Wednesday, 24 September 2014

If misery could manifest itself into household objects



In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

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http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/98143751043/if-misery-could-manifest-itself-into-household-objects
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“If misery could manifest itself into household objects, it would most certainly be a cheap Australian boxed wine,” she announced as she waved the large but currently close to empty wine glass around.
“Cask,” he corrected.
“What?”
“Australians call them wine casks, not wine boxes.”
“Oh... do I care?”
“Probably not.” He studied her while she was not looking at him. She had knocked on his door; very late and already very drunk. She insisted on more wine even though he was seriously waiting for her to throw up. Or fall asleep. Teary and emotional, she explained that she had been stood up and she was not happy about it. “And besides,” he added, “misery is more likely to be concentrated on the sofa.”
“Huh... maybe. The hours spent alone mainlining some TV series that just lets you down when they won’t let the characters you totally ship together be together.”
“Yeah. Or they cancel it and the last episode finished on a cliff-hanger.”
“Ugh... never to be resolved. Hate that.” She waved the empty glass at him.
He stood, grabbed both glasses and refilled them from the cask. “You are really verbose when you’re drunk.”
“I forgot to eat,” she said as if that explained it and reached out to take the glass he passed to her. She started spouting off about her personal theory of Lost and how the writers of Teen Wolf should be pegged out on an anthill.
She was halfway through the glass, when she fell asleep. He rescued it from her hand. “He was a dick to stand you up,” he told her. “You are better off without him.”
Grabbing the throw from the back of the sofa, he spread it over her. He bent down to tuck it in and heard her mutter, “I ship us... you know?”
He blinked at her, not sure that he had heard her correctly. “Rose?” he asked but a snore was his only reply.
He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. He secretly loved the way she came to him when she was hurt or upset. He was her best friend, and terrified of losing that, he had never asked her out or tried to kiss her. Maybe he should. But not yet; tomorrow he would be the solicitous best friend who would drag her hung-over butt out for a greasy full breakfast and then lie on the grass at the park and commiserate over her bad dating habits. And maybe... after another day or so, he could just suggest that they should go out with each other.
Sounded like a plan. He patted the wine cask where it sat on the top of the microwave. “Thanks,” he told it. “She’s wrong. Tonight you manifested honesty, not misery.” 
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© AM Gray 2014