TITLE : DREAMCATCHER - People Use To Say I Looked Like Lawrence Welk
AUTHOR : Ananova Crowe
DISCLAIMER: Inspired by the book, captivated by the movie. I take no credit for this, it is all Stephan King, from the characters to the plot to the sayings to the facts, it's all King's. This is for those who don't listen to conformity and have your opinion about what you like. This was inspired by a line from Stephan King's book and taken from his taste to become hopefully a feast you will enjoy.
RATING : R for descriptive but not disgusting sex and language
~
The phone rang.
"H..." He breathed in relief, leaning over the desk to retrieve the phone and put it to his left ear. He remembered seeing Pete's, burned and torn, and he switched the phone to his other ear.
"How you holding up, Jonesy?" Henry Duvlin spoke quietly. He sat in his dark office, a box of all his things pulled from his drawers and dropped in. Although his plaque still stayed and his plush couch and leather armchair, resting in the corner. His feet were up on his desk, ankles crossed, while he carelessly chewed on a pencil, enjoying the sensation, like a puppy appeasing its itching gums. He liked the soft crackling sound and the way his tongue skimmed over the roughness of where he had chewed. His cheeks stretched as bit into it with his back teeth, the large flat ones, liking the sound.
"SSDD." Gary Jones sat in his own darkened office as well, but this one still organized, his vocation not crammed in a box. He too sat with his feet up on his desk, his free hand shifting the mouse across the smooth mousepad, moving cards, playing Solitaire. Black seven on a red eight, not red eight. No bounce, no play.
It was well after working hours and both knew it, but it mattered little to either of them. "Eyther" Jonesy remembered Pete always saying "Eyther". He clicked the pile, revealing the ace of spades and he drug it to a blank box.
"You want a beer?" Henry breathed in slowly, running his finger over his mangled pencil, watching the little flecks of orange wood fall like hard dandruff to his desk top, before he set the pencil down. He pushed the shavings into a pile, making it nice and neat, before shoving it off the edge of the desk.
"I think I'm gonna go home." Jonesy sighed as his Solitaire game revealed no other moves to him. He pressed F2, hit YES and started another game. "I've got this headache, I think I'll stop by the store..." He was thinking out loud, not that he really had to.
"You gonna walk there?" There was tension in Henry's voice, a kind of plea that he wouldn't, that he'd catch a cab, to walk three blocks. Avoid walking, especially on his hip.
"I'm up to it..." He ignored Henry's hesitance, yet looked down to his hip, his mind feeling the sheet of metal wrapping it bend as he took down his legs.
"Jonesy, are you sur-" suddenly, there was a fading flick and all the lights went out, the computer screen winked out and the room fell dark and silent. Through the new silence came the sound of the rain against the window, bleating its entrance warrant like a thousand fisted police officer.
Sighing, Jonesy set down the phone and gripped his armrests, pushing himself up with a wicked breath. Straightening out his leg to take pressure off his hip, he hobbled around the edge of the desk, crashing hard into it.
"Fuck me Freddy!" Pete's favorite flew from his mouth unbidden. Jonesy spun, lifting his leg as he danced away from the desk, gripping his throbbing hip with both hands, before coming to stop with his back against his bookshelves. "Ow!"
Gritting his teeth as the pain passed, his agony soon fell to anger as he sighed heavily again. Fucking hip. The crack in his skull had healed, his two broken ribs had mended, but his damned hip, shattered like a China plate, was now a mixture of metal and Teflon. A byproduct of the hospital, thank you very much, and no longer his own anymore.
It had happened in March of 2001, St. Patrick's Day. He with a green tie, no red for luck. But luck was colorblind and marked his ass for death. The man who'd hit him was apparently in the early stages of Alzheimer's and shouldn't have been driving anyway - according to the courts.
Jonesy didn't remember the hit, just Duddits, in his Underoos, shit mustache, bloody nose, beckoning him forward. Scooby Doo, we've got work to do. He remembered lying there, watching feet, a pair of ratty white sneakers, his body twisted over on the road. All the while the fuckaroo who'd hit him questioned his condolences.
"I only looked away for a minute. People use to say I look like Lawrence Welk."
Jonesy fucking hated Lawrence Welk.
AUTHOR : Ananova Crowe
DISCLAIMER: Inspired by the book, captivated by the movie. I take no credit for this, it is all Stephan King, from the characters to the plot to the sayings to the facts, it's all King's. This is for those who don't listen to conformity and have your opinion about what you like. This was inspired by a line from Stephan King's book and taken from his taste to become hopefully a feast you will enjoy.
RATING : R for descriptive but not disgusting sex and language
~
The phone rang.
"H..." He breathed in relief, leaning over the desk to retrieve the phone and put it to his left ear. He remembered seeing Pete's, burned and torn, and he switched the phone to his other ear.
"How you holding up, Jonesy?" Henry Duvlin spoke quietly. He sat in his dark office, a box of all his things pulled from his drawers and dropped in. Although his plaque still stayed and his plush couch and leather armchair, resting in the corner. His feet were up on his desk, ankles crossed, while he carelessly chewed on a pencil, enjoying the sensation, like a puppy appeasing its itching gums. He liked the soft crackling sound and the way his tongue skimmed over the roughness of where he had chewed. His cheeks stretched as bit into it with his back teeth, the large flat ones, liking the sound.
"SSDD." Gary Jones sat in his own darkened office as well, but this one still organized, his vocation not crammed in a box. He too sat with his feet up on his desk, his free hand shifting the mouse across the smooth mousepad, moving cards, playing Solitaire. Black seven on a red eight, not red eight. No bounce, no play.
It was well after working hours and both knew it, but it mattered little to either of them. "Eyther" Jonesy remembered Pete always saying "Eyther". He clicked the pile, revealing the ace of spades and he drug it to a blank box.
"You want a beer?" Henry breathed in slowly, running his finger over his mangled pencil, watching the little flecks of orange wood fall like hard dandruff to his desk top, before he set the pencil down. He pushed the shavings into a pile, making it nice and neat, before shoving it off the edge of the desk.
"I think I'm gonna go home." Jonesy sighed as his Solitaire game revealed no other moves to him. He pressed F2, hit YES and started another game. "I've got this headache, I think I'll stop by the store..." He was thinking out loud, not that he really had to.
"You gonna walk there?" There was tension in Henry's voice, a kind of plea that he wouldn't, that he'd catch a cab, to walk three blocks. Avoid walking, especially on his hip.
"I'm up to it..." He ignored Henry's hesitance, yet looked down to his hip, his mind feeling the sheet of metal wrapping it bend as he took down his legs.
"Jonesy, are you sur-" suddenly, there was a fading flick and all the lights went out, the computer screen winked out and the room fell dark and silent. Through the new silence came the sound of the rain against the window, bleating its entrance warrant like a thousand fisted police officer.
Sighing, Jonesy set down the phone and gripped his armrests, pushing himself up with a wicked breath. Straightening out his leg to take pressure off his hip, he hobbled around the edge of the desk, crashing hard into it.
"Fuck me Freddy!" Pete's favorite flew from his mouth unbidden. Jonesy spun, lifting his leg as he danced away from the desk, gripping his throbbing hip with both hands, before coming to stop with his back against his bookshelves. "Ow!"
Gritting his teeth as the pain passed, his agony soon fell to anger as he sighed heavily again. Fucking hip. The crack in his skull had healed, his two broken ribs had mended, but his damned hip, shattered like a China plate, was now a mixture of metal and Teflon. A byproduct of the hospital, thank you very much, and no longer his own anymore.
It had happened in March of 2001, St. Patrick's Day. He with a green tie, no red for luck. But luck was colorblind and marked his ass for death. The man who'd hit him was apparently in the early stages of Alzheimer's and shouldn't have been driving anyway - according to the courts.
Jonesy didn't remember the hit, just Duddits, in his Underoos, shit mustache, bloody nose, beckoning him forward. Scooby Doo, we've got work to do. He remembered lying there, watching feet, a pair of ratty white sneakers, his body twisted over on the road. All the while the fuckaroo who'd hit him questioned his condolences.
"I only looked away for a minute. People use to say I look like Lawrence Welk."
Jonesy fucking hated Lawrence Welk.