Story Ideas

Images, flashing up...striking my mind with mass confusion. Images of the past flash in front of my face. It is dark in there because there is no power. It is dark in there because this is not a home that people live in. This place is abandoned...and this man is a squatter.
He is a sleazy crackhead, I have realized as I am just trying to get high. He led me all around the close knit streets of Algiers...kind of near the clubs and bars near the ferry. There are a lot of really cute houses out there in Algiers Point. There are a lot of little corner stores. And there is a lot of shit to get into if you hang around here, it seems.
The sun is fading because clouds are taking over a little. I have to get across the river. I have to get to Frenchman Street. I did not want to show up as the sickness sets in. I hate having to pretend I feel really great and happy while I chug back a couple of shots of Jameson. Jameson can help me to hang on...but I wanted to get there all happy and high. I work better this way. I have more fun this way.
The sun is reflecting through the slats in the shutters of this old shotgun. All wooden inside, with its smooth and knotty interiors...this old place was not in ruins but it did need some work. Speaking of work, did I say I had a job waiting across the river? Oh yeah, speaking of work, i have my works in my bag. You have a candle? Oh what the hell...I just want to shoot my dope. And then...

I REALIZE

I am in a fucked up situation. This crackhead does not have any dope, and I am still gonna be fucking sick. I am going to take a fucking hit of crack because god damn...I have gone through all this fucking trouble. It only makes me feel worse. I am puking a little from the smell of urine in the back room of this naked shotgun house. I have got to get to Frenchman Street...someone is waiting for me...
I leave a little before it gets dark, and wander back past the tent city where I had been taking to score some stupid crack...that was a fucked up situation. Shake it off. I can still see that dark and demonic face as the shit took over his mind...it was scary...it was fucking wild to see the smoke rise and his eyes go completely hazy inside but all bright, shiny and scattered too.
His face shone with sweat. Not a beaded sweat, but one that sat more like a sheen, an oil slick running across his cheeks. Dirty and stinking of infestation, and rank deprivation...this man is obviously fucking nuts. The whites of his eyes are now shining. Begging and pleading in their madness for what it is they must have...insanity twitchlets dancing up his cheeks as his was panting deep and heavy breathes.

MY MIND SHUTS DOWN AT THIS POINT

The next thing I know, I am on Frenchman Street, slugging back the Jameson and making some fucking phone calls. I do not know why I did not just rush on over here. Pretty soon everything will be just fine.
He reaches down to hold my trembling hand. He really is a handsome man, with his dark squirrely eyes that squint from all the sun he has seen. In the dark, his eyes sometimes dart and dance back and forth. His hands dart back and forth on my body....He slips something into my shaky hand. Smooth, and crisp...I am sure this hundred is folded perfectly. He also hands me a pack of some exotic flavored Caribbean cigarette that I really like. I finger the edges of the bill...I actually do not know for sure it is a hundred, but I am almost positive. He never hands me any bill that is less than a hundred. And he is not stupid...he is a fucking cool ass guy...he knows whats up.
I dart out, just for a couple of minutes as my boy swings by. He brings a couple of grams of really good pot. You know the nice, green shit they call the purp around here. At twenty bucks a gram, he could get sixty for the three but he always charges me fifty. I mean, the weed is kind of just a cover. We are both in this car, driving around the block on Frenchman and Chartes, for something much more powerful that some fucking weed. I get three bags of dope for the other fifty bucks. Everyone is happy.

For some reason the image of that abandoned house rained back down upon me tonight. I have been racking my brain for story ideas. I am trying to come up with the perfect story for my class. All these different ideas are knocking around in my head. I get this fucking image that sends chills up my spine. I sometimes have those kind of flashbacks. Gasping, at that horrible little spot in my memory. I try to avoid those pitfalls, but it happens to most of us that I know.
I am brought back top Algiers Point at that very point in time. I was not brought back to the Bitterman's house. I was not brought back to the ferry,but instead I was brought right back to that abandoned house. That moment in time flashed through my head, causing my heart to quicken it pace. Causing my breath to quicken, and my stomach twitching.
And the idea for a story blossomed in my head....

A dready girl who is staying in the tent city...a night in tent city with a guy maybe......