Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-5239282-20140416200854

It's that time again. This one will be short and sweet. I got the beginning worked out, so I'll send that in to see how it's coming along.

The story is about a man who wakes up one day to find a burning bush in his house and a familiar voice inside his head (wink wink wink). I want the beginning to read like a black comedy, but in the middle, it'll take a turn for the macabre as the protagonist is forced to commit atrocity after atrocity in the name of God. The story is comprised solely of dialogue between him and Him and the protagonist's ramblings.

Here it goes. Hope you like:

“Hello!” “Hello?” “Hey.” “Yeah?” “Show some goddamn respect. You’re talking to God here, sonny.” “Wait, what the fuck?” “Now get the fuck up and make some bread and jam. We got some philanthropy to do.” In a cold sweat, I shot out of bed like Evil Kenevil out of his mum’s clit. Sure enough, I woke up to a burning fucking bush inside my home. Fuck my retinas, I’m blind. Thank God God cured me before my eyes could adjust to eternal darkness. The touch was kinda funky; warm and wet. Icky. Took a hot holy water shower immediately after. Of course I couldn’t masturbate like always, what with God’s eyes feeling me up my cavity. “Dude, you should totally get that checked,” He says as I use my compensatory-backscratcher to ease the itching of a nasty laceration on my hands and wrists. “Shut the fuck up,” I say, narrowly dodging a bolt of lightning that sears through my neighbor’s head. Haven’t I seen someone strung up on a telephone pole with a similar wound? Anyway, I was feeling kinda sore from the night before, so don’t fucking judge me for using a backscratcher of all things. You pussies. The piece of junk was given to me by my dying father. He said it was “for protection!” I just assumed it was a backscratcher ‘cause it looked like a stick. It was far more likely than a dildo, right? My father wouldn’t need that shit to get by his lonely nights. Would he? Anyway, the handle was awkward enough for a backscratcher, so I figured nobody would use a dildo with a horizontal beam that literally blocks the stick from going in any further. It would probably be painful having it pry your cheeks apart. Such wasted potential, right? I’m going on a wild tangent. Fuck. I suppose nobody would blame me, considering I’m tripping out, talking to God and shit. I still dunno if it’s an illusion or not. I mean, fantasy can only go on for so long, right? I hung my trusty backscratcher above my bed for protection and swiftly departed, eyes still on me. In me. I tell ya, having your heart read ain’t no joy. And neither is having the marrow separated from your bones, in my neighbor’s case. In all fairness, I left a few flowers on his doorstep in memoriam. I also pollinated his wife's flower for him. He led a noble life.

... As you can see, slow build-up. It'll kick off soon enough, but this is what I have. I really wanted to show an end to the ordinary in this one, as well as pseudo-commentary on our (typical) lives. Comments and critiques, maybe? 