It’s been a while since I’ve actually put any creative writing up…so here’s a little something for ya. It’s something I wrote during my creative writing module at uni, which I did this year just gone. It doesn’t have a name…comments?
“I planned to go there to die”, said Jorge. “Like an old elephant. Or some other wretched animal crawling into it’s last hole. But instead, I won £100,000”.
Jorge was in his twilight years. Life had been ok. He had achieved almost everything he had wanted to. But there had recently been a problem. He loved Rosemary. Or Rose, to her friends. When he saw her, he smelt victory, he smelt lilies, he saw stars. It was ridiculous. He wanted nothing more than to take her hand and kiss it forever. He wanted to make her his own. He tried to ignore it. A man of his age should have unshackled himself from his…how to put it…desires, long ago – locked them in a box, padlocked it and forgotten about it. But Rose, she had dug them up, with delicate hands.
She worked at the butchers. Such an inappropriate place. It made Jorge itch every time he thought about it. He tried to talk to her. He tried to suggest that she leave. He tried to wrench open her mind; to get her to talk about something other than rib-eyes and flanks. She would simply fold her dense hair red hair over one shoulder, open her mouth, and spout meat.
There was only so much Jorge could take. The overpowering, metallic stench of blood made him do it. Temporary madness. He leaned over the mass of twisted flesh and veins in between them, touched her arm, and asked her for a coffee. She smiled politely, like one would at their grandad. He got nothing. Crushed, Jorge formulated a plan – a plan to die. He would do it in style. Travel to Vegas, and drink himself to death. Or as close to death as his savings would allow.
A short while later, he found himself in a stuffy, sticky-floored casino, painfully stooping to pick up coins which were thundering out of a slot machine. The eyes and ears of practiced gamblers stood to attention, interest piqued. There was a man, a silly old man, who had won a lot of money. But no-one could wrest the day’s earnings from him. No amount of cajoling or force could separate Jorge from what he believed would be his last source of happiness.
He returned home. It hadn’t take him long to decide what to do with it. He went into the butchers, and begged her for one last dinner.
She agreed. And he found himself in the latest-opening cafe in town, looking out of the window at a starless, indigo sky, sitting opposite the most beautiful woman he would never sleep with. Would a delicate flower allow itself to be picked by an old hand? Perhaps, but it would surely wither soon after. Jorge shuddered. “I love you. I planned to kill myself because I couldn’t live without you”.
Rose smiled. It was still that same tight-lipped, polite smile. She hit a wall when it came to emotions. She could only think in cold-cuts. The night wore on. More money was spent on expensive food and wine, but most of it was consumed by Jorge. Rose simply pushed the food about, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Jorge’s heart sank. If the money wouldn’t do it, nothing would. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a wad of cash, which he had exchanged his coins and chips for. He slid it across the table. Rose slid it back. She raised her eyebrows, anticipating an explanation.
Aaaand that’s all I’ve got for now!