Ideas come and go as a writer. Some spark a novel, novella, or short story, and still others end up sitting in a file waiting for their turn to grab our attention. Not all of them will make it out of that folder. Here are a couple snippets still hoping for their day in the spotlight.
Jo: This is an idea that hit me in 2012. It is the first time it’s been pulled out and dusted off. I doubt it will ever be finished as it was just something that popped into my head while writing Wrong.
Hands wrapped tightly around the railing, tighter and tighter, the bitter rushing wind not enough to block out the thoughts that kept assaulting him, over and over. Jaded, dead eyes, unseeing, clouded by tears that wouldn't flow. He was numb, empty, nameless.
Names didn’t matter. He rarely used his real one, especially on the streets. His had changed as often as his pants had dropped. Blond, short stature and lean pubescent form had made him very popular among the men who sought out his talents. He’d lost track of just how many times his buckle had hit the concrete, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d been called by his birth name. Had he been fifteen, twelve, younger, did it matter?
Innocence and identity sold for a few notes a scrap of bread. Wandering aimlessly through darkened alleyways, letting others prod him into whatever direction or position they chose. How had he come to this? It was a question no longer worth exploring. To retrace the footsteps of his life was like trying to peer through deep murky waters to find the happiness below. An impossibility. There was none. He was aware of the violent whirlwind that threatened to destroy the entire facade of a life no longer worth living. Again he asked himself, did it matter?
He was nobody.
And who was there to turn to? Who was left that cared, not about how tight and pliable his body was, but what his name was? Had there ever been anyone? No. Only those who had sucked every shred of happiness, every dream of love or pleasure from his body, siphoning it like fuel to sustain their own.
He was numb, empty, and nameless as he sunk to the bottom of the murky water.
He said his name was Travis, but rarely did these kids use their real names, especially out on the streets. These execrable creatures that prowled the dark alleys for the thrill or out of destitution changed their names as often as they dropped their pants.
Sam: Dude. That was INTENSE. Mine is on the darker spectrum too, but in a completely different way. I’ve had this idea sitting in my unfinished works in progress for about three years now. It’s called Skulls--a motorcycle club story. Fair warning, there’s rough (ie offensive) language in the snippet below!
Matty Grieves wasn’t supposed to want Ryker Collins the way he did.
He’d watched Ryker go from a silent, sullen teenager with a perpetual cigarette hanging out of his mouth, to a silent, brooding man who partnered that fag with a perpetually half-empty bottle of beer. But that cancer stick was the only fag Ryker would ever put to his lips. Even with as sexually voracious as all of the members of the Smoking Skulls Motorcycle Club were, Matty would never end up in any of their beds, let alone Ryker’s.
Skulls didn’t do queers.
Matty knew that for a fact because he was currently frozen to the spot—laid out under a bike on the floor of the shop, watching Ryker himself saunter away. Ryker’s warning still echoing in his ears…
Be careful how you look at me, Grieves. Skulls don’t do queers.
Couldn’t get a more definitive fuck off than that.
But it wasn’t as if Matty had been asking, or hell, even hinting. He knew better. Ryker may have had the face of a savior, but his beauty masked his conspicuous lack of morality. He was temptation on a level that made Matty wonder if Garrison Collins had sold his soul for the privilege of having so stunning, and yet callous, of a child.
Matty had no question who he owed his loyalty to. He worked for Ryker’s dad, Garrison. He’d been the lead mechanic for Badman Bikes—the legitimate cover operation for the highly illegal Skulls backroom dealings—for the last five years. So he knew where it was safe to play and where it wasn’t. And Ryker was definitely not safe for work.
That didn’t keep Matty from wanting him.
It didn’t matter how attracted Matty was to Ryker, though, he never would’ve made a move. Never let the man know exactly what he fantasized about. Matty’s gaze never wandered, or landed, or got anywhere near Ryker when he was in the room. Matty valued his trachea being located under his skin too much. So how had Ryker known?
Matty realized too late that he should’ve gotten pissed when Ryker tossed that shit at him. He should’ve shot to his feet and gone after Ryker for daring to make an accusation like that. But there wasn’t anyone else in the garage when Ryker threw that out at him, and Matty had to wonder….
If Skulls didn’t do queers then why was Ryker palming his cock as he walked away?
Jo: All I have to say on this is WRITE BITCH WRITE!! You have to finish that story because… DAMN!!
Alright guys, how many agree with me and think Sam should finish that story? *Raises hand*
Meet Sam McAuley
Sam sleeps little, reads a lot. Happiest in a foreign country. Twitchy when not mentally in motion. Send her a picture and a song and she's bound to write a story about it. And yes, that's an invitation.
Meet Jo Peterson
SJD Peterson, better known as Jo, hails from Michigan. Not the best place to live for someone who hates the cold and snow. When not reading or writing, Jo can be found close to the heater checking out NHL stats and watching the Red Wings kick a little butt. Can't cook, misses the clothes hamper nine out of ten tries, but is handy with power tools.
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