Post by eswtg on Jul 7, 2008 9:59:04 GMT -5
I couldnt be arsed to wait till the story competition... so heres one of mine
Political Viewpoint
“Jesus, would you look at them?” muttered Mr Philips to himself.
He stood alone in his second floor office gazing down on to the high street below. His white shirt, though slightly creased from a day’s wear still remained neatly tucked into his black suit trousers and the knot of his dark blue tie still met his collar though the working day was near its close.
The street below was like any other provincial high street found in the satellite towns up and down the country.
A group of youths stood huddled together on the opposite side of street trying to avoid the drizzle as it darkened the concrete buildings and traced its path between the broken slabs towards the gutter.
The sight sickened Mr Philips.
He’d worked hard to get where he was and those lazy yobs outside, huddled like prisoners of war, made a mockery of his efforts. He’d earned his position through hard work and discipline and those “chavs” ,“emo’s” or whatever the hell they’re called loitered in the streets and could rely on everybody else, their parents, the government and hard working tax payers to help them out. No discipline, no respect that was the problem. Their anti-social behaviour, drug taking and teenage pregnancy would no doubt be rewarded by the nanny state with extra benefits or council flats.
He could feel the bile rising as his clenched knuckles whitened.
“We’re just about to lock up Mr Philips” said a voice behind him.
The middle manager turned and faced the young man who had entered his office.
“I know it’s the end of the day but have some self respect man” ordered Mr Philips gesturing towards the younger man and his untucked shirt.
“You’re as bad as those lazy thugs out there”
“There only kids sir” said the office journey as he hastily pushed the hem of his shirt below his belt.
“That’s no excuse!” snapped Phillips as he skimmed a creased and well thumbed newspaper across the desk.
“It’d be little comfort when it’s your wife or mother they’ve kicked to death in the streets”
Beneath the tabloids Red banner were the words “Blood in the streets: Youth violence up 12%”
The junior, knowing his superior’s reputation and short temper, shrugged apologetically and swiftly backed out of the room.
Mr Phillips tutted to himself.
“Bleeding heart bloody liberal” he thought.
The driveways damp stones crunched as the black BMW pulled up outside Mr Phillips home alongside the neat, landscape front lawn. He strode towards the door of his detached home pleased the rain had stopped so his crisp suit jacket could remain dry.
Inside, he placed his briefcase down at the foot of the stairs, straightened up and began to take his jacket off.
He paused, one arm still remaining in the jacket.
He stood for a few moments staring at the cream painted wooden door, on the left, just a few feet further down the hallway. The door was ajar. It was never normally open.
He instinctively thought of his wife, but she was away visiting her mother with the kids and he certainly wouldn’t leave things so untidy.
“Honey?” he called out just to confirm she wasn’t home.
The house answered back with silence.
He finished removing his jacket, making sure it was placed back on its hanger and made his way toward the door.
He gently eased the door open fully and stared down the stairs into the darkness of his cellar. He strained his eyes against the gloom and again questioned the stillness. “Honey, is that you?”
He leaned in still hoping for a friendly response to rid him of the tension rising in his chest.
Then something answered. A quiet something, only barely audible, the sound of movement, the sound of something rubbing together. Mr Phillips gasped but the silence returned and he was left questioning his senses once again.
He stepped out from the light and safety of the hallway and gingerly began to descend the staircase.
“Hello? Honey is that you?”
He said it allowed as if to prove to the darkness as well as himself that he wasn’t afraid, but the waver in his voice betrayed him and the only response was the creaking of the stairs.
At the bottom, he paused and tentatively stretched out his hand towards the light switch.
With a click, the dank musty room was bathed in a dim light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Something shuffled in the corner.
The glare blinded him causing his hand to shoot up and protect his eyes as they desperately searched the room.
As his eyes adjusted and with a small gasp he realised what he saw.
In the corner, hunched up against the concrete wall was a small figure. A young girl, pale and trembling, sat clutching her legs to her chest. Her long black hair was knotted and dirty and fell over her face and back. Though partly obscured in the dinge of the cellar it was clear she was naked except for the filthy rag tied tightly across her eyes and another tied across her mouth. A metal chain ran from her ankle to where it met the dust covered radiator only a few feet away.
Mr Philips stood still trying to calm himself from the shock of his discovery. He then took a few cautious steps forward, knelt and with his breath held, slowly stretched out his arm towards the helpless stranger. The girl sensing his closeness whimpered in fear and squirmed against the dank cellar walls. His hand inched to within a few centimetres of her grimy, shivering head when he suddenly heard footsteps behind him.
He rose quickly and spun round to face the figure coming down the stairs.
The young prisoner started to whimper louder behind him but it didn’t drown out the sound of each forceful footstep as it landed on cellar staircase.
The dim bulb did little to illuminate the figure until it reached the foot of the stairs, stepped into the light and confronted the suited businessman.
Mr Philips brought his hand to his mouth as his eyes took in the sight.
In front of him stood a tall, slender female, proudly dressed in thigh high leather boots and a black mini skirt that clung the curve of her hips. She was wearing a white shirt that was buttoned only half way up and strained to contain the ample breasts within.
Her bright blonde hair curled up slightly and hung just above her shoulders in 1940’s swooping curls while upon her head was a leather military cap.
The cellar’s single light bulb caused both her bright red lipstick and the metallic eagle on her cap to gleam as it proudly clutched the swastika in its talons.
She said nothing, only smiled at the middle manager before her.
Mr Philips stared back.
“Honey, you’re full of surprises. She’s absolutely perfect… … Let me just go and change too.”
Political Viewpoint
“Jesus, would you look at them?” muttered Mr Philips to himself.
He stood alone in his second floor office gazing down on to the high street below. His white shirt, though slightly creased from a day’s wear still remained neatly tucked into his black suit trousers and the knot of his dark blue tie still met his collar though the working day was near its close.
The street below was like any other provincial high street found in the satellite towns up and down the country.
A group of youths stood huddled together on the opposite side of street trying to avoid the drizzle as it darkened the concrete buildings and traced its path between the broken slabs towards the gutter.
The sight sickened Mr Philips.
He’d worked hard to get where he was and those lazy yobs outside, huddled like prisoners of war, made a mockery of his efforts. He’d earned his position through hard work and discipline and those “chavs” ,“emo’s” or whatever the hell they’re called loitered in the streets and could rely on everybody else, their parents, the government and hard working tax payers to help them out. No discipline, no respect that was the problem. Their anti-social behaviour, drug taking and teenage pregnancy would no doubt be rewarded by the nanny state with extra benefits or council flats.
He could feel the bile rising as his clenched knuckles whitened.
“We’re just about to lock up Mr Philips” said a voice behind him.
The middle manager turned and faced the young man who had entered his office.
“I know it’s the end of the day but have some self respect man” ordered Mr Philips gesturing towards the younger man and his untucked shirt.
“You’re as bad as those lazy thugs out there”
“There only kids sir” said the office journey as he hastily pushed the hem of his shirt below his belt.
“That’s no excuse!” snapped Phillips as he skimmed a creased and well thumbed newspaper across the desk.
“It’d be little comfort when it’s your wife or mother they’ve kicked to death in the streets”
Beneath the tabloids Red banner were the words “Blood in the streets: Youth violence up 12%”
The junior, knowing his superior’s reputation and short temper, shrugged apologetically and swiftly backed out of the room.
Mr Phillips tutted to himself.
“Bleeding heart bloody liberal” he thought.
The driveways damp stones crunched as the black BMW pulled up outside Mr Phillips home alongside the neat, landscape front lawn. He strode towards the door of his detached home pleased the rain had stopped so his crisp suit jacket could remain dry.
Inside, he placed his briefcase down at the foot of the stairs, straightened up and began to take his jacket off.
He paused, one arm still remaining in the jacket.
He stood for a few moments staring at the cream painted wooden door, on the left, just a few feet further down the hallway. The door was ajar. It was never normally open.
He instinctively thought of his wife, but she was away visiting her mother with the kids and he certainly wouldn’t leave things so untidy.
“Honey?” he called out just to confirm she wasn’t home.
The house answered back with silence.
He finished removing his jacket, making sure it was placed back on its hanger and made his way toward the door.
He gently eased the door open fully and stared down the stairs into the darkness of his cellar. He strained his eyes against the gloom and again questioned the stillness. “Honey, is that you?”
He leaned in still hoping for a friendly response to rid him of the tension rising in his chest.
Then something answered. A quiet something, only barely audible, the sound of movement, the sound of something rubbing together. Mr Phillips gasped but the silence returned and he was left questioning his senses once again.
He stepped out from the light and safety of the hallway and gingerly began to descend the staircase.
“Hello? Honey is that you?”
He said it allowed as if to prove to the darkness as well as himself that he wasn’t afraid, but the waver in his voice betrayed him and the only response was the creaking of the stairs.
At the bottom, he paused and tentatively stretched out his hand towards the light switch.
With a click, the dank musty room was bathed in a dim light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Something shuffled in the corner.
The glare blinded him causing his hand to shoot up and protect his eyes as they desperately searched the room.
As his eyes adjusted and with a small gasp he realised what he saw.
In the corner, hunched up against the concrete wall was a small figure. A young girl, pale and trembling, sat clutching her legs to her chest. Her long black hair was knotted and dirty and fell over her face and back. Though partly obscured in the dinge of the cellar it was clear she was naked except for the filthy rag tied tightly across her eyes and another tied across her mouth. A metal chain ran from her ankle to where it met the dust covered radiator only a few feet away.
Mr Philips stood still trying to calm himself from the shock of his discovery. He then took a few cautious steps forward, knelt and with his breath held, slowly stretched out his arm towards the helpless stranger. The girl sensing his closeness whimpered in fear and squirmed against the dank cellar walls. His hand inched to within a few centimetres of her grimy, shivering head when he suddenly heard footsteps behind him.
He rose quickly and spun round to face the figure coming down the stairs.
The young prisoner started to whimper louder behind him but it didn’t drown out the sound of each forceful footstep as it landed on cellar staircase.
The dim bulb did little to illuminate the figure until it reached the foot of the stairs, stepped into the light and confronted the suited businessman.
Mr Philips brought his hand to his mouth as his eyes took in the sight.
In front of him stood a tall, slender female, proudly dressed in thigh high leather boots and a black mini skirt that clung the curve of her hips. She was wearing a white shirt that was buttoned only half way up and strained to contain the ample breasts within.
Her bright blonde hair curled up slightly and hung just above her shoulders in 1940’s swooping curls while upon her head was a leather military cap.
The cellar’s single light bulb caused both her bright red lipstick and the metallic eagle on her cap to gleam as it proudly clutched the swastika in its talons.
She said nothing, only smiled at the middle manager before her.
Mr Philips stared back.
“Honey, you’re full of surprises. She’s absolutely perfect… … Let me just go and change too.”