As promised, here’s The Stag, the first and only other Writing Group Homework I did.  This one was made easier by the useful application of wine.  Two bottles of red if I remember correctly.

As usual we were given the first line and left to our own devices.  It’s a first draft and completed in 1 & 1/2 hours.

The Stag stared at it’s reflection in the glass of the fish tank.  He was hypnotised by his own staring eyes.  An eyelid twitched, the image on the gently curved glass magnified and distorted.  The Stag snorted.

“Are you going to look at yourself all night?”  The Stag turned, snorted again, then turned away from his brother and resumed watching his own reflection.  “You’re hopeless.” said The Moose and turned to the barman.  “Weasel, two beers.  Make his something watery, eh?”  The Weasel scampered behind the bar and, after some scurrying about, produced two bottles of beer.  The Moose tossed a few notes on the bar and nodded his thanks.

“What are you wanting?” said The Stag.  He reached for the bottle and tugged it back, casually letting it fall out of his hand to smash on the floor.  The assembled patrons regarded The Stag with barely concealed contempt before returning to their business.

“You really are a knob,” said The Moose.  “You have any idea?”

“Nope,” replied The Stag, uninterested.  “Couldn’t really give all of two fucks what you think.”  He turned to his brother and regarded him critically.  “Really, what do you want?  I was busy preening.  You must have noticed.  Even you must have noticed.”

“Hey,” shouted The Moose, cracking The Stag on the back of the head with an open hoof, “you asked me here, you idiot.”  He shook his head.  “You wanted me here?  Dear god, are you so self-obsessed?”  The Stag nodded.  It was a fair question.  “It’s your wedding tomorrow.  That poor bitch doesn’t have any clue what she’s let herself in for.”

“Oh, she knows.”  The Stag winked.  “She knows exactly what she’s letting herself in for.  Oh, yeah.”  He gyrated his hips in what was the worst possible show of manliness.  “That’s right.”

“Could you stop?  Please, could someone make it stop?”  The Moose covered his eyes.  “I’m your brother.  I don’t need to be seeing this.”

“Oh, yeah,” said The Stag, lasciviously.  “Yeah, you do.  They all do.”  He looked over his brother’s shoulder.  “That fox does.”  The Moose turned to see The Fox wink at both brothers in turn.  “Hmmm, nice.  She’s a saucy wench, that one.”

“I really don’t need to know.”  The Moose turned back to his brother.  “You leave me out of this, you hear?”  He took a long drink and held the bottle up to The Weasel who replaced it in good time.

“Moose,” said The Stag, “trust your brother.”  He reached up and ruffled The Moose’s antlers.  “You’re far too uptight.”  The Stag tapped The Moose’s bottle encouragingly.  “Drink up.  I’ll look after you tonight.”

* * *

The stag night came and went.  The wedding day came and…  well, it came down hard…
“Run it past me again,” said The Stag, in the vestry of the chapel.  “What happened?  The finer details seem to have escaped me.”

“The finer details?”  The Moose loosened the collar of his shirt.  The tie was a wrinkled mess on the table.  He never like ties.  “Remember that Fox?”  The Stag looked down at his hooves.  “Oh, you remember alright.”

“Whatever.”  The Stag looked up.  “I’ll remember that Fox when I bloody well choose to.”

“Aye, fine,” muttered The Moose, “but she’s the one who has run off with your wife.”

“Who told you that?”

“The Weasel,” grunted The Moose.  “Who else?”

I’m one of an informal writing group formed from NaNoWriMo one year.  We met regularly during that November and all completed our respective stories, and it made sense to keep in touch.  We continued meeting regularly to write after the November NaNo-madness ended and recently we’ve been setting ourselves a weekly challenge.

The idea is to write for 30 mins, or thereabouts, and send out our efforts, with no editing, as proof.  A good way of keeping in with a regular writing session, even if work gets in the way of me making the meetings.  An opening line is provided by one of the group.

This is my first for a while.

“I hate being stuck in my clothes.”  James rolled his shoulders, the fabric feeling coarse, irritating.

“Yes, I know,” said the Third, “but you’ll just have to endure.  We’ve all had our turn; now it’s yours.”  The Third looked over that the First and Second, both standing a conspicuous distance away.  “They’re on the edge of falling out with you because of this, you know.”

“Aww, come on,” James said, narrowing his eyes at the two forms, finding it hard to distinguish them in the low light.  “They bitched and moaned in equal measure.  They have no right; no right at all.”  He kicked petulantly at the dusty ground.  “Especially as neither of them got the job done.  It’s bloody cheek.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Third, “and neither did I.  We’re pinning all our hopes on you.  I’m sure you’ll not let us down.”

“Hmmph,” James snorted.  “No pressure then.”

* * *

Count Jeff Victory leaned on the railing and looked longingly across the Mediterranean.  In the distance he could almost make out the Filigree Maiden, a fine yacht, one of the finest he had ever set foot on.  And it was with a pang of regret that instead of walking the deck with a cool drink in his hand, he was still here, in a local Hotel Crapola waiting for the management to confront him over the rubbery cheque he had presented them as an act of good faith.  Perhaps trying to secure accommodation with a hand-drawn credit card wasn’t his finest moment but he was sure he was quite drunk at the time.  It would be horrific to think he would try that while sober.

He heard the soft footsteps padding across the terrace towards him, and hoped it was his loyal assistant, Valerie.

“Time to go, sir,” she said softly.

“Ah, Val,” he sighed, regarding the sea one last time, “such is life.  The bags are packed?”

“And in the car.”

“Excellent.  Let us find another fine establishment to rest our weary bones.”

They left the hotel, carefully avoiding the staff, and walked as leisurely as possible, as to not draw attention to their exit, to their car parked down a nearby back-street.  A figure stepped out the shadows and Victory froze.

“Mr Victory?” the man asked.  “My name is James Warden.  I have a proposition for you.”