click for thisisUll.com Home page.. click for thisisUll.com Forum... click for thisisUll.com Live Events...
  Sponsored Links


  Sponsored Links


  thisistheworld.com


  Friends


  Contributors Guide


Economist Style Guide.
Economist Style Guide.

  Contributors Guide

Learn to speak 'ULL

Fiction
Last Updated: 19/05/2008 12:03:04
Hangover
By Leah Scarpati

The day ended as it had begun - disastrously. From the minute she opened one sticky mascara eye, then the other and the hangover woodpecker began to tap-tap-tap at her head; she knew the day was a right off. Her head hurt so much she could she feel her hair growing, her tongue was dry like an arid river bed and was fixed to the top of her mouth; pulling it off felt like ripping open a Velcro strap.

She flung an arm over her eyelids to shield them from the poisonous rays of light that bled through her curtains. She was hot; nothing to do with the weather of course, it was October outside, but her alcohol induced hangover thermostat was pushed up way past 'scorchio'!
'Drink, water. Drink, water,' she chanted inwardly, but the washing machine spin cycle in her stomach refused to let her move. Woosh! Woosh!
She groaned. Woosh! Tap-tap-tap! Drink, water. Drink, water. Maybe if she just took very slow even and deep breaths and kept her eyes closed to the confines of her smelly room - she could fall asleep again and wake up feeling more human. She tried; her head swam but her eyes were heavy.

Just as she began to feel a little more comfortable, her eyes flew open, wide in panic. The phone! She shot out of her bed in too swift a motion for her stomach to handle and frantically searched her bag for her mobile.

"Oh what did I do? No, no, no!" she cried melodramatically as the realisation dawned on her.
She scrolled through the drunken messages in her 'sent items' box that she'd sent to people she now hoped she'd never see again.
Moments after the realisation hit, so did the sickness. On sea-legs she staggered to the bathroom and mentally prepared herself to worship the porcelain god. She would never drink again after today she swore, as she prayed. And prayed. And prayed.

Bed, she decided was not a good idea, the bathroom floor felt much more accommodating to her in her fragile condition. So she whimpered and cried slightly as she lay on the bathroom floor, cuddling the base of the toilet bowl. She woke up hours later, purged of her poison and her head ache had gone.

It was a huge relief that at last it was all over.

Comments System Prototype Version 1.0 by Mo
Fiction - Later. Still. By Christopher Skolik
Maybe human beings get through life by focusing their attention down to the smallest details, those soap opera comings and goings that make up the flickering magic lantern show of day to day existence, the little things that make life worth living, the details that stand between us and the chasm. Read more...

Fiction - The Hunch-Back (in the style of The Hitman by T.C. Boyle) By Katherine Horrex
By the age of nine the Hunch-Back is aware that he has no place. He questions the existence of everything he sees and it is not until he grows shady from first stubble and hard with distracting pubescent bulk that he gains any sense of purpose, or raison d'etre if you will, for he is half French. It is his mother to which the French in him must be attributed, Read more...

Fiction - The Terminal Brothel By Christopher Skolik
Gales crashed onto the housing estate. Grey sky like fractured mountains. In the passenger seat Dennison read through the paper, as Snaith drives. As some story or headline caught Snaith's attention he would ask Dennison to read it in full. The council estate was a maze of similarity -a dizzying optical illusion where homes, roads, and people all Read more...

Fiction - The Artist By The Silver Fox
Pencil in hand, he stands immobile. His eyes are locked onto the pristine expanse before him as though searching for some secret buried within the paper itself; an image that his pencil will simply be highlighting rather than creating. Above and beyond his eye line, the graphite point gleams dully in the harsh light that cascades down onto the easel. Read more...

Fiction - Independent By Katherine Horrex Photos by Darren Rogers
The room was pulsing with white noise and euphoria. Giles was positioned behind the sound booth, stupefied by the scene on stage: five Burberry clad men thrashing manically at their instruments, their sixties feather cuts flicking through the damp air. A final power chord growled through the Marshall stack, reverberating triumphantly and the lead Read more...

Fiction - 3 Phones, 300 Words By Joe Hakim
She smiled as she handed him the bottle. He took it from her and poured himself a glass. 'So what do you think?' she asked.   'I'm not that bothered,' he replied. He was pretty drunk by now and he attempted to think of something to say, but the silence remained stagnant. She took a gulp from her glass, Read more...

Fiction - Lessons Learnt By Nick Quantrill
DS Richard Coleman pulled into the lay-by and headed towards the flashing blue lights. An hour later it would have been someone else's problem. But it wasn't. An articulated lorry had been isolated from the other vehicles, cones placed around it, linked together by barrier tape. A mobile generator providing power to the small floodlights Read more...

Fiction - Mr Keith Fortner By The Silver Fox
In assessing the nature and worth of Mr Keith Fortner, it helps to be acquainted with one or two salient facts about his background. This is true of anyone, of course; understanding can rarely come without some awareness of their past experiences and emotional development after all. Even the vast majority of people who tend to exist in a very limited context - the parameters Read more...

Fiction - After The Rain By Joe Hakim
He noticed there was another crushed snail by the doorstep. It was the third one he'd found this week. It was funny because he could never recall standing on the snails, but there they were. He opened his back door and lit a cigarette. He'd been in this place for a month now, but it still didn't feel like his home, just a place he was staying in for a while. Read more...

Fiction - The Suicide Park, Self Surgery And Brutalised By Affection By Christopher Skolik
Dennison followed Snaith from the road, through trees, to a wire fence. Snaith slipped through. Beyond the skeletal trees, Dennison could see a smoky illumination. Snaith and Dennison walked around as if inspecting a gallery. It looked like a derelict industrial estate from a distance. Only when he got closer could Dennison hear the sound of 22 engines humming. Read more...

Fiction - Off To See The Wild West Show Part 2 Chapter 4 By Frank Beill
'There, there bai'n. It's o'right now. The bad man's gone away.' Sal walked up and down her bare living room, hugging her sobbing baby. 'Sorry, Sal. I shouldn't have done that.' 'Don't matter, Sammy.' She kissed the child's tearstained cheek. 'He deserves a good hidin'!' 'What was it all about? Sounded as though he was up to no good.' I put two large lumps of coal Read more...

Fiction - Off To See The Wild West Show Part 2 Chapter 3 By Frank Beill
The red brick Board School stretched for nearly half the length of the street. Did Sal still live 'somewhere opposite'? My heart sank seeing all the doors to be knocked on especially after the Westbourne Avenue experience. Fortunately, shops and other businesses occupied most of the buildings facing the school. One caught my attention: Henry Tiplady, Read more...

Fiction - Smooth Operator By Edward C. Lynskey
Kenny was a thief. Nothing big. He'd only rip off the 'swag' owners wouldn't miss right away: CDs, auto parts, jewelry, tools, handguns from nightstands. Yeah, he was a smooth operator, nickelling and diming 'ditch-digging chumps.' A pawnshop run by his pal (never mind who) did a bang-up business, too. Why did Kenny steal? Can't say. Could be he swore the world owed him Read more...

Fiction - Merry Christmas, Here's A Present By Nick Quantrill
Brett 'Razor' Rawcliffe; 'Razor' to his friends because they thought he was sharp as a tack. He was 16 years old but he'd already built a rapidly expanding drugs empire specialising in supplying his schoolmates and friends. It was one day away from being Christmas Eve and he was sat in a city centre pub with his trusted side-kick, Stevie. The Christmas CD compilation Read more...

Fiction - Fighting the Drink By Jose Escobar
My opponent stands before me, tall and proud. We size each other up, bare knuckle fighters circling each other in the ring. He feints towards me but I don't flinch. Then one move and combat begins. The rules the same as always, last man standing wins. I make the first move, one quick slug and the rasping and burning in my throat begins. Discover an old ulcer Read more...

Fiction - Cinch Hand By Nick Quantrill
Joe Berry, Private Investigator. That always grabs the attention. I'm a PI, but it's not as exciting as it sounds. No way. I say that with confidence as I stare out of the window of my detective agency into the overcast Hull night. That's right, Hull - the jewel in the crown of East Yorkshire. It's not a glamorous city, but it's where I lay my hat and I've just about scraped a living from Read more...

Fiction - The Post Office of Doctor Moreau Part Two By Kenton Hall
Previously on The Post Office of Doctor Moreau...
Sandy (tears in her eyes): But, Jonas, I love you.
Jonas (squinting): I know that, Sandy. But you must know this. I can not love anyone. My life is one of danger. Of intrigue. Of brooding handsomely in wine bars.
Sandy (suspiciously): Uh-huh.
Jonas: Yes. I am a lone wolf, Read more...

Fiction - The Post Office of Doctor Moreau By Kenton Hall
I was lying on my back - hands tucked neatly behind my head - and staring at the ceiling, where the Visigoths who had decorated the hotel room had utterly neglected to place a slow-moving fan. Sometimes, a protagonist just can't get an even break. I mean, I could feel it in my bones. I was about to be summoned on an adventure that would utterly and irrevocably Read more...

Fiction - The Prodigal Son By Joe Hakim
stuck in my room again/ looking up at the blinds/ gaffa-taped shut, keep out the light/ single beam escapes through a gap/ one piece of light concentrating on the wall/ imagine it to be hot like a laser/ imagine the smoke rising up like a spirit/ but it's not there, not there at all/ it's only in my head/ only in my head Read more...

  What's Happening?
Search          
  Chill Out
  About Us
  
  More...

Legal Disclaimer   Privacy Policy   Contact Us   Advertise Here     Top of Page.
The opinions expressed here are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the positions of www.thisisUll.com.
  Webmaster Comments?   © 2003 to 2008 www.thisisUll.com, All Rights Reserved.