i am writing a short story. it is going to be a 'long one'. a 'proper one'. whatever that means. i haven't written anything, really, in about a month. what the hell have i been doing with myself? i have no idea. anyway, below is a short extract, from the start. it is un-edited. maybe when i edit it only half of it will be there. maybe none of it. i am probably posting it on here because i feel guilty that i haven't really posted anything much on here in a while. (maybe i am also secretly posting it on here out of vanity. or maybe because i want to 'believe' in it and feel confident about it.) anyway, here it is:
At night Charlie turns into a cat. She balances on the edges of fences. She crawls out of bins. She licks her paw. She spears mice, and once a fish. Charlie has black fur. She is seven years old (cat years). She is on heat sometimes, stood in an alleyway, her tail up, hind legs quivering, and a strange sound is swimming around in her body and coming out through her throat. There are pools of water on the floor, sometimes a wet moon is in the sky, and little yellow eyes glint at the curtains.
Charlie is nineteen years old (human years). She is stood in a library. There are old people at the computer cluster, a perverted middle-aged man behind the counter, and nothing is worth reading in here, nothing is worth doing, nothing is happening, ever, except death and decay.
Charlie licks her hand. She wipes it on her face. The perverted middle-aged man is looking at her. He is probably doing something under the desk, too, as Charlie walks up and down the aisles, reading the spines and smelling a smell of sweat or chips or both, and not meeting her friend Amy outside Blockbusters.
What is Justin Timberlake doing right now?
What is Sarah Jessica Parker doing?
What would happen if you lay down on your back and rolled around and started screaming and frothing at the mouth?
The lights in the library are cold and yellow and crazy. Justin Timberlake is asleep. Sarah Jessica Parker is writing an email. Charlie is crouching down close to the carpet, sliding a book from the shelf and flipping through it with her fingers.