Sepher
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Aug 20, 2010
- Messages
- 2,508
. . . in an another thread that I should write more. So I did. For a short story thread on another forum I'm on, 300 words max on the topic of preparation. 298 words here. It was good I had the limit. Had to prune hard on the wordcount while wanting to keep every sentence fully intact. They are much improved for it I think, losing the 60 odd words too many I started out with. I'm quite pleased with it. True from life, think that should be obvious? Always the best source that:
On preparation:
There are a million and one ways to prepare yourself for prison. Sepher had chosen the worst. That is, he'd not prepared at all. No neatly packed bag of emergency essentials stood by Sepher's door. No pouches of GV put aside for the first week when such luxuries were thin on the ground; no ten pound notes hidden in CD cases away from others in the house who would soon have made use of them with or without Sepher's permission; there were no packages of this or that to be secreted about the person while dressing for the inevitable court appearance, at what would almost certainly be the most inconvenient time. No, as usual, as with all things in his life thus far, Sepher had nothing much beyond his own name and the skin he stood up in, skin now very much on display to the coppers watching him dress, half-coded laughs at his physical attributes, or lack of them. If they found that amusing Sepher found it only tedious: he'd heard this all before.
The cells beneath the courts have their own smell, an acrid mix of stale breath and sweat, urine and vomit, the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal seeping from the pores. It is the smell of fear, though none but the very weakest will allow that fear to be seen. There is the occasional fleeting look of recognition, but other than that bravado, swagger, resignation tinged with hope are the only responses Sepher can allow himself. Idle chat on circumstances and expectations passes the day, interspersed only by the strained silences that descend with the sound of footfalls and jangling keys,the hoped for opening of the the cell door with his name on someone's lips. This takes a long, dope-sick time to come.
On preparation:
There are a million and one ways to prepare yourself for prison. Sepher had chosen the worst. That is, he'd not prepared at all. No neatly packed bag of emergency essentials stood by Sepher's door. No pouches of GV put aside for the first week when such luxuries were thin on the ground; no ten pound notes hidden in CD cases away from others in the house who would soon have made use of them with or without Sepher's permission; there were no packages of this or that to be secreted about the person while dressing for the inevitable court appearance, at what would almost certainly be the most inconvenient time. No, as usual, as with all things in his life thus far, Sepher had nothing much beyond his own name and the skin he stood up in, skin now very much on display to the coppers watching him dress, half-coded laughs at his physical attributes, or lack of them. If they found that amusing Sepher found it only tedious: he'd heard this all before.
The cells beneath the courts have their own smell, an acrid mix of stale breath and sweat, urine and vomit, the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal seeping from the pores. It is the smell of fear, though none but the very weakest will allow that fear to be seen. There is the occasional fleeting look of recognition, but other than that bravado, swagger, resignation tinged with hope are the only responses Sepher can allow himself. Idle chat on circumstances and expectations passes the day, interspersed only by the strained silences that descend with the sound of footfalls and jangling keys,the hoped for opening of the the cell door with his name on someone's lips. This takes a long, dope-sick time to come.