So we’ve hit a wall, and it’s all gone to hell in a hand cart. Well, you can read and enjoy your pieces from last month’s Hitting a Wall challenge and vote – shortly – at the voting page.
This month’s challenge? Oh, you’re gonna hate it. I did.
Let’s learn about ourselves, writers. I want you to TAKE THE STYLE OF WRITING YOU HATE AND WRITE A PIECE IN THAT STYLE.
I couldn’t think for a while, then realised I hate pretentious writing, but I already do that, so went for political and stereotypical writing. I get the need for the occasional stereotype, but gods kill me if I have to read pieces where every man is in power because he’s a man and they do that and women belong in a kitchen. THAT’S BORING AND RUINING MY ESCAPISM FROM THE CURRENT REALITY WHERE PEOPLE ACTIVELY BELIEVE THIS AND TORTURE ME WITH IT ALREADY.
Anyway, go write. I need a lie down. This sucked.
Archer
Item 13-1-25
Councilman Quentin Mason’s eyes rolled back and his collar rubbed against his recently shaved neck; irritation seemed to be the theme of the day. The morning had been draining, a full two hours of back to back inane cases put forth by the lower classes. He was an older man with fading white whisps that constituted for hair, liver spots on his face, and a verge of flesh that wrinkled worse than his shirt between his chin and his collar line.
How droll, he thought to himself as he looked away from the other council representatives to the window at the edge of the courtroom. The sun was shining and he would have loved nothing more than to sack off the afternoon for a drive out of the city in his convertible and see his secretary in that summer dress again.
“Mr Mason,” the voice called, pulling him back to the present situation.
For Christ’s sake, must I deal with another petulant busy body? Her tits seem less perky than my Doberman. He thought to himself as he turned back to Alison Geralt; the head of the Neighbourhood Watch in her area who seemed to own more sickly coloured pant suits than common sense according to Mason.
“Yes, Miss Geralt…”
“It’s Ms, if you wouldn’t mind.” She interrupted curtly. He sighed and ground his teeth a little further into the next dentist’s holiday he’d be paying for.
“Ms Geralt, apologies, I thought we had concluded your last item of the day?” The strain of politeness in his voice seemed to be waning more and more as the heat and the boredom loomed upon him.
“No, Councilman, I have one last item on my agenda.” The woman’s shrill and lisped voice cut through him like a knife.
Agenda? Who the bloody hell do you even think you are? He thought to himself, the rising resentment boiling in him, causing him to sort his collar once more. This is the local council, you daft bint, not the god damned Court of King Solomon.
A strained attempt at a smile crossed his face as he adjusted his perch in his seat. “But of course, Ms Geralt. What would this item be? Curfew on the youth passing through the parks at lunch time?”
The two or three other councilmen, similar in age and appearance to Mason, stifled chuckles and continued to stare through morose eyes at the young lady in front of them.
“No, Sir, it is a far more serious matter than your ribbing. The district of Hecton-on-Sea would like to file it’s independence from the City and, indeed, the country.”
The stifling stopped and the four men sat on the board roared with laughter for a few minutes or so. Alison stood, stern and resolute. As the laughter subsided, Mason – wiping tears from his eyes – saw that she was deadly serious.
“Young lady, this country is on the verge of taking back it’s own independence and, indeed, it’s dignity. Why would the local district of Hecton-on-Sea not want to join the rest of the country in such a momentous occasion?”
The other councilmen jeered with approval.
“You see, Councilmen, we don’t agree wholeheartedly with the higher powers that there would be much dignity regained in such an action. As a matter of fact, as a district of the country where the average household income is dwarfed by the population of the area, we’d very much note that our dignity would be struggling to keep up with those more well off than ourselves.”
The laughing slowly started to build again but was quickly abaited. Mason leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of his face. This was a stong move, he thought to himself, she can see your authority and overall superiority in this stance.
“Now now, my dear. No need to get so worked up. We all know that you ‘remainers’,” he did the air quotations then quickly returned to steepled dominion, “would like nothing more for the righteous masses to stop saying such hurtful things and go back to our Guardians and whinging about the old days, but here’s the thing! It’s better this way!”
Another round of jeered acknowledgement, and another round of her piercing stare.
“Better for whom, councilman?”
For Christ Almighty, he strained in his head.
“For your generation and those to come, my dear. When you get to hand your piny down to your daughter, you’ll be able to tell her that the country has returned to an Empire and we are ruling once more.”
“Or that some old men who couldn’t bare the thought of dying without leaving the next generation in tatters wanted one last ride?”
The clucking of the councilmen irritated Mason further.
“Young lady, we do whatever is best for our city, which therefore is best for the country. You honestly think that I would allow the fringe minority of Hecton-on-Sea to affect the progress of the rest of that district?”
A slam as the file in her hand hit the desk in front of her.
“Here are the signatures of 90% of the public in that district agreeing with the request.”
“You can’t seriously be asking for such a thing? We’ve given you so much!” His shock giving him away.
“Like what, councilman?” Her eyes like flaming arrow heads.
“The parks…”
“Overrun with rodents and drug addicts.”
“The leisure Centre…”
“A cesspool and known paedophile haunt.”
He flustered once more, “You’ve been given the right to air your opinion, you left wing tyrant, what else do you want?! What else can we give you that could possibly wave a hand to? We’re lead by democracy!”
She straightened herself and cleared her throat, knowing full well that her requests upset the Conservative stronghold that was the Council of her area was like a grain of sound in a clam’s mouth. She leaned low and close to the microphone, recording the meeting and breathed…
“For The Many, not The Few.”
I hated writing this. Have fun.
Novel Dreamers 