Scud1373

One practice I got into early in my life as an amateur writer, was trying to never throw away an aimless piece of writing. I scribble down the little single lines that pop into my head and then transfer them into a number of spare small notebooks that litter my apartment. The below is a handful of my scribblings that were found in the back of a drawer. Some were fully intended to be incorporated in a larger horror work about a troubled man named Martin Sullivan, and some were just mental hiccups. They are all several years old at this point.

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The sun had sunk low enough that's faint orange glow was only a faint mirror opposite the cherry of Martin's cigarette.

The laptop screen jutted up like a Stonehenge monolith on the Salisbury plain of the desktop. Empty noodle cups appeared to be Romans, fighting for space against overflowing Druidic ashtrays and books tortured as offerings.

We'll start with whispering by the fire. There will be drinks at the bar. You'll be screaming in the bedroom - I'll end up sleeping on the floor.

It's a fuck-off evening, but then again it may be a fine night to be a pirate.

I was drunk the night I met you and I wish that I was still.

Don't come hunting me after you die.

There are stories once can write in a multitude of colors. There are also stories you can only write in the blackest of inks. Stories that have to call up that blood in the soil and mix it with your own.

He had the kind of long earned tan that ended where his shirt sleeves began.

He stomped out each butt after dropping them. It was as if he hated the weakness the cigarettes showed in him. If he just stomped hard enough, he could bury the evidence of frailty.

A few days out of boots.

Some men swear over Bibles and others swear over flasks.

"Life has been a series of bad waitresses."

He was a man named "C*ck" and he was addicted to seeing the future.
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THIS UNIT WILL SELF-DESTRUCT UPON TERMINATION OF TARGET