A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Writing for Fun

Writing for Fun

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He drops them a nightly message in a weighted steel tube.  They’ve lived like this for months. Hard times. She reads the few words to their son, tears staining her faded coat.

The first few lines to my first completed story. I check the spelling, ponder over the grammar, and then, full of excitement, I slip the slim volume into a large brown envelope, make sure that the entry fee, the reply envelope, and the international reply coupon, are included, and then I confidently make my way to the post office. There is a moment, just as I push the envelope through the post-haste slot, where I have a doubt, but once it starts down the slide all doubt leaves me and I am overcome with relief. My writing class tutor has told us to keep writing; even when waiting for a competition result. Back to the wordprocessor.

The words seem to flow.

Horatio wolfed down the last of his vet approved chicken pieces. His fawn, brindle and white coat shone with good health. That and the nightly baths in milk that his grown-up gave him.

That bloody obedience whistle.

A second story is on its way and still no response from the first competition. Then I see it on the Website. First, second, third prizes, then the highly recommended. I scan quickly through the list, but no graeme s dixon. I read the winning entry. It’s bloody rubbish. Mine was twice as good. Then I read then little splurge about style, presentation, and reading-the-instructions. My face and neck redden. I quickly check my current effort and all the mistakes are there. They probably didn’t even read it. I should try something clever for the next competition.

D had just committed lactomangulation for the second time that day, manhandling the “open here” spout on a milk container so badly that he resorted to the illegal side. All-in-all it had been a frustrating day.

I re-read the instruction. ‘Don’t be tempted to be clever with invented words, or smart endings. Judges look for more conventional stories. Then to top it off I start to get people thinking they see themselves in all my stories. Contrary to what they think all this stuff just happens in my head. In another life I would probably be committed to a mental institution. But strange things occur in our world and when they are juxtaposed they can make interesting story-telling.

I’m starting to get a little frustrated. My creative energies need the fuel boost of at least an honourable mention. I dash a letter of the local newspaper. They are sure to print my creative gem alongside the rubbish that normally graces those pages. Sure enough I feature as the lead to the Saturday morning edition. No matter that the letter effectively says nothing. It says it in a particularly elegant way. Mental note. Revise attitude to local newspaper.

Rhycott looked across to the tall, dark man in the sky blue suit and yellow socks in Room 3. It was bare apart from two framed photographs. On the wall behind the single polished table was a picture of a very young Queen Elizabeth, seated on a horse and looking imperious. To the right of the desk was a framed poster bearing the seal of the NZ Government and detailing a list of rights and obligations of ‘visitors to this country’. Rhycott indicated the man should sit in the chair facing the Queen.

The title for that little piece was ‘the sky-blue Somalian’. Absolute stroke of genius. Then I get one of my entries back. ‘An interesting story. Apart from the profanities it would have made a good contribution to our children’s section.’ Jeez! The ultimate putdown. Yet when I take out the bastards and bloodies it does make an interesting children’s story. Maybe I’m misreading my audience. I have a go at a romance short story.

for Sensuous Men

Davinia’s photo spread in for Sensuous Men (fSM) was simply stunning she thought as she flicked over the pages. The opening shot really captured her spooned, sensuous body with its prominent and streamlined mound of venus, further enhanced by a tasteful trimming of her pubic hair. Her flat tummy edged up toward her breasts. Hold on, what have they done there? It looked to Wanda as though they had airbrushed her nipples as the stood out like tail guns on one of those ancient WWII bombers.

I showed it to my wife. She pointed out the words ‘tummy’ and ‘nipples like ancient WWII bombers’ didn’t exactly ignite the sexual juices. But I was on a roll. I had now invented a character. She suddenly populated all my stories. The glorious Davinia. She was loosely based on Dana Carva, the emergency room nurse who foolishly went on a TV show ‘Marry a Millionaire’, won first prize, and then bailed out on the millionaire who turned out to be a fraud anyway. She then sold her story to Playboy and did a photospread. Dana became Davinia and she was in turns, an airline hostess uncovering corruption in the air, a centrefold model, a lesbian lover, a rescuer of a hi-jacked plane, a murderess, a synchronised swimmer, and then she gracefully aged. She had her counterpoints. Duane popped up more often than not as a sort of useless NZ male who misses out all the time. She briefly flirted with Madame Kzynosincki, then Casindra. She appeared on nation-wide television as a celebrated cooking hostess, only to have her show ruined by the public morality lobby. It seemed nothing could stop me. First it was old people.

Arthur fiddled with the buttons on his accordion. He was determined he would master this instrument like he had mastered the harmonica, guitar, and piano. After all, he had his system. Nothing is impossible or is beyond your capabilities, and you don’t know what your capabilities are until you try. Mary said that. She had passed on after their fifty-ninth wedding anniversary, last year, just a few weeks after they had moved to the home.

Then the week after it was cross-country runners.

The smile quickly vanished when she saw what was sitting in the clearing, seemingly awaiting her arrival. A huge black bear, red tongue sensuously dangling from his moistened mouth, fixated her with his deep brown eyes. She could see he was a male because an enormous penis, fully erect and engorged with blood, nearly reached to the ground.

Later I might whisk out to sea for a bit of nautical adventure.

Two hundred feet below the Pacific Ocean crashed against the barren rock that was their home. Jules looked out over the wind blown water to the mainland. He could just make out the twinkling lights of Aradine but the night had rain in it so they kept disappearing.

Then back onto dry land for a little hanky panky in the dark of the night.

Fingers, painted bright red, claw against the windowpane. Cat like noises screech through the night as they repeatedly draw, up and down, on the window. A hideous cackle accompanies the screeching and Ted’s ears are assailed by the cacophony of noise. He puts his hands over his ears, tries turning up the volume on the small television, tries anything to blot out the noise.

And then finish the day with some macabre doodling.

He reached into his shorts and pulled another bird out and placed it in the line of seven dead songbirds on the bedside dresser. This formed a parallel line against his wallet, the gold coins arranged in value and year, and the Laguiole pocket-knife. A cigarette spread a lazy haze over the back part of the bedroom and added to the yellow staining on the curtains that kept the watery sunlight from the small room. He reached over and holding the cigarette European style he took a deep drag, then placed the tube back in the ashtray. A small piece of ash dropped off the end and settled on his white singlet. He didn’t seem to notice as his entire attention was focused on the line of dead birds. Frederick Lewis, murderer, was content.

He felt, or did he hallucinate, a light touch on his shoulder and Mia joined him on the bed, sensuously stroking his thigh as she slid closer. He smelt the musky stink on her and buried his face into her hair and then side to immerse himself deeper in her odour. He touched her breast and felt his erection straining at his underpants. She handed him a package and urged him to open it. He struggled with the green ribbon that bound the parcel and tugged at the brown wrapping. A stench arose from the bundle as he pulled it open and a severed hand dropped to the floor. “You left this behind darling.” Dreamlike Mia rose from the bed and floated to the door then exited to the tiny bathroom that led through to the kitchen of the upstairs apartment Frederick and Mia had lived in for the last ten days.

Frederick looked up at the wall and smiled at the Polaroid photos that showed the grizzly details of their latest ‘hunting’.  His attention was momentarily drawn to the sound of a siren as Mia came (back?) into the room. She was a tall woman and Frederick’s heart still quickened when she entered a room. Her hair, now dyed almost white (she said it was platinum blonde after her two favourite women) was cut short and curled around her head in such a way that it was like a halo. She had left her eyebrows her natural black (and the hair on that secret part of her body) and made them up to look even darker, kohl-like, she said. Her body was long and slender and she now slung her leg over Frederick as she snuggled closer. She whispered in his ear and Frederick felt himself hardening. She drove him crazy when she was in this mood.

But the sad fact was I was not being published. Keep on writing my tutor kept saying but she had forgotten that everyone needs some encouragement. Time for another Letter to the Editor. So here I sit at the end of nine months with two letters to the editor. Both are about nothing, one is heavily plagiarised and I have a list of twelve competition entries in front of me. This is it? Writing for fun?

My step is slower, I am more hesitant each time I drop a brown envelope into the post-haste slot, and I am even recycling old stories. All good signs my writing tutor tells me. But I do think I’ve cracked the romance writing. MY next title will feature two absolutely drop dead gorgeous bag ladies who manage to pull of the scam of the century while simultaneously changing the fashion world. All in 1500 words.

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