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 Up On My Cloud, [TAG: RANDALL]
MARTHA BOYLE
Posted: Mar 15 2012, 02:24 AM


67 | PEANUT
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Joined: 21-February 12




UP ON MY CLOUD
She didn't care if the Gestapo questioned her under torture, Martha was never going to admit to curtain twitching. It was a heinous practice, the province of old ladies with hairnets and carpet slippers who had nothing better to do than spy on their neighbours. She contested that knowledge was important and what she'd done the night before - that was recon. If there was going to be a new gentleman moving into the area, it was best that everyone know about him...and his big armoured truck.

Having consigned her dinghy to emergency status, she had acquired a small pleasure boat which she piloted into the marina. If she was moving more slowly than usual, it was only because of the tea service set up on the small table in the aft. It was Portmeirion bone china, her very second best. Martha climbed nimbly up onto the dock, feeling around in her smart raffia handbag for the captain's service revolver, before making her way towards the still and silent vehicle.

It wasn't entirely soundproof. Bulletproof, yes. Zombieproof, most certainly. But not soundproof - Martha could hear the ripsaw melody of a very drunk man snoring his head off. And well he might, she thought sniffily, the amount he'd put away last night would have done the entire British Navy proud. It was a small wonder that pilot chap was capable of getting back to his little hoverplane at all; she wouldn't be surprised to learn he'd fallen in the drink and been eaten by a passing shark.

Shelving such fanciful notions, she walked right up to those imposing metal doors and rapped sharply with the butt of her gun. 'Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty,' Martha hollered, with absolutely no concern for his burgeoning hangover or the ungodly hour of ten o'clock in the morning - the sailors were an idle bunch, and she doubted anyone else in the whole fleet would even be contemplating the possibility of getting dressed before midday. 'The sun is shining and it's a lovely day.' She snickered. Well, it was going to be lovely for someone anyway.

tagged: RANDALL | word count: 351 | outfit: HERE | notes: <3
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RANDALL JONES
Posted: Mar 16 2012, 02:38 AM


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UP ON MY CLOUD--ALL THE PLACES i'VE BEEN; ALL THE THINGS I'VE SEEN--He was strolling across a white, sandy beach, his beautiful wife on his arm. She leaned up, her lips ghosting across his ear. ‘Randall, you’re so naughty,’ Halle Berry whispered.CLANG. CLANG. The sound reverberated through every steel facet of the truck, waking Randall from his dream - and scaring the shit out of him.‘Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty,’ called a female voice from outside.‘What you tryin’ to do, lady? Wake the dead? Too late, it’s happened,’ Randall groaned. He hadn’t put away that much liquor since his service days.‘The sun is shining and it’s a lovely day!’‘ALRIGHT,’ he bellowed back. ‘Gimme a goddamn minute.’ If the zombies didn’t kill her, Randall thought, he just might. He shuffled on his elbows down to the end of the truck, opening the back doors and squinting out into the harsh sunlight. An older woman stood there and she was the last thing he expected to find, decked out in her Sunday best like she was going to church…yet something about her posture told him she was a woman of substance, possibly even ex-military, and he could only imagine what she was thinking: not even making himself look presentable for a guest, shameful behaviour. Pull yourself together and greet me appropriately!Randall slowly unzipped his sleeping bag, surprised to find himself fully clothed but for his boots - and God only knew how he managed to get them off in his state. Grabbing the offending items, he swung around to sit upright on the tailgate and pull each one on, tying his laces with laborious movements. The lady looked impatient as he groped around for his pistol and knife, and finally for his shades to shield his eyes from the glare that was permanently scarring his retinas.Mornin’ he grunted, pulling himself to his feet and hastily tucking in his hopelessly wrinkled shirt. The smell of whiskey seeped out of every pore. ‘The name’s Randall…sorry about, y’know -’ he gestured vaguely at his dishevelled state. ‘I got completely fucked up last night,’ Randall told her, extending his hand for a welcome.TAGGED: MARTHA. WORDS: 383. OUTFIT: HERE. NOTES: NONE.made by marv @ atf
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MARTHA BOYLE
Posted: Mar 16 2012, 06:59 AM


67 | PEANUT
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Member No.: 1,041
Joined: 21-February 12




UP ON MY CLOUD
Blasphemy before breakfast. Well, Martha had heard worse. Folding her arms, she listened to the scuffling sounds from inside the truck until eventually the door opened revealing a large, unshaven face staring up at her from within a sleeping bag. He was in his middle ages, she estimated, and quite old enough to know better. His bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits against the bright sunlight that blinded him, and Martha smiled widely in a way that was more predatory than friendly.

At least he had the decency to look somewhat contrite. ’Well,’ Martha stated delicately, wrinkling her nose as her senses were assailed by the stench of alcohol. No one had better light a cigarette near him for a good few hours yet; he was more flammable than a nylon nightgown. ’It’s about time. Do you know you’re double-parked?’

It took him a few minutes to adjust to the idea of being awake, and she waited with unnatural patience as he gathered himself together. Her fingers itched to whip that shirt straight off his back and go at it with an iron - or even just straighten his collar - but Martha managed to restrain herself. They hadn’t even been introduced yet.

Mornin’

’It is. I’m glad you finally noticed,’ she told him dryly. ’Martha -’ she reached out a hand to receive his much larger one, raising a thin eyebrow at Randall’s vernacular. Well, she couldn’t be having that. Hadn’t anyone ever told him not to use such language in front of a lady? Probably not, she reflected - he seemed very much as if he’d been dragged up, possibly in a barn.

Closing her grip hard around his, Martha yanked him forward with a force that belied her age and stature, and put her lips to his ear. ’And the next time you curse in front of me, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap, so help me God.’ Her free hand tapped his cheek lightly before she let him go and rocked back on her heels.

’Now, Randall, you and I are going to have a spot of tea. This way, please.’

tagged: RANDALL | word count: 375 | outfit: HERE | notes: <3
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RANDALL JONES
Posted: Apr 3 2012, 09:34 AM


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UP ON MY CLOUD--ALL THE PLACES i'VE BEEN; ALL THE THINGS I'VE SEEN--‘Nice hand shake,’ he muttered, massaging the feeling back into his abused hand. The woman had a death grip. ‘Tea sounds…pleasant.’ He would rather have had a coffee, strong like tar, and a greasy breakfast to get rid of his hangover. Randall climbed unsteadily out of his truck. ‘What a night,’ he murmured, awed. It had been such a long time since he’d put away that much liquor; he was probably still drunk now. ‘Let me lock my truck, don’t want anyone from round here snooping in there, it’s mine.' He said, not unlike a spoilt brat, and followed meekly after Martha as she swaggered towards the dock. ‘Still pissed,’ he admonished himself. The boat swam into view. It seemed dangerously small, but Martha stood waiting impatiently for him and he was loathe to hold her up.‘Ladies first,’ Randall said, gallantly waving Martha to board first. Once she had, Randall grabbed the rail and, as he’d lifted himself up on to the deck, the boat submerged under the water by two feet beneath his weight. ‘I really need to lose some pounds.’Reaching in to his top pocket, Randall retrieved his last pack of cigarettes. ‘You mind if I smoke?’ he asked Martha, but when he didn’t get a reply, took one out anyway. It was as crooked as a politician; he put it between his dry lips, lit up and took a drag. Crockery chinked in the background as he looked out at the bay and the distant shore on the horizon, under a pale blue sky. He could feel the cool breeze on his face as murky green-brown waves lapped against the boat. It was best scenery he’d regarded in a while - far better than what he was accustomed to, the bricks and metal of his warehouse. After a while, he flicked the cigarette butt over board and turned back to the table set out for a tea party, eyeing it suspiciously. ‘Do you, uh…need a hand?’TAGGED: MARTHA. WORDS: 333. OUTFIT: HERE. NOTES: NONE.made by marv @ atf
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MARTHA BOYLE
Posted: Apr 16 2012, 11:10 AM


67 | PEANUT
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Joined: 21-February 12




UP ON MY CLOUD
Martha was unperturbed by the dubiousness of his tone; these Americans were all the same on first blush, and Randall looked like a labourer of some sort. No matter, she’d worked miracles with much worse. ‘It will be,’ she agreed brightly. ‘Now come along, stop dawdling.’ He was lurching around on the solid ground like a sailor on his first voyage; god only knew what he’d be like once he was aboard her boat.

Her lips pursed with amusement at the comment, and she arched a silvery eyebrow in clear scepticism. ‘We’re not going far, Mr. Jones,’ she drawled, waving an aristocratic hand at the little vessel moored not more than a few feet away. ‘I hardly think the scavengers are as dimwitted as that.’ Besides, it appeared that he was carrying most of his arsenal on his person, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t spare a few bits and pieces. Probably never taught to share, she decided.

Despite his puppyish demeanour, it seemed that Randall did indeed have some manners. Martha boarded nimbly and went straight to the table, uncovering the pot that smoldered beneath a patterned cosy and retrieving her strainer, unbothered by the sudden swoop of the boat further toward the surface of the water. He was a very large man; it was only to be expected.

He mumbled something incomprehensible, but she ignored him - if it had been important, he’d have said it properly. Instead, Martha concentrated on pouring the rich, tannic liquid into two delicate china cups, dumping the leaves overboard as Randall tossed the remains of a cigarette. ‘No, thank you,’ she told him brusquely, pointing at the bench across from her own. ‘Please, sit. You don’t look like a person who takes sugar.’ She said it with the air of a woman used to preparing tea for a great many types of people. Milk splashed into each cup, and though she nipped a cube of rich white sugar into her own beverage, Martha left his unadulterated - except for a pair of aspirin tablets sitting proprietorially on the side of his saucer. ‘Would you like a scone?’

tagged: RANDALL | word count: 372 | outfit: HERE | notes: SORRY FOR THE DELAY! <3
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RANDALL JONES
Posted: Apr 19 2012, 04:02 AM


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UP ON MY CLOUD--ALL THE PLACES I'VE BEEN; ALL THE THINGS I'VE SEEN--He was somewhat taken aback by her offer of a scone. 'What the f-' he hesitated, remembering what happened the last time he swore in front of her, and hastily amended his words. 'Huh...uh...yeah, sure. That would be great.' Probably. He had no idea what the fuck a scone even was, whether it was hot or cold, savoury or sweet. His upbringing hardly included afternoon tea. 'Might make my stomach feel like my throat ain't been cut,' he joked lamely, embarrassed by his lack of class.It was official, the table they were sitting at had belonged to a munchkin in a previous life. The fine china displayed in front of him terrified him with its breakability - one slip of his large, rough hands, and the teapot was toast. A cup and saucer sat in front of him, but it was the aspirin was what really interested him; Randall shovelled them into his mouth and crunched them between his teeth, hoping to make them reach his bloodstream more quickly. When it came to washing down the bitter aftertaste, he picked up his assigned teacup with the precision of man disarming a bomb, knowing that if he dropped it - well, Martha was likely to rip his head off and shit down his neck.'Thanks for the tea,' he said after a moment, still trying to figure out what the deal was with his hostess. Martha acted like the world was just fine, like zombies were no more than a tiny irritation - pesky birds that dirtied up her car, or something. She reminded him of that movie, Driving Miss Daisy. God, he hoped she wasn't looking to employ him or something - were subservient African-American men still a commodity in Martha's world?Realising that he'd been talking to himself for quite some time, Randall pulled himself back to the present and hoped she hadn't noticed his lapse in concentration. ’Really, it was just what the doc ordered. My mouth was drier than Ghandi's flipflop -' Oh no, had he just said that out loud? And in front of a lady like Martha...she probably knew him. Randall fought the urge to laugh. Sorry,' he said hastily. 'I'm not really with it today. Y'know, hungover...'It occurred to him that he'd just apologised to Martha for a comment he'd not actually said aloud. Contorted into the unnaturally small space and trying not to move a muscle in case he broke something, Randall cast desperately around for something to divert the conversation and change the subject. 'Nice boat you have here.'TAGGED: MARTHA. WORDS: 429. OUTFIT: HERE. NOTES: NONE.made by marv @ atf
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MARTHA BOYLE
Posted: Apr 19 2012, 08:29 AM


67 | PEANUT
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Posts: 14
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Joined: 21-February 12




UP ON MY CLOUD
Well, he wasn’t the most charming dining companion she’d ever had, but at least he seemed to be making an effort. Then again, Martha tended to find that her no-nonsense approach to social interactions generally left others with the shell-shocked impression that she might actually harm them. It was really quite entertaining.

Carefully ignoring his near miss with language, she reached down the side of her bench and opened the cooler she’d brought along, releasing the scent of scones baked fresh that morning. ‘I’d offer you a fry up,’ she told him consolingly. ‘But the ingredients are a bit difficult to come by out here, I’m sure you understand.’ Oh, what she’d give to see a chicken again. It was a real challenge to start the day on an egg when one was sequestered on an ocean liner. At least she hadn’t entirely given in to any Swedish urges and served up fish.

The scone she produced was a fist-sized monstrosity, perfectly round and golden, belying its humble beginnings of numerous canned and otherwise preserved substitutions, at which her own mother would surely have fainted. She cut it open and laid it out on a delicate china plate, piling it high with rich strawberry jam and fluffy white cream. ‘Canned, I’m afraid,’ she told Randall, pushing the creation toward him. ‘But I suppose we’re all resigned to making sacrifices.’

His bumbling amused her no end, though she felt it ought to bring out at least a little guilt. Randall was clearly a man that had been of limited means and social standing in his former life, and in her company he was both literally and metaphorically at sea. No matter, she had a proposition and purpose for inviting him aboard - something that he’d surely guessed by now.

‘Oh, don’t lie, it’s positively ghastly,’ she snorted at his comment, tilting her chin at his crumpled position as he tried not to touch anything. ‘I suspect the former owner of being one of those circus midgets.’ Martha wasn’t a large woman by any account - at least not physically - but even she found it a strain trying to cram her legs under the table. At least it served the purpose of allowing them a relatively safe spot in which to converse.

Noting that Randall had finished, she took the plate away, and tossed it carelessly into the ocean. ‘I abhor washing dishes,’ she explained, sipping her tea without the slightest regard for what had just taken place. ‘So, Mr. Jones, to the reason for our meeting. I have an idea -’ she leaned forward slightly, faded blue eyes twinkling in her tanned, wrinkled face. ‘One that just might make our awful lives a little bit less awful.’

tagged: RANDALL | word count: 481 | outfit: HERE | notes: NONE.
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RANDALL JONES
Posted: Apr 20 2012, 10:52 AM


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UP ON MY CLOUD--ALL THE PLACES I'VE BEEN; ALL THE THINGS I'VE SEEN--Palm trees dwindled by, and a dazzling sun glanced off the shining plate glass windows of numerous boutiques on Rodeo Drive. Out of the corner of his eye, Randall saw Miss Martha waving a hand towards him.'Stop right here,' she ordered from her throne installed in the back of the Boyle-mobile, a pimped out version of his former zombie-smashing truck. 'I require some new shoes. Gucci will do, Jones.'He slowed to a halt outside the ostentatious shop. Gucci, madam. Very good, madam.''HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE,' Randall all but shrieked, waking violently from his hallucination, eyes refocusing on Martha's startled expression as she leaned as far away from him as she could get within the small boat. He could tell what she was thinking - it was plainly obvious she thought he was nuts.Randall swallowed, composing himself from his latent fears and regaining his lucidity. 'Sorry...er -' he said awkwardly, for the second time in as many minutes. 'What did you have in mind?' If it had anything to do with shoes, he was getting the hell off that vessel right then and there.'I ain't much good at anything 'cept killin' these deadheads,' he rattled off nervously. 'All I ever done, really, learnin' how to be a soldier an' then bein' a soldier.' With his eyes down to a fleck of colour on the otherwise spotless tablecloth, he forgot himself, who he was talking to. It was a little like chatting away to the shrink when he was banged up; all How does that make you feel? and Tell me about your childhood.Unlike his last shrink though, the man in the big, dark-rimmed glasses, she proved to be an exceptional listener. Randall babbled away to her about the highs and lows of his situation, fast-paced anecdotes from his past to his present and the lurking concern for his future. 'Then I wake up and the whole world has gone to shit,' he finished with a deep breath, slouching back into his seat and looking towards the cloudless sky, relief loosening the set of his shoulders. 'And I'm just driftin' in it, no use to nobody.'He took the last cigarette out of his pocket and placed it between his lips, long dry from the tea. As he lowered his head to light the sucker, he saw the neat, groomed outline of Martha where he expected his shrink to be. 'Uh, sorry,' he muttered again, abashed. 'I hope...I mean, do you mind?' Well, if she didn't think he was nuts before, she certainly did now.TAGGED: MARTHA. WORDS: 470. OUTFIT: HERE. NOTES: NONE.made by marv @ atf
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