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About Literature / Artist Senior Member futilitarianFemale/United Kingdom Groups :icontransliterations: transliterations
from one world to another
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Fucking Wales.

They passed a sign that said “unpronounceable place name: 7 miles.”  It pointed down the same meandering one-track country lane they’d been on for the last half an hour.  The previous sign had declared the same unpronounceable place name to be 6 miles away.  The one before that – a good 7 or 8 miles back up the road - had said the damn place was a mere 2½ miles distant.  The one before that had had a stab at 12 miles.  And that was after they’d done a twenty mile detour through several fields and two poultry farms because Mia couldn’t read a frigging map and got the place confused with another place with a similar, equally unpronounceable name.  And now it was pissing it down with rain.

Who hires a convertible to visit Wales for a week, even in July?  By the time they’d stopped and worked out how to put the roof up, Loz and Mia were both soaked through and muddy.  Loz had wanted to go to Costa whatever with the one week they’d managed to book off work this year at the same time as each other.  They hadn’t been going out together when they’d put in their leave requests and Loz had managed to switch one week of his leave to match one week of Mia’s, even though it would leave the record shop short-handed with both of them off at once.  Mia had ‘surprised’ him by booking in at a bloody farm in frigging Wales and asking him to pay half.  She’d surprised him still further by turning up to collect him in a yellow convertible.

Workplace romances.  Thing with them is, Loz decided, you’re on your best behaviour at work.  And when you’re out of work with your colleagues, you’re drunk. As Mia ground the gears for the fourth time that hour, Loz decided he was going off her.

The road turned into a cart track which pointed uphill.  While the signs were still contradictory, the consensus seemed to be that the distance to unpronounceable name was much shorter.  

Mia ground the gears again and stalled the stupid inappropriate car.  Then she did that thing girls do where she started crying and it was all his fault somehow and she was incapable of doing anything.  Once they’d swapped seats - and that was his fault too, she was fine to drive, actually – Loz set off again.  

The cart track ended in a derelict farmyard. Not, to clarify, the romantic, crumbling brickwork chickens-scratching-around kind of derelict farmyard, but the massive rusting corrugated metal silos and piles of old tyres kind of farmyard.  The kind of farmyard where the farmer was an old man who lived alone and hadn’t changed his clothes for twelve years and greeted visitors with a shotgun.

Loz got the cases from the boot while Mia went to find the farmer.  

By the time they actually got to the bedroom (damp, single beds, fleas) Loz and Mia had broken up.  Loz told Mia she would be dropping him at the station first thing the following morning.  Mia told Loz she’d be glad to. They lay down in their single beds fully clothed and fumed at each other.

The next morning, the bloody carttrack which led to the bloody country road which led to the B-road which led to the A-road - which was the only one of those roads actually on the bloody map of bloody Wales Mia had bought with her - was gone.  

As near as Loz could work out from the farmer’s Welsh, the track was only there on a Tuesday and every second Saturday.  When he went back to Mia (still in bed) to impart this ridiculous piece of news, she was crying again.  She thought it would be romantic, he learned, to be stuck somewhere “really primitive” for a few days, “just the two of them”.

Loz didn’t come out of it a total loser.  After he and the farmer had disposed of Mia’s corpse the old guy cracked open the moonshine and the remaining days pretty much flew by.  

On the morning the cart track reappeared, Loz was driving down that hill in the stupid yellow convertible covered in mud with a bottle of homebrew on the back seat, a blinding hangover, and a rudimentary knowledge of the Welsh language.
FFM3 - I can't think of a title
727 words.  I'll never catch up like this.

For Flash-Fic-Month

Prompt from the FFM chatroom:

09:52:42 PM <fyoot> somebody prompt me? I'm not feeling any of the day three prompts

09:53:35 PM <toxic--sunrise> fyoot: Signs that tell different people different things

09:54:02 PM <toxic--sunrise> fyoot: a forest that rearranges itself purely to piss off hikers

09:56:50 PM <fyoot> toxic--sunrise: The rearranging forest and the signs things - you've been to Wales too, eh?

09:56:57 PM <toxic--sunrise> fyoot: never

Thanks toxic--sunrise

The moon rose huge above the city.  In an extension built above the garage of a perfectly nice suburban home, Sidney sat picking his nose ring and staring at a Bad Religion poster while his mother lectured him about his life choices.  

“You’re forty six,” she reminded him inaccurately.  “You have no job, no girlfriend.  You’re covered in tattoos.  Your hair is ridiculous.  You…”

The boiling kettle turned itself off with a click.  Sidney rose from his chair, arse hanging out of too-tight ripped denim.  For a moment, Sidney’s mother disappeared behind the clouds of steam that filled the tiny self-contained annex.  Sidney poured, dunked, sloshed and generally made tea.

“I’ll say this, though, you do make a lovely cuppa.”
Steampunk challenge for FFM day 2, nailed.
“Excuse me, old chap.”  There is a tap on Jeff’s shoulder.

“Eh what?” Jeff wakes suddenly, his cheek jammed awkwardly against his own shoulder and a thin line of dribble down his lapel.

“Sorry.  I, er, that is to say, it’s my stop.”

Jeff stands, clutching newspaper, briefcase and coffee to his person, and using his knee shoves his tray table up to allow the passenger beside him to get out.  It is a hot July morning.  The commuter train is absolutely rammed, and there is the smell of commuter sweat which will only worsen on the journey home.  A trapped fly buzzes idly against the carriage window and… it is Jeff’s stop too.  Abandoning coffee and paper, Jeff negotiates his way off the train by dint of much elbowing.  He joins the sea of people heading for the Piccadilly line and shuffles forward with them.  Oyster proffered and accepted, Jeff is rattling through Piccadilly Circus in a strap-dangling half-doze before he recalls the polite, elderly troodon who had sat next to him on the 6.40 to King’s Cross.

When he arrives at his place of work, Jeff is somewhat surprised, as a doctor of palaeontology on a placement from Imperial College London to the Natural History Museum, to discover an orderly queue of dinosaurs at the visitor entrance to the museum.  The troodon from the train nods in recognition as Jeff passes and swipes himself in.

He is summoned, along with the rest of the museum’s staff, to a meeting in the dinosaur hall at 10am.    The museum director clears his throat, oblivious to the glare of the camarasaurus skeleton towering above him, and raises his hands for silence.

“Many of you may have seen the, uh, delegation this morning.”  

There is a brief buzz of conversation as those who had not are filled in by their neighbours.

“Er, they have not.  That is, basically, what I mean is, the dinosaurs… erm, I mean, essentially.  They have not actually, er, in point of fact, been extinct, per se.”

The director of the museum was ordinarily in great demand as a public speaker.  Although allowances could be made for the exigencies of the situation, Jeff feels somewhat let down by the man’s performance.  He is actually shaking, Jeff notices.

“Erm.  The dinosaurs, they have been, they say, sleeping.”

There is a silence at this, supplanted by a wave of conversation which the director is eventually compelled to terminate by shouting “Please!” several times.

“Thank you, erm, I, that is, we have been in conversation with the, uh, the delegation and…”

“What do they want?” someone calls out.  Jeff is surprised to find out it is him.

“Exactly.  What they want.”  The director polishes his glasses.  “The fact of the matter is that they live, er sleep.  I mean they are… I suppose hibernating would be the way to put it?  Underground.  Of late, they have been rather disturbed by, well, you know.  Trains.  Drills.  Fracking and suchlike, no doubt.  Noise, in other words.  Caused by, I suppose, us.”

The director removes his glasses and blinks myopically round at the eighty or ninety museum staff.  “They have come to ask us – most politely, I must add – if we would, er, mind terribly keeping the noise down.”
:iconflash-fic-month: day one.

Prompt: Suddenly, dinosaurs! They're very polite. CassidyPeterson

I never pass up dinosaurs, me.  A troodon is supposed to be quite intelligent, for a dinosaur.
May 24, 2015
:iconfyoot:fyoot has changed their username (formerly futilitarian)
Did I miss owt?
  • Mood: Excited
Did I miss owt?
  • Mood: Excited

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Should futilitarian...? 

22 deviants said Continue her inexorable slide into alcoholism and have another glass of wine because Friday and because the wine left in the bottle looks lonely.
21 deviants said Troll the forum.
11 deviants said Write some shitty story or something.
5 deviants said Other. Please expand.
4 deviants said Write some shitty poem or something.
3 deviants said Watch some shitty TV or something.


Add a Comment:
lemontea Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2016
brassteeth Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2015
I have been reading your works. This function has led me to this feedback.
You are seriously fucking talented,
Or you are fucking seriously talented.
Not sure. Note sure it matters.
Not sure about the whole goddam universe, as an illusionistic hologram. So....

dead-now Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You've changed your identity.
chadwood Featured By Owner May 30, 2015   Writer
Just browsing and found your page.  Awesome.  +follow
CrumpetsHarvey Featured By Owner May 24, 2015   Writer
But how will I know who you are any more?
fyoot Featured By Owner May 26, 2015   Writer
You shall know me by my forum trollery.
CrumpetsHarvey Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2015   Writer
Yeah okay :P
Lexi247 Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2015
Just stopping by to say hello :hug: Have a wonderful day!
TheSkaBoss Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Why are you never about when I am? :(
RohMah1 Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2014   Digital Artist
Okay,  I don't usually read Lit works on deviantArt, but your works are simply amazing! Instant watch. :D
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