Caltrops - Cabaret Voltron





	[quote name="Fgpckt"]This is part of an unfinished novel - i doubt i'll ever finish it because every time i look at it it annoys me more. Please give it a savage reaming so I can either give it up for good or work out what i don't like about it. This is a random selection from it, if the reaming is sufficiently elegant and total, i'll post some more. FLAME ON CUNTWRANGLERS! <b>Jane liked Flying</b> Jane liked flying. The rituals of embarkation, the brittle cheeriness of the stewardesses. She loved the theatre of takeoff, the clearances, the seatbelts, the little safety roleplays. She liked the teasing foreplay of taxiing, the rush of takeoff and the absurd joy of leaving the ground Jane liked Wellington too. It was a beautiful city, vibrant, lively, all that stuff. The weather was crap, but that’s what raincoats and umbrellas were for. Gave you a chance to wrap up and pretend to be a Russian spy. She liked flying. On any number of levels. She liked Wellington, to where she was flying, on even more levels. So why was she in a vile mood? Why was she hoping the man in the next seat would strike up a conversation so she could tell him to fuck off? It had to be Simon. Stinky. Whatever he was calling himself these days. Maybe her emotions were allergic to him. A heartrash, or something. Jane supposed she still loved him a bit, but their attempt at living together had been a disaster. They’d both been relieved when she’d got the Dunedin job. They had managed to cloak their relief in a frenzy of sex, argument, reconciliation, makeup sex, heavy drinking, drunken declarations and hungover repudiations. At least he wasn’t boring. Irritating, but not dull. Like chafed thighs, or a bad case of sunburn. She hoped she wouldn’t have to get mad at him. Or not too mad. Have a shag first. Couple of beers. As she reached for a magazine the safety instruction sheet fell out of the seat-back pocket. She frowned at it. Despite its exhortations to remain calm in case of emergency, she fully intended to panic. ‘If this mask should appear above you, throw off all constraints of rationality, assume a foetal position and begin moaning in your native tongue’. He was hatching some scheme, she recognised the signs. He was never that particular type of casual unless he had something to hide. And he was a cunt, anyway. Three letters behind, too. No. Three and a half. The last one was a postcard of a man with an octopus on his head and the words ‘J – Think he’s getting paid enough? –S’ on the back. That barely even counted as a half. Jane smiled. A stewardess gave her something plastic, and she opened it, poked around inside. She’d always preferred ‘stewardess’, to the modern ‘flight attendant’. They were a stew, a bland, spiceless goulash of ‘woman as provider’ and ‘woman as idealised sex object’, with their <i>lollies </i>and their <i>short skirts</i>. They were constructed, designed to keep the passengers in a state of waking sleep. ‘We are, currently, nowhere. We will arrive at a place soon, but for now just relax. Take what the ladies give you, put it in your mouth.’ Simon. Tch. Still. It would be a bit good to see him again. They could get pissed. Avoid talking about old times. She looked out the window. Mount Cook glittered handsomely in the sun, its cousins shouldering to either side like props in a scrum. The last time Jane had gone skiing it had been with Simon. It had rained for three days and they had stayed in bed with a big bottle of rum. Jane chewed her lip thoughtfully. When the stewardess came by with the lolly tray, Jane got a double handful. [/quote]