Writing exercises REVEALED – Day 10
February 17th, 2010
Below is what I had written for the exercise “The worse it is, the better it gets” from Sandy’s zine, Marbles You are supposed to write the worst piece possible. Without the expectations of “good writing” you are free to write about things however you see them, and however badly you write them as well.
It smelled like bleach. The bleachiest bleach smell I have ever smelled in all my life. It was disgusting. It reminded me of the doctor’s office and the school nurse. Everything so sterile.
Bleach in the bathtub was used to clean up the blood. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. Something in him snapped and then I snapped and the rest of it was a blur.
I don’t know where I got the knife from. I don’t know how his body got tangled up in the shower curtain. He was pruned. Shriveled up. Hands, feet, everywhere. I had spent hours in the tub before, and I never looked like that. I had a habit of reading in the tub. I’ve only dropped a book twice.
I never paid the fine on my library card. It wasn’t worth it. I would buy books from now on. I’d be more careful with them because they were mine. I’d only have myself to blame if I fucked them up.
Seth fucked up when he hit me once. Maybe that was why there was blood in the bathtub. I told him, “Do that again and see what happens.” He had the decency to wait about a week before striking. I will give him that much credit.
I shoved his body in layers of trash bags. Seth was small enough; I was the bigger man. Oh yeah, definitely the bigger man, in all aspects and regards. Seth was probably the most slight, fragile-looking thing I had ever dated. I often felt like his protector. His queer knight in sparkling armor. I had come to his rescue a couple times in his life, but it was nothing he couldn’t have gotten out himself, eventually.
Still, he thanked me for it. A lot. I had to wash the sheets in the morning. Actually, Seth washed the sheets. He spared me the trip to the laundromat, the kind soul he was.
Too bad he hit like a girl.
Why was I not scared? Shouldn’t I be? Seth was dead, stuffed inside garbage bags and his blood was in my bathtub, now slowly moving down the drain with the bath water. In came the bleach. Out came the contents of my gag reflex.
Was I the one who really killed Seth last night?
I am enjoying your blog so very much. It is really cool to be a passenger on your journey. Thank you for letting me come along for the ride.
If that is an example of bad fiction then I can’t wait to see your best stuff! Looking forward to reading your short story.
The bad fiction turned out to be not-so-bad after all. It makes me happy.
this is pretty damn good!
Thanks. I think so too!
I’m glad you are enjoying The Willow Tree by Hubert Selby, Jr. I will need to put that on my list after I am done reading Hell’s Angels by Hunter S. Thompson.
Since you enjoy it so much, I would check out some of his other works like Last Exit to Brooklyn and Requiem for a Dream on Interlibrary Loan. Both contain difficult and disturbing content, but great reads—at least I know Brooklyn is, since I have read that one. I am still waiting to get Requiem from the library.
Good story, Nichole. I personally believe it was a suicide on Seth’s part. He was upset with his small stature. ;-)
Keep’em coming! I like it when you share.
As soon as I’m done with the books in my queue I will put in a request for Last Exit to Brooklyn.
I like sharing. Always.
Don’t shoot me, but….your worst? It was still awesome!