Monday, April 19, 2010

Pristine Green Nylon Rope

I'm still really battling writer's block so have decided once again to participate in Tenth Daughter of Memory a cute little vehicle for writers hacks and in my case, those who have nothing to post! This week we're being 'Hounded':

He bought a length of pristine, green, nylon rope.

He hadn’t tied this type of knot before. He hadn’t tied any complex knots beyond securing the tarp over the back of the ute. It took a couple of goes before it looked just right and slipped well tight.


The pristine green nylon rope was still stiff with lack of use but it would be used today. Oh shit yeah! He’d get right on up ‘er for her insolence. He’d ‘pay her out good and proper’ for her constant hounding and complaining. He’d teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. This would hit it’s mark!


Clearly he’d missed his mark when he hit her cheekbone with his knuckle-dusting Irish mitts. But this little trick, this little 'beaudy', tucked beneath his flannelette clad arm, would definitely connect. He’d show her and her apron-clinging brats who has the upper hand. His grip tightened, he let out a blow and gritted his teeth.


He was a working man, a simple man. Not the sharpest tool in the shed but he’d provided well. He’d kept them clothed and fed and a roof over their heads. He’d given her a few bucks each week. He’d not been too demanding other than wanting to watch the Crows play on Sundays and have control over the remote. If push came to shove, he could swipe the Victor over the front lawn. Shit, he even let her have the window side of the bed the stupid cow, because she liked the way the light played on the wall in the early mornings. Sentimental bitch, he’d wipe that look right off her face and in a heartbeat, now that he has his pristine green nylon rope.


She hated the company he kept but a man needs his mates and a coldie after a hard day’s yakka! The local drew him in more often than it should. What could be more Aussie than a beer with your mates? The barmaid wasn’t half easy on the eye to boot!


He liked the barmaid. He'd daydream and gaze into the amber draught and drift off, unaware of surrounding conversations about big donks and shithouse foremen. “If only the ‘little woman’ showed a bit of tit and arse.” He’d bet anyone who could pull a beer as well as her would be good in bed. Oh yeah, she’d be a wriggler, a screamer. He sipped away at the froth of his schooner imagining what he’d do to a pretty thing like her, or better still what that pink and pouty perfect mouth could to for him . . how that tongue would lash and curl, how those polished nails would feel gliding along his hersuit spine . . Someone yells “Your shout arsehole!” and his fantasy pops before he does.


All he’s left with is her, the cow, the ball and chain, the trouble and strife and the memory of her underneath him like a dead fish waiting for the filleting knife while he satiated his needs and grunted his relief. Yeh, that sheila was crap between the sheets.

It was all her fault they weren’t together. The bitch had done the dirty. She'd picked up sticks and left him. Scarpered with that trumped up tosser without so much as a note . . . he'd give her a fuckin' note!


He reached upward and pulled tight, the pristine green nylon rope threaded easily through the exposed aluminium rafters. His grip softened slightly as the hint of a tear welled momentarily teetering on the brink of his bloodshot eyes but not quite taking the plunge down his cheek. He took in a deep and raspy breath, collected himself and reminded himself of his ghastly purpose . . . he slipped the makeshift noose around his neck and kicked the stool from beneath.


The letter fell from his unclenched, swollen, fingers and floated feathery to the oil-stained garage floor.


It would be over a week before his son found it, and its vitriolic contents. Its accusatory verbage blaming his mother and his sister and him for all the woes that caused their father grief. It spat the venom of a cut snake and pointed the bone at them all.


They’d never flaunt their happiness in his embittered face again. Yeh, that skank would pay!


He'd shown her a thing or two. . . he and his tight pristine green nylon rope.


32 comments:

Yodood said...

You should have nothing better to do more often, like from now on. This is one of the most powerful pieces it has ever been my experience to be blown away by — capturing perfectly the "too-good-for-the-world" side of the suicide coin, the other being "not good enough for the world"

i beati said...

wow

nick said...

A gripping story. It strikes me that masculinity had a lot to do with his dissatisfaction - his hatred of women, his preference for male buddies and beer. Not surprising that he felt screwed up.

Kate Hanley said...

I. was. riveted. Great writing. I don't think you have writer's block anymore.

Roy said...

Wow! is right!

laughingwolf said...

superbly done, baino!

Janice said...

There are so many compelling images in this piece...

K8 the Gr8 said...

Gosh, reminds me of a bloke I knew once, henpecked and bet down, just upped and walked himself into the ocean one day. This could be his mind you're writing about, very cleverly done!

Brian Miller said...

feck baino...and at the end of that rope, erhaps the faily was better off...shivers.

AngelMay said...

Nicely done, Baino! Very enjoyable - if one likes to watch a hanging. ;o)

My biggest problem is understanding Australian. "Irish mitts?" Hard day's "yakka"? "Pointed the bone"?

Ah well... I got the general gist of it all. You should write more often.

Grannymar said...

When are you starting the novel?

Pam said...

He sounds as screwed up as the dairy farmer Neil Heyward who hung himself here in South Australia last year while in custody- on trial for killing his wife near Mount Gambier.Charming types, not happy when "the little woman" doesn't measure up - you've captured the essence of this type of person so well Baino.Impressive writing.

kj said...

hells....

hells...my god, you can write.

this is top notch. i would expect this from a seasoned writer.

you can and should submit this and your other dry spell to appropriate publications and contests.

i'm serious, hells. it took me three years to be able to say i am a writer. i hope it doesn't take you as long.


suspense. surprise. show don't tell. economy of words. you have it all.

get moving on this, please.

love
kj

otin said...

Baino, That was pleasantly disturbing! I thought he was going to strangle the woman with the rope!

She Writes said...

This is you with Writer's Block?! Wow, I can't imagine when you're feeling on what you can do!

I have no concept of how to write in a male voice, but it looks to me as if you have nailed it here.

Nicely done!

Harnett-Hargrove said...

I don't SEE any block! -J

Baino said...

Cheers thanks folks. High praise coming from some of you authory types.

Some time ago an old uni pal of mine killed himself and left a very vitriolic letter to his estranged wife and children. He wasn't like this character and the contents of the letter were never made known to me other than he did blame them for his unhappiness but it gave me the springboard to write this little piece.

By writer's block I mean I haven't got anything personal or humerous to post lately and this is indeed a personal blog. I just sit in front of the Mac wondering what to write. This one's been on the backburner for a while but I liked the Aussie flavour. I might do a translation tonight to clarify some of the colloquialisms! Could be fun.

Kath Lockett said...

Wow. You've hit that male anger right on the head. It has rather uncomfortable references to the modern-day efforts of some fathers who kill their children and then themselves....

Kate said...

Brilliant!!!!
This shows a definite lack of writers block as do your Skype conversations!!!!!

River said...

Umm, I find this a little disturbing, the level of hate in this person's mind towards his family...so much that he sees suicide as the only answer...

JeffScape said...

Disturbing story...

The characterization here is outstanding. Nice to see my badgering has a residual quality. Hehehe.

Brethred said...

I really liked that style of writing. The pace and langauge were engaging. You have it. Whatever it is that writers have that bespell people - you got it.
I will be lining up to get my copy of your first novel signed!!!

Titanium said...

Nothing blocked about this writing! Jaysus, you've bloody well outdone yerself, mate.

blackwatertown said...

Good story. And the hard yakka comes across clearly to me - even though I hadn't heard it before.
As Yodood said, if this is you with writers block...

Leslie said...

cutting and powerful

thanks for writing it.

get a chance visit me at moondustwriter.com

Dot-Com said...

I think your writer's block is over. Quite officially. This was fab writing :)

unstranger said...

Writers blok? Naw.
Baino that was just a wow! Ten out of ten.
And, an aside, I learn Ozzyisms every time I read your posts. A coldie, a yakka, - I love it.

Krys said...

I completely thought he was going to go for his wife. Nice twist!

I wish my writers block looked like this.

Empath said...

Wow...I really liked the turn at the end. I thought he was going to be using that rope on his wife. Great writing! You wrote well from the voice of someone obsessed with something.

Tom said...

real piece of work, that arse--waste of a good rope--

not sure how i missed this one--but i was a little sidetracked for a few days-- good writing, gritty, nasty stuff!

JeffScape said...

Congrats on the win with this one!

moondustwriter said...

Congrats on the win!!!
It was well done!!!!

looking forward to the next prompt