Yesterday was a real struggle to get something together for my blog, and today’s no different. In search of some material I have opted for a random word generator to produce some kind of guide as to what to write. The story is short – I need to complete by the end of my train journey. That’s little room for planning or organisation or even too much editing, and I’m issuing a caution about language and content, so buckle in kids it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Four words are: band, mould, wriggle, ferry.
Gavin’s eyes roamed the cabin. Not literally of course, that would be insane. Roaming eyes, but the owner still sees out of them. Gavin had a new idea for a song. Being in a band, travelling to Tasmania for a series of gigs, Gavin was desperate for something to fill out their repertoire. Despite assurances to the organisers, they only had a few original songs to play. They needed inspiration.
Returning to the roaming eyes, Gavin caught sight of some mould on the wall, Gavin gave his nose a wriggle. Disgusting. It was bad enough being in a four bed cabin with three other male death metal performers. Good thing it was non-smoking; there was enough methane in the room to power South Australia.
The ferry rocked and vibrated.
“Fuck.” Said Pedro – real name Peter, but, you know, nicknames… – sitting up. “Maybe we hit something.”
“Mmphhh mmmh.” Said Danny, lying prone face down in his bunk. Gavin was inclined to agree.
“What?” Said Pedro. “I can’t understand you doucheface.”
Danny turned his head slightly.
“Stop worrying. Let me sleep.” He uttered.
“This boat isn’t safe.” Said Pedro.
“You’re the one that wanted to come by boat and not fly.” Said Steven, directly below Gavin.
“That would be way more dangerous.” Said Pedro.
The boat shuddered, and for a moment Gavin felt a queasy vibration in his stomach. Sea sick or hungry? Gavin opted for the later, and with a neat twist sat up on the edge of his bunk, legs dangling over the side. He jumped down, stumbling a little with the swaying motion of the boat.
“Any food left?” He said, glancing over at the collection of half-eaten savoury snacks.
“Hear.” Said Steven, passing him a bag of crisps.
“Where were you keeping that?”
“Who knows?” Said Steven. “People go there and never return. But they produce nice crisps.”
“Shit crisps.” Murmured Danny. He was falling asleep again.
Gavin opened the packet and munched a handful. Salt and vinegar. Great, now he’s need something to drink.
“We need some song ideas.” Said Gavin.
“What the fuck?” Said Steven. “Why?”
“I thought we could expand our routine.”
“We just worked on some” said Pedro.
“Yeah, we need more.” Said Gavin.
“We have enough songs.” Said Steven. “Why do you want more?”
There was just the slightest hint of suspicion in Steven’s voice.
“We have Reguritate Cats Vomit on Your Mother’s Corpse.”
S”Anal Fisting Angels in Heaven, Hammer Fuck to the Face, Napalm Scrotum, Deep Throat Zombie Jizz.”
At each title, Steven counted off on fingers.
“We’ve got enough dude.”
“We may need more.” Said Gavin. “I made promises.”
“What kind of promises?” Said Pedro, peering up at Gavin.
A long snore drifted out from Danny’s bunk.
“I promised five gigs.”
“What fuck you mean?” Said Steven. Gavin always knew when Steven became anxious because he started talking like a Neanderthal.
“Five gigs in Tasmania?”
“Yeah. Five.” Said Gavin.
“It’s Tasmania. Fuck we’d be lucky to do five in Sydney.”
“Some bikie meet apparently. We’ll get paid more.”
Gavin reflected that he should probably have mentioned that part earlier.
“And you want one more song?”
“Well, let’s start with one and see where it takes us.”
Gavin thought for a moment and looked about the cabin. His eyes rested on the mould. He smiled.
“Mouldy roaming eyes double-p your girlfriend.”
Steven and Pedro looked at each other. Pedro shrugged.
“Okay.” Said Steven. “But you’re writing the lyrics.”
Gavin held up his hands, in a show of acquiescence.
“Cool.” He said. “Now, what was your girlfriends name again?”