Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25159182-20140709184041

Started reading this site a few days ago, and I've been completely absorbed. I've never written anything in my life, but I tend to get ideas from time to time, so this first attempt of mine is very very short. I guess what I'm asking for now is not so much whether or not this story is especially good or not, but, more if the premise, the idea, is anything worthwhile, but of course any and all feedback is highly appreciated!

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 ”James had been late again. Again! Third time this week. He was cruising between people on the sidewalk, careful not to bump into anyone. The boss’s words clung to his mind, he couldn’t miss another breakfast meeting, didn’t have enough savings for another long job hunt. Sudden bump, left thigh, source? A briefcase. Just another faceless businessman. James swore under his brrrrrr”

 Lloyd clutched the side of his head; the migraines had been more frequent lately. “Like a fucking ice pick to the brain!” was his usual response when people asked; Lloyd didn’t like talking about himself, and had discovered that sudden, uncharacteristic cussing tend to steer the conversation in a different direction. As the pain subsided, Lloyd looked up at the ruined paragraph, paper still stuck in the typewriter. Just as well, he thought to himself, it didn’t seem like this whole thing would make much of a storyteller out of Lloyd either way. He noticed the plate was still hot beside him, he took another bite, though it didn’t taste much better than the last one; quite similar to halloumi cheese he noted with a dry chuckle.

 As Lloyd stood up, he got a puzzled look on his face. He couldn’t quite recall where the bathroom was in this giant castle of a house. He grabbed his toolbox and retraced his steps, back out from the study, through a hallway filled with garish art, paintings and sculptures that Lloyd didn’t quite understand, nor took any interest in. "How could anyone have lived in this place?" he wondered, face contorted into a mask of disgust as his eyes fell upon a particularly grizzly piece, full of melting watches.

 Pacing through the living room, he felt it, the smell hit his well trained nose, that familiar odour, and sure enough the bathroom was just around the corner. As he peered into the bathtub, he felt a pang of disappointment that tonight’s work had been so unfruitful; he’d thought that writing was a skill easily transferred. He put his tools down on the bathroom floor, grabbed the hacksaw, and went to work on the rest of the author’s body.  