A fictional story I’m attempting to get off the ground.
John sat alone in the pub, shaking mildly, the left hand tremoring more than the right hand. A small but beautiful old pub, more like a private club than a public house. As old as the ancient trees that lined the narrow London road the pub’s doors opened onto, this pub was John’s favourite place to relax for most of his life. A place where he had so much fun in the past, so many wild parties, so many blackout nights signing old English hymns until 7am the next morning with the other alcoholics; Geoff the Priest, Jordan the welder and Terry the journalist, but alas, Johnny was once again ON THE WAGON. No Guinness, no vodka and cranberry with extra vodka, no friends even, Johnny sat alone, next to the window, rifling through papers and emails on his laptop trying to get his life back on track, sipping a glass of orange juice, extra sweetened. John mumbled to himself, “Meh, now I’m rotting my teeth instead of my liver. Is it really worth it?” John’s internal monologue was quickly interrupted by a waiter, a waiter who seemed to be new, he was very shy and awkward and couldn’t remember simple things, like; “one glass of orange juice, thanks”. The waiter tapped John on the shoulder and John swung his torso around to make eye contact with the creepy waiter. “Uhm, this is for you, Sir”, said the waiter timidly. But nothing happened, no parcel was given, no piece of paper, nothing. John sat there confused and annoyed, the waiter stood there, still as a rock with a hesitant, yet somewhat menacing look on his young, greasy face. John, more annoyed and withdrawing from booze, snapped at the little creep, “What is for me!? Jesus Christ, kid!” The waiter said quietly, “It’s under the table”. John, not being completely in his right mind, decided to look under the table. He bent down to have a look. Suddenly John felt a harsh, painful prick on the back of his neck. He naturally assumed that the waiter jabbed him with something, so he got up to his feet as quickly as he possibly could, but upon reaching full uprightness, John fell sick and dizzy and sleepy with incredible speed. John’s vision went black and he went into the world of darkness and unfeelingness called unconsciousness.
More of this? You like?