My novel based on England Keep My Bones. NSFW language

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charlie calthrop
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Joined: Thu Oct 17, 2013 2:08 pm

My novel based on England Keep My Bones. NSFW language

Post by charlie calthrop » Thu Oct 17, 2013 2:16 pm

I wrote the fuck out of a novel based on England Keep My Bones. Loosly based. Inspired. Ripped off from. Whatever, bro

This is the start of it:


When I die I hope to be
Buried out in English seas
So all that then remains of me
Will lap against these shores

Rivers



On Displacement Shore.


I can’t even drown properly. I still have my head above the water. I tilt my head down, to drown, to let the water in, and the water washes in. Sea into my mouth and into my already salted eyes. The water tastes cheap. I gurgle a sigh and then I seem to scream. I get a hot flush of embarrassment about the scream.

The sea waves the sound away, bored. I keep walking - the tips of my shoes just touch the sand as the shore falls from under me. I realise my arms are stretched out. Vincent is always sneering at me, saying I don’t really want to die, saying I’m faking it to appease him. That it’s all just a silent show. Now he is screaming at me, furious that my body is secretly trying to stay afloat.

“I was right. I was fucking right!”

His voice is nasal and his accent is cockney.

“Lower them arms right now” he screams

“Keep going you cunt,” he screams.

“Keep fucking going” he screams.

He screams: “Cunt”

History is lighter than the future: Forgiving Jesus, I lower my arms and I feel the straps of the rucksack pull me down. The sea covers my head, not with the tenderness I’d hoped for, but with salted indifference. I can feel the movement of the waves which suck and slurp at the sand.

One step, one hop and a kick and I'm out of my depth and going down.

Drowning. Properly drowning. I cough underwater.

“You cunt” Vincent sneers. “You hopeless cunt”. There is fatigue in the sneer, as if the screaming, in the end, finally did wear him out.

Even though the sea is loud, with the water and the waves and the pressure and the air and the screaming, I hear him as if no other noise ever existed.

“I’m doing this for you” I think

“You’re going to bottle this. You promised me you’d be dead before “Pointless started”, cunt”.

His whisper is a retch.

I bounce on my tipped toes. It is dark underwater. The water gurgles and rushes in my ears. I get a tiny glimpse of infinity. If I took one more step, I would be in it: fine. I bounce on the spot.

So many mis steps have led me to here. One more. One.

“Ex marks the spot” I think



“You’ll pay for this, right? I will fucking win. We know it. You useless cunt” he sneers.

I can’t even drown properly

The rucksack falls from my shoulders and sinks to the floor. It sinks quickly.

The tide never comes out this far, so the rucksack with FILA on will just sit there at the bottom of the sea. The FILA rucksack with the rocks and the empty Gin bottle and the Cadbury's caramel wrapper will just sit there forever. If everything above the sea got wiped out - every takeaway, nettle, clothes peg and cat food factory - then that bag would still be.

I can’t even drown properly. Almost as soon as my lungs begin to screech, I realise I’ve given up.

I turn back to the shore. Two pathetic steps and I lift my head above the water and breathe the banal Wednesday air.

I don’t stand there hoping for salvation for long, I turn around and walk back to the shore. A kick, a hop and a step.

Getting back is harder than getting out - always go out with nothing to lose - so by the time the water is only up to my groin I am wheezing. I’ve always been unfit. I never used to be bothered by it till I got to know Ray, and he started fucking Isobel. Then, when he looked like he did in his tight tshirts, and she looked at him like she did, I had to pretend I wore my flab with honour, to pretend I wasn’t bothered.

Vincent says "You can't do anything, you fucking useless cunt". That's what he mostly says though, so we can ignore it, for a while.

On the beach I notice a woman with a dog, and her dog notices me and comes bounding along the shore.

I can see the little explosions of soft red sand from the dog’s paws as it runs along the shore. I can feel water pouring off me and the waves lapping at the back of my knees, teasingly. I take big, exaggerated steps to get out of the water quickly; the woman is only twenty meters or so away now and the Labrador is already on the beach in front of me. I can see the woman clearly. She has a Barbour on and green wellies - the depressing uniform of those tediously proud of their acumen with other people's businesses.

The dog wags its tail.

"I say" she says. Ten more meters until I am out of the water. I brush the tears away with my wet sleeve - it only makes my face more sodden. The wind whips along the shore. It is getting dark and soon darkness will descend on this beach, with the boarded up ice cream unit and the notice about no dog shit please. And, while this goes on, my rucksack will be under the sea. The Cadbury’s Caramel wrapper, and the rocks. The gone gin.

Five meters, but she's there, standing behind her dog. The dog looks nice in comparison with her. And every time I see a dog I remember that bastard Alsatian that my brother had. Thinking of the Alsatian makes me remember my brother, and if I were king for a day, I’d shoot every single fucking dog in the world in revenge.

She brushes a strand of hair back with one of her hands. In the other hand she's got one of those things they use to throw balls for the dogs.

Three steps.

Two.

I’m on the shore again.

"You OK?" she asks, and the wind howls.

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