Two Malts Please. Chocolate
Sep. 1st, 2010 02:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brosedshield I think that joining Live Journal has let me embrace both imperfection and also a level of creepiness that usually I have to think about for a long time before I'm comfortable showing it around.
Where did this come from? Not sure. I've been thinking about Steampunk for a while—a fascinating blend of genres and ideas— and also got a D. H. Lawrence book-on-tape from the library today. Also thinking about Howling Mad Murdock from the A-Team. And these combined into this creepy flash fic fragment? Perhaps so.
Title: Two Malts Please. Chocolate.
Warnings: insanity? McDonald's?
Word count: 307
Author notes: original fic; no beta; uncertain antecedents (see above); undetermined future.
When she speaks it reminds him of poetry, but something dark, like D. H. Lawrence twisted on his joints or a sadistic, iambic surgeon’s manual. He doesn’t always understand, but one time she asked him how to get to the Mickey D’s and he had nightmares for three days. She’s better now, or maybe he’s immune, after all these hamburgers.
“Pasteurized imprisoned pathologically enhanced for the crawling frozen tongues of children beneath the bright golden spectacles,” she whispers into her scarf. The McDonald’s cashier glares at him. Lots of people think he gave her that black eye. He’s just grateful she keeps her voice down.
“A malt?” he says calmly, in a normal voice at normal volume She hates it when he patronizes her, when he talks in the stupid dog tone, stupid wolf-dog half-brain crawling limbless crippled spider tone. She’s not the kind of woman who stands and takes any kind of disrespect.
She’ll give it though. She stares down at her scuffed boots, for all the world a vacant vessel, and he interprets that as a yes. “What flavor?” he asks.
Her hands curl into claws and she mimes scraping them down his chest. “Black, black, black,” she says, shaking her head. “Nectar of the goddess of love, cut out your heart.”
“Chocolate then.” He forces a smile for girl behind the cash register—who heard that comment all right, and has the brains to be watching her now, seeing the real threat. He wishes he could take the last few things she’d said and believe them just another word-salad analogy.
“Cut out your heart,” she spits at the floor as he puts the fiver on the counter. “Lick it clean.”
He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t tempt her with the slightest tremble. He just smiles at the cashier and blocks her out, as he has for years, and will for a long time to come. “Two malts please. Chocolate.”
Where did this come from? Not sure. I've been thinking about Steampunk for a while—a fascinating blend of genres and ideas— and also got a D. H. Lawrence book-on-tape from the library today. Also thinking about Howling Mad Murdock from the A-Team. And these combined into this creepy flash fic fragment? Perhaps so.
Title: Two Malts Please. Chocolate.
Warnings: insanity? McDonald's?
Word count: 307
Author notes: original fic; no beta; uncertain antecedents (see above); undetermined future.
When she speaks it reminds him of poetry, but something dark, like D. H. Lawrence twisted on his joints or a sadistic, iambic surgeon’s manual. He doesn’t always understand, but one time she asked him how to get to the Mickey D’s and he had nightmares for three days. She’s better now, or maybe he’s immune, after all these hamburgers.
“Pasteurized imprisoned pathologically enhanced for the crawling frozen tongues of children beneath the bright golden spectacles,” she whispers into her scarf. The McDonald’s cashier glares at him. Lots of people think he gave her that black eye. He’s just grateful she keeps her voice down.
“A malt?” he says calmly, in a normal voice at normal volume She hates it when he patronizes her, when he talks in the stupid dog tone, stupid wolf-dog half-brain crawling limbless crippled spider tone. She’s not the kind of woman who stands and takes any kind of disrespect.
She’ll give it though. She stares down at her scuffed boots, for all the world a vacant vessel, and he interprets that as a yes. “What flavor?” he asks.
Her hands curl into claws and she mimes scraping them down his chest. “Black, black, black,” she says, shaking her head. “Nectar of the goddess of love, cut out your heart.”
“Chocolate then.” He forces a smile for girl behind the cash register—who heard that comment all right, and has the brains to be watching her now, seeing the real threat. He wishes he could take the last few things she’d said and believe them just another word-salad analogy.
“Cut out your heart,” she spits at the floor as he puts the fiver on the counter. “Lick it clean.”
He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t tempt her with the slightest tremble. He just smiles at the cashier and blocks her out, as he has for years, and will for a long time to come. “Two malts please. Chocolate.”
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Date: 2010-09-02 12:45 am (UTC)