Post by TheFinch on Nov 15, 2007 16:48:01 GMT
Posted this on CF. I'm NOT continuing this, work has started on a sci-fi ish story, so this is abandoned 
________________
“The last 4 days are just wrongheaded,” Toby commented, looking out the window. A fire was burning brightly only a few gardens away from his. It was November 3rd, and all across the country millions of fireworks were being set off, and thousands of bonfires lit.
“Hmm?” was the sleepy reply from his girlfriend, Kai. She was laying down, her head in Toby’s lap. She was comfy, and like a cat she wouldn’t move from the spot until she felt necessary. She had been dozing but Toby’s voice had penetrated the still air, awakening her and forcing her to open a heavy eye.
“Well, all year round you’re not meant to take sweets from strangers. 31st October, and you’re encouraged to knock on stranger’s doors and ask them for food! All year, we’re warned of the dangers of fires. Then, on the 3rd, 4th or 5th of November, we’re told to set stuff ablaze with people on them. It just seems so strange,” Toby replied, combing his fingers absentmindedly through Kai's dark, wavy hair. Kai smiled to herself, the feeling reminded her of her father when he tried to set her to sleep.
“Don’t forget the run up to Christmas,” She added, her eyes still closed. The hairs on her neck were lifting slightly from the contact of Toby’s fingers in her hair. “Don’t talk to strangers, but go sit on that fat bloke with the white beard’s knee and tell him all your secrets,”
Toby chuckled; his girlfriend had the same sense of humour as him. He looked out the window again, his eyes flinching at the bright light of the bonfire. The flames hungrily burned in the cool night air, flicking the inky darkness with the orange ferocity that they carried.
“People are going to get hurt tonight,” He commented, watching two teenagers launch a bottle rocket from a piece of scaffolding tube outside. It soared upwards and exploded in a bright blue flash, which left a white spot in Toby’s vision. The spent tube landed in a children’s play park down the road, bouncing off of the springy rubber flooring. “And it’s probably not going to be one of the children…”
**
Approximately 50 miles away, Hyde Park was thumping with the sound of music, the loud explosions of fireworks and the pitter-patter of talking and laughing. Girls danced seductively along to the beat, wearing tiny tops that were in danger of ripping, and skirts that technically classified as belts. Guys followed them around with their jaws scraping the floor, and there seemed to be a desperate attempt to hit on the girls every few seconds.
A lot of important people were here; governors, the mayor and even the Prime Minister, although he’d left a few hours ago claiming that he had another party to head to. There were a few film and soap stars dotted about; signing autographs for screaming fans and posing for pictures while flashbulbs snapped them every few milliseconds.
The mayor of London sighed as he made his way through the crowds. Only a few older gentlemen had recognised him this evening, the rest were young and attractive and hadn’t a clue what this old man was doing here, dressed respectably in a dark suit with his large mayoral chain draped heavily around his neck. He got a glance from a young teen, who smiled at him and offered him a glow stick. Politely declining, he carried on his fight to escape the mass of teenage drunks and burst through the crowd to breath real air instead of the sweaty, muggy air he was breathing now. As he pushed the last of the teens to one side, a firework exploded close by. It was loud, and exploded in a red ‘star’ shape, the rocket landing a few hundred yards away. The mayor froze on the spot. His stomach had suddenly developed a searing, shooting pain and it was throbbing hotly in the cool air. He looked down, startled, to find blood oozing from a bullet wound. Everything went grey, his vision was fading and his legs were giving way. He tried to step forwards, but just collapsed to the floor. It was a few minutes before partygoers realised he wasn’t passed out from alcohol or drugs. The music stopped abruptly, the fireworks carried on popping in the distance, but the Mayor realised none of this. His heart had stopped beating and his organs had shut down. His lips and cheeks had tinged blue, and his eyes had glazed over. The Mayor of London had been assassinated
******
The newsreader had repeated the words 500 times already, but the time stood still at 9:46. “The mayor of London was killed last night –“ she began, as Toby switched off the TV.
“Under the cover of fireworks,” Toby breathed to himself, “Clever b**t**d,” He was dressed only in his pyjama bottoms, holding a cold bowl full of Cheerios that floated absentmindedly in the milky ocean that was his breakfast. He raised the sthingy from the bowl, taking with it a group of the little puffed wheat ‘O’s and took the sthingyful into his mouth. They were no longer crunchy, to the point where Toby could probably drink them without a problem. He walked across the carpet and into the kitchen, the fluffy fibres of the carpet replaced by the cold flatness of the lino. He placed the half eaten breakfast into the sink, and headed back towards the stairs, picking up his kitten Chester on the way. He purred and managed to lay with his paws up in the air, a pose so silly that Toby couldn’t help but giggle. “Silly cat,” He grinned, flinching as the small black kitten rolled back over and leapt from his grasp, digging its claws into Toby’s arm.
Toby’s bedroom door was always broken. It didn’t swoosh open like it should; it tore at the carpet, and ground out on the floor. He sighed, and forced the door open with his shoulder, making it creak and groan in protest. The momentum he carried made him rocket on to his bed, and he bounced against it with a creaky thud. Groaning to himself, he rolled off his bed and rooted through his underwear draw to find some that were clean. He settled on a set his parents got him from Dublin, which had “You toucan to me?” written on them, and a picture of a Guinness on the arse. Sliding them on, he turned over the thoughts in his head and sighed deeply.
“Gonna be a big day,” He admitted, snapping his belt on
________________
“The last 4 days are just wrongheaded,” Toby commented, looking out the window. A fire was burning brightly only a few gardens away from his. It was November 3rd, and all across the country millions of fireworks were being set off, and thousands of bonfires lit.
“Hmm?” was the sleepy reply from his girlfriend, Kai. She was laying down, her head in Toby’s lap. She was comfy, and like a cat she wouldn’t move from the spot until she felt necessary. She had been dozing but Toby’s voice had penetrated the still air, awakening her and forcing her to open a heavy eye.
“Well, all year round you’re not meant to take sweets from strangers. 31st October, and you’re encouraged to knock on stranger’s doors and ask them for food! All year, we’re warned of the dangers of fires. Then, on the 3rd, 4th or 5th of November, we’re told to set stuff ablaze with people on them. It just seems so strange,” Toby replied, combing his fingers absentmindedly through Kai's dark, wavy hair. Kai smiled to herself, the feeling reminded her of her father when he tried to set her to sleep.
“Don’t forget the run up to Christmas,” She added, her eyes still closed. The hairs on her neck were lifting slightly from the contact of Toby’s fingers in her hair. “Don’t talk to strangers, but go sit on that fat bloke with the white beard’s knee and tell him all your secrets,”
Toby chuckled; his girlfriend had the same sense of humour as him. He looked out the window again, his eyes flinching at the bright light of the bonfire. The flames hungrily burned in the cool night air, flicking the inky darkness with the orange ferocity that they carried.
“People are going to get hurt tonight,” He commented, watching two teenagers launch a bottle rocket from a piece of scaffolding tube outside. It soared upwards and exploded in a bright blue flash, which left a white spot in Toby’s vision. The spent tube landed in a children’s play park down the road, bouncing off of the springy rubber flooring. “And it’s probably not going to be one of the children…”
**
Approximately 50 miles away, Hyde Park was thumping with the sound of music, the loud explosions of fireworks and the pitter-patter of talking and laughing. Girls danced seductively along to the beat, wearing tiny tops that were in danger of ripping, and skirts that technically classified as belts. Guys followed them around with their jaws scraping the floor, and there seemed to be a desperate attempt to hit on the girls every few seconds.
A lot of important people were here; governors, the mayor and even the Prime Minister, although he’d left a few hours ago claiming that he had another party to head to. There were a few film and soap stars dotted about; signing autographs for screaming fans and posing for pictures while flashbulbs snapped them every few milliseconds.
The mayor of London sighed as he made his way through the crowds. Only a few older gentlemen had recognised him this evening, the rest were young and attractive and hadn’t a clue what this old man was doing here, dressed respectably in a dark suit with his large mayoral chain draped heavily around his neck. He got a glance from a young teen, who smiled at him and offered him a glow stick. Politely declining, he carried on his fight to escape the mass of teenage drunks and burst through the crowd to breath real air instead of the sweaty, muggy air he was breathing now. As he pushed the last of the teens to one side, a firework exploded close by. It was loud, and exploded in a red ‘star’ shape, the rocket landing a few hundred yards away. The mayor froze on the spot. His stomach had suddenly developed a searing, shooting pain and it was throbbing hotly in the cool air. He looked down, startled, to find blood oozing from a bullet wound. Everything went grey, his vision was fading and his legs were giving way. He tried to step forwards, but just collapsed to the floor. It was a few minutes before partygoers realised he wasn’t passed out from alcohol or drugs. The music stopped abruptly, the fireworks carried on popping in the distance, but the Mayor realised none of this. His heart had stopped beating and his organs had shut down. His lips and cheeks had tinged blue, and his eyes had glazed over. The Mayor of London had been assassinated
******
The newsreader had repeated the words 500 times already, but the time stood still at 9:46. “The mayor of London was killed last night –“ she began, as Toby switched off the TV.
“Under the cover of fireworks,” Toby breathed to himself, “Clever b**t**d,” He was dressed only in his pyjama bottoms, holding a cold bowl full of Cheerios that floated absentmindedly in the milky ocean that was his breakfast. He raised the sthingy from the bowl, taking with it a group of the little puffed wheat ‘O’s and took the sthingyful into his mouth. They were no longer crunchy, to the point where Toby could probably drink them without a problem. He walked across the carpet and into the kitchen, the fluffy fibres of the carpet replaced by the cold flatness of the lino. He placed the half eaten breakfast into the sink, and headed back towards the stairs, picking up his kitten Chester on the way. He purred and managed to lay with his paws up in the air, a pose so silly that Toby couldn’t help but giggle. “Silly cat,” He grinned, flinching as the small black kitten rolled back over and leapt from his grasp, digging its claws into Toby’s arm.
Toby’s bedroom door was always broken. It didn’t swoosh open like it should; it tore at the carpet, and ground out on the floor. He sighed, and forced the door open with his shoulder, making it creak and groan in protest. The momentum he carried made him rocket on to his bed, and he bounced against it with a creaky thud. Groaning to himself, he rolled off his bed and rooted through his underwear draw to find some that were clean. He settled on a set his parents got him from Dublin, which had “You toucan to me?” written on them, and a picture of a Guinness on the arse. Sliding them on, he turned over the thoughts in his head and sighed deeply.
“Gonna be a big day,” He admitted, snapping his belt on
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