Sarah Ann Hall

Reporting on writing in progress or, more probably, not; practising flash fiction.

Posts Tagged ‘groom

OLWG#69 – Just Another Stag

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With last week’s New Unofficial On-Line Writer’s Guild prompts, I thought and dithered, and thought a bit longer and then the prompts floated together into a story. For the first time with Thom’s prompts, I used them as a jumping off point rather than using them verbatim.

 

Just Another Stag

I wake naked and tied, cold and fuzzy. What the? How the? I pull against my bonds and pain lightenings across my shoulders. I’ve been in this slumped position too long. My mouth, now I think about it, tastes foul; cigarette smoke and stale beer, and as if I haven’t drunk anything for two-days. My lips are chapped and I swear I hear rasping as I pass my tongue over them. It must have been one helluva night. It will come back to me in time. I hope. I would like to know how I got here, what the plans are to extricate me from this tree, bush, whatever it is. At least that branch covers my modesty, although I couldn’t move if it didn’t. I am well and truly stuck and, as I come more alive, so do the aches. My feet have gone, frozen away by cold. Great, so now I’ll have chilblains to contend with as well as strained tendons and probably tennis elbow for a year. I don’t want you to think I’m moaning. This is my own fault after all, I agreed to come. As a rule I try to avoid stag nights – I hate the binge drinking, the strippers, the need to be a complete arse and behave as badly as possible thinking it’s okay because you’re getting married in the morning. Does the groom behave badly, or it just his mates trying to embarrass him as much as possible, letting out their sadistic sides because, ‘Hey, he ain’t gonna remember any of this in the morning so we can be as shitty as we like.’ Okay, so maybe I am moaning, but this isn’t my idea of fun. Thank God I only have to do this once.

Bloody hell my knees hurt.  There are sparkles and glitters of pain if I try to move, the gout crystals shifting position. If I try to stand straighter will that help?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

When I get my hands on them I am going to thump someone, maybe everyone. I will be careful to smile as they approach to let me go, and then someone is going to get it. As soon as the blood has flowed, the pins and needles have passed, and I’ve had a fortifying cup of coffee, those bastards are going to feel some of my night.

I’m starting to remember now, how it started as the small affair Ned had promised. We were in his local, working our way across the ale festival board, sharing the odd bag of ready salted to clear our palates between pints. It was nice and civilised before Trevor, Chris and Charlie bowled in with ideas of a pub crawl, curry and clubbing. A crawl and an Indian would have been fine, but I hate dancing clubs and all that sex market stuff. And of course Chris had arranged a stripper. Nice enough she was, but it just isn’t my cup of tea. As Vegas (what sort of a name is that?) offered me her erotic dance, all of me shrivelled away. I can’t tell you why. Maybe finding my dad’s porn stash as a kid has irrevocably damaged me in that department. Not that I can’t perform, and I’ve never had any complaints, but that out-and-out, ‘I’m up for it’ from the club girls, and the lasciviousness of the escort trade, turns my stomach. Ned knows all this. Ned’s my best mate. Why couldn’t he have just stuck to our deal for a quiet ale night? It might be considered boring by some, and not out of the ordinary, but why do stags, and hen nights, have to be such outrageous debauched affairs? You’re only getting married, not moving to the moon, or emigrating half way round the world. In all cases of recent marriages my mates were already living with their wives-to-be and had a house together, so why the stupid expensive wedding, the dress and the food, and the late night drunken dancing? Why not a nice simple ceremony and a meal and the drunken dancing but call it something else on the booking form and be charged a third of the price?

I think I might be sounding bitter and stingy now. Blame the muscles in my arms, which I feel are just about to go twang. I need to change position but it was so painful last time. I don’t want to be stabbed again. In fact, being stabbed and slowly bleeding to death does strike me as a preferable position to be in at the moment. At least then I’d drop off again, instead of continuing to come round, feeling every stretched fibre. It’s taking all my effort not to scream blue murder. Where are the bastards to set me free? What’s the time? How much longer? For fuck’s sake. Thank God I’m only doing this once. Like I said, I’ve always avoided stags, but I couldn’t turn down being best man for my BFF. I wonder what state Ned’s in and, much as I love him, I hope it’s a worse one than mine.

 


This week’s prompts are:

  1. splitting up a bag of potato chips
  2. you can call me ‘Vegas’
  3. tied to the branch of a creosote bush

 

Go ahead and dive in, set your imagination free!
Write something
Ready, Set, Go – you have 25 minutes, but if that is not possible, take as long as you need.

Have fun

 

 

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Written by Sarah Ann

October 1, 2018 at 7:33 pm

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