to do so. Personal i've never found it that useful, my conversation is always built more around the moment. I wonder if always carrying things on your head like that has some sort of long term effects on the brain.

"So what was she like than, was it worth it?"

She? Who's he talking about. There was no one in my bed this morning. I say morning, it is nearly noon. Maybe she's already gone. Why would he be angry though? Unless... Marisa, she was there last night. I wouldn't though, would I? I mean, I definitely would! Who wouldn't? But I wouldn't actually. We have always got along though and she wouldn't have any problem doing it, not the way it ended between them. If it was Marisa then it's a cruel shame that I can't remember the night's events but still face the repercussions.

The Warehouse

thethemeis: Shame
theauthoris: LiamD

   ‘It’s a real shame y’know,’ a ridiculously stereotyped Brooklyn accent tells me as I awaken. Like most voices I hear for the first time, this one sounds familiar, yet I can’t quite place my finger on where I have heard it before. Perhaps I never will. Much of my body aches and a connection between my physical state and the passive aggressive tone of my acquaintance becomes apparent. I cautiously open my eyes and try to stop them widening in shock when they see the gun pointed toward my face, close enough for me to read the embossed ‘COLT’ and patent information that runs across the steel barrel. The hand inside the leather glove that holds the pistol steady belongs to a well-dressed young man with clean, slicked-back hair. If he wasn’t pointing a gun at a man bound to a chair who had been asleep not two minutes ago, I might have thought him respectable.

   ‘A guy with your… skills… could make a lot of money working for the boss.’ he tempts. In spite of myself, I have to disguise a suicidal snigger at his pronunciation of the last word, and how it could almost rhyme with paws. He pauses for a moment, perhaps awaiting a response. If so, I don’t give him one. Instead I think about the connotations of what he is saying. If someone has found out what I do, I can sure see the potential benefits of having me as a ‘friend’. The problem is, my little trick is far from reliable, and if these people are as shady as this gentleman implies, I doubt they would have much sympathy or patience on my ‘off’ days. My best hope at this stage is escape.

   ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’ I ask in what I hope is a confused tone. I scan the room in front of me, trying not to move my head too much. The last thing I want to do is excite his trigger finger.

   The room we’re in is some sort of warehouse, I’ve gathered that much. Behind my captor is a large, green-coated machine with a jagged metal feed tray that disappears into its belly and presumably connects to the long conveyor belt emerging from it’s rear end. It’s neighboured at either side by identical machines in a row which spans the entire width of the room – about one hundred metres give or take. There must be at least thirty of these beasts in total. From the messy spats of ink on and around each unit I guess them to be industrial printers. Whatever they are they clearly haven’t been used in a while, and that thought above all others scares me; I can’t think of many reasons to bring someone to a place like this.

   ‘If you don’t quit with that “Where am I?” shit, you get a bullet in your skull, capisce?’ This time I don’t dream of laughing, all the faux-humour from his face has faded and I’m left eyeballing an angry man with a gun. I nod slowly. His voice, that which was earlier so deceptively good-natured and breathy, is now harsh and nasal.

   ‘I’m trying to help you here, pal. Not many people get a second chance after crossing the boss.’ He sighs, as if genuinely distressed at my predicament, or perhaps at himself for losing patience, before continuing in his previous warmer tone. ‘Killing you… that would be a real shame.’ I feel my aching muscles tighten as he speaks the worst aloud. Is murder his priority? I’m not convinced, but the thought of it still frightens me. His eyes have something about them. They are the cold blue eyes of a killer.

   This may just be the worst case scenario playing out before my eyes. Even if I can loosen this rope that binds my hands together there’s no cover nearby, no getting away from a jerk of his index finger and the bullet that would follow.

   ‘Last chance, bub. Whaddya say…’ he is cut off mid-sentence by a shrill ringing coming from a nearby desk. After racking my brains I recognise it as the sound of an old-fashioned phone. The phone he answers is in fact ancient by todays standards, not that I have any idea what day it is…

   ‘Y’ello?’ he pauses after answering and makes subtle improvements to his mannerisms, some visual. ‘…Yeah I’m here with him now boss…’

   While he’s distracted I frantically examine my immediate area, there must be something around here that can help me escape a bullet in the head. I realise I’m panicking and force myself to calm down. Closing my eyes, I count to five slowly, then open them and take a fresh look around. Nothing too far away can help me, I’ve established that. What is there nearby? I come close to giving up hope when my head droops and I finally see it. There, on the floor no more than thirty centimetres to the right of my chair, is the solution to my problem.

   ‘…Are you sure? Think of the things he could do for y… …yes boss, I’m sorry, whatever you say… no boss, you won’t have to do that at all, I’ll get right on it…’ He turns back to me sporting a grim smile, apparently not noticing the serene expression that has replaced the flood of anxiety I had previously felt. His telephone conversation and morbid grin should leave me unnerved, but instead I’m feeling the enchanting pulse of excitement, maybe even with a hint of confidence.

   ‘Sorry, kid.’ He says. ‘Looks like you should’ve taken the lifeline while you had the chance.’ He raises the colt so it’s once again pointed towards my face, tells me one last time:

   ‘It’s such a shame,’

   then fires his weapon.

An Unusual Love

thethemeis: Shame

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   A lot of people I talk to about this ask me if I've ever had sex with women, and if I think I'd enjoy it. Of course I have. Hasn't everyone? It was ok, but it's not what I want. It's not what my body needs. I heard someone say once, 'the heart just wants what the heart wants,' and that's exactly true. I can't change the way I am just to suit the warped perceptions of others. If they have a problem with what I enjoy in my private life, then that's their issue to deal with, not mine. They should mind their own business. I don't go barging into their houses telling them how to chop their onions.

   But still, the shame eats me up. I can't reveal to anyone new what I'm into. I'm sure a lot of people would be fine with it, but there's a heartless few who would scoff and judge and treat me like a freak, an animal that should be caged up. Only a few close friends know just how deep this goes. I certainly can't tell my parents, they'd disown me for sure. They're so hung up on what the neighbours think of them that I'd be excommunicated before I could even say, 'I'm sorry, but...'

   So instead, I'm writing it down. Once and for all, I'm admitting that the love that I've found in life is less usual than you'd expect from someone who is in every other respect as everyday and normal as I am. I'm telling the world, and if the world doesn't want to deal with it then that's the world's problem. I'm shedding the shame, so that others just like me can follow suit without fear or delay.

   Here it is, for you to get over:

   I am in love with my car.