Writing Challenge
As I've spent most of the day so far fighting off a hangover, I'd like to be comforted by stories of fictional people having a harder time of it than me. So, this week's writing challenge; your character wakes up after a night of hard drinking. Give me a survey of the scene and have them come to some sort of horribly shocking realization.
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Pneumatic drills. Darren had always seen and heard them, everyday on his way to work, because for some reason, his neighbourhood was permanently under construction. Now, as he slowly opened his eyes, he felt as if the construction workers were drilling directly on his skull.
Looking around himself dazed, he could make out two figures as they came in and out of focus. Darren tried to sit up and was immediately reminded of the drilling in his head. Slowly his eyes got with the program, and he could make out two girls standing at the end of the bed. Both girls were in uniform and Darren tried to recall what kinky events might have taken place the previous night.
"How is he doing?", someone asked, drawing a curtain which Darren could not remember having around his bed. "Better doctor, blood pressure is back to normal and his vitals are stable". Darren managed to sit himself up against the wall, confused by what was going on. "Where am I?", he enquired, his voice quivering with trepidition. The heart monitor began beeping rapidly as his heart rate rocketed.
"Mr Huczynski, I'm afraid we have some bad news". Darren suddenly took notice of the drip to his arm and the tube up his nose. "You were in a drink-drive accident last night". Undettered and overwhelmed with panic, he flung aside his sheets and wanted to run like all hell was after him. "We had to amputate both your legs"...
Joan woke up in stages. Her mouth was fuzzy, her brain was furry - or was it the other way around?
Jone forced her eyes open and looked down in abject horror! OMG! Did vodka make her body decide to wear her pink Liz Claiborne skirt with her hot pink Jimmy Choos! She was in fashion hell!
**giggle, sorry, couldn't resist...**
Check out the best hangover cure list on the web that I posted a few days ago.
http://atozworldblog.blogspot.com/2005/09/hangover-cure-list.html
I'm way too hungover myself to even attempt such a task. :)
I woke up smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey. I should have been accustomed to it by now, but the rolling waves of nausea begged to differ. I went over the familar cracks in the ceiling, waiting for the moment the world decides to stop spinning. At least I woke up at home this time and not in a dumpster behind a chinese resteraunt. That reminds me, i need to send a thank you note to Mr. Chin for the hospitality. I made an effort to get out of bed, which turns out to be the easy part since i passed out on the floor last night.
Stumbling across the room, i curse the scattered liqueur bottles, mixed with the dirty laundry and empty food cartons, as they smash into my toes. I enter the shower in the bathroom and let the water cascade down my body. Even with all the running water i could still here the dull ringing in my ears... or is that the phone? Either way i didn't really care since the bile that was rising in my throat was taking presidence. I watched last nights attempts at drowning my sorrows swirl down the drain. Was that blood?
I step out of the shower and realize that I'm out of clean towels. I grab a dirty shirt, wipe myself off, and turn to examine myself in the mirror. I rub my coarse stubble and consider shaving, but change my mind when i find im out of fresh razors. Im not about to walk around all day with toilet paper stuck to my face. Besides, im out of toilet paper too.
I walk out of the bathroom and notice that i have some messages on my answering machine. I guess the ringing i heard wasn't all in my head after all. I hit play as i look for what could pass as clean clothes. The first message was from my landlady. She screams at me in chinese and broken english. I make out the words "rent", "late", "dead", and "alley," which gave me an idea as to what she wanted. The next one was from my ex-wife, asking for more money. I ignore the witch as i pick up my trenchcoat and hat from the floor. Apparently i had used them as a pillow the night before. The next message was from my contact at the precinct.
"Sam. This is Trask. I got a job for you. Get your ass down here."
Well i guess my rent might get paid this month after all. That is, unless my bookie gets to me first.
I grab my shoulder holster and check to see if my revolver is loaded. I put on my gear, throw on my coat and hat, and get ready to go see Trask. I realize im parched and in need of a drink before i go. I search the fridge, rummage around the floor, and I open the cabinet above the kitchen sink. A cold chill runs down my spine as the horrible, shocking realization hits me in the face like a dead fish. Dammit Sam... your out of whiskey.
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