Young Writers Society

I couldn’t live in those people places. The very nature of having to socialise is the very foundation of bad luck and desperation. It’s the overwhelming smell of burnt fat outside next door’s garden during the summer; perhaps it’s a symbol of The Council, or maybe this junk isn’t working. I’m tired, weak, angry, envious. I might as well be living off my own stupidity.

I am forced to obtain order for everyone. What’s me, a 27 year old who looks 50, going to do to help this dirty little town? Say for the sake of argument I become Martin Luther King version 2.0, how is that going to help this grotty little cesspool? My senses are riddled with a mishmash of feelings and emotions, so why the wait? But it is precious to do something. I have never had a job in all my life, and it shows.

In school they called me a “good school council rep”. My ass. I’m only a good rep for the council picking up the footprints of Ofsted scum and their leftover faeces. After giving our schools their signature average rating, they can’t resist excreting all over the school, reporting it in the papers and then the school is at a stand still. My school, however, always was.

It is a venomous thing our love. The narcotics business is getting in full swing under the police’s nose (almost literally seeing the number of coke addicted policemen in the area). That’s how I make my profit and make my money to pay my landlord. Perhaps it is for the best I stop whatever I am doing to seek what I need to find. Some heroin? Alcohol? Maybe some Ecstasy? I can only pray for the best.

Time is both worthless and the ultimate barrier politicians set up for their lies; “it’s gonna take time”, “give us time”, “this new policy needs time”. They may aswell say nothing about anything or we’ll suspect something.

Feel my hands: they are shivering aren’t they? Well, round by the back of the bins, I had a euphoric experience while taking my recent portion of heroin every Wednesday. Usually I would inject it, watch my skin cringe, and throw away the needle. However, I was astounded by what I was witnessing; my legs bent and aching, tired of the physical nature of the exercise, I watched my blood flow through the needle. It must have been speaking to me, telling me something about my life and how I’m living it. Stop? Continue? Listen?

Of course not. Who am I, talking to a heroin needle? Being the ignorant sod I am, I just wander about the rest of the day, listening to the breeze conducted by a cold and unsuspecting winter, controlled by our heroes abroad.

“GET AWAY!” someone screamed over the sight of a young man caressing human nature. This was probably in reaction to his idea of democracy, a word never uttered anymore. It wasn’t even in the dictionary or on posters or anything. The word simply didn’t exist.

The suburbs are shining with heresy; I can smell the scent of a pig all the way from the train station. I caught the distinctive smells of urine and blood when I entered the suburbs, cold and fierce towards the human psyche. Now, I tell ya, I could’ve become a doctor. I could’ve given Enemas to Ms. Stewart, or given a heart operation a political figurehead. Either way, I’ll get paid. I’ve seen places far and wide, believe me, but this has to be absurd. Everywhere I went, those smells of blood & urine would come back, manipulating my senses and kissing the sky with the thick ora about them. It was like being in my new favourite town.

Like I said before, time is both worthless and the ultimate barrier politicians set up for their lies. Never before has this been more true than now. Welcome to paradise you unlucky son of a bitch.

Sally had an abortion.

Understandably her boyfriend was pissed off, but what else was she supposed to do: raise her child in the shadow of narcotics and cynicism? Hell no, not even she could do that even halfway through her pregnancy. Her days of drunken orgies, car crashes and binge drinking are over. This is her third abortion.

Talk about repetition.

Time was pressing on- to kill it with her imaginary scissors she imagined herself as some sort of saint, leaping from building to building in sync with a soundtrack to a very teenage market appealing film about teenage vampires.

Talk about repetition.

She dreams this dream over and over again, and is greatly troubled by the idea of ever waking up from it.

Talk about repetition.

Harold the drinker had his last night of drinking downtown.

He had been drinking since his mother’s strong brew went down his sticky umbilical cord, and when he was born, he didn’t demand milk.

Harold looked up to see what had become of the world. He knew this was bad and too did he wish he never existed. If this was what God wanted him to become then there must have been something wrong with him. The right place at the right time? Most indefinitely. Harold could have become a surgeon like me, giving out leaflets for the hospitals and laughing inside when he’s killed an annoying patient. Me and Harold weren’t “buddies” as such, but more like companions. We knew a lot about each other. If I can tell you a lot about Harold, he can tell you a lot about me. It’s just one of those natural things.

Unfortunately he can’t tell you anything. Yesterday night, he vomited up his own guts in a pool of blood. The doctors said he had way too much to drink.

And thus Harold the drinker never saw the light of day.

Time was pressing on again; I turned and walked out of the bar.

I fucking hate the summertime. With all of it’s heat seeking glory, it’s disabled appearance, the sun’s inability to go away. It’s as if even the weather is against me.

Everywhere I go, it’s the same story. Everywhere I go, the temperature rises. Every time I have a cigarette, dust gets into my eyes, stinging and paralysing for a few seconds. It doesn’t help we had to be in uniform to “look smart”. So, if I collapse due to heat wave, at least I’ll die with my blazer on, tie up and looking like a businessman. All this time wasted on little things, has not at all benefited us. Listen by the window tonight: you can hear anything. You may even hear me screaming in agony at the weather forecast by the yuppies on BBC One.