Two Venetians

I was in bed with two Venetians, a long black

and a sleazy paperback

by Suzanne Pleshette

when an angry text erupted like a boil

on my iphone:

where were you, it said, I looked for you

& your floozy

everywhere in the cinema?

It was my old mate George.

Please don’t call her a floozy, I said.

We couldn’t make it. Sorry.

Sorry !!! Couldn’t make it.?

To see my new film, my best yet.

‘Ticket To Paradise’.

We’ll catch it on DVD, I said.

It’s not the same, he snapped,

sounding peeved and pedantic.

I don’t like hanging up on George

but he can work himself into a lather.

I dipped a Venetian into my long black

& carried on reading.

Is it Character then?

Is it the characters, then?

No, it is not.

Scenery. dialogue,

intrigue,

the machinations of plot?

No, it is not.

Really? None of the above?

Then, pray tell, what?

Far more important

than any of those,

he says,

is vivacity,

the vivacity of the prose.

* what is it you most treasure in a short story?

pic courtesy of Pixabay

Simon’s Space Odyssey

Simon rambles in. He rattles Alec’s equanimity.

I’m getting my haircut. I see it all in the mirror.

Simon’s his usual self: brash, bold, bloody stupid, He lisps some errant remark.

Alec drops what he’s doing, reaches for the fly swatter and chases Simon down the street.

It’s like a well rehearsed routine.

A month later I go back.. Simon doesn’t look so good. His eyes are puffy, his face a little swollen, his hare lip is bleeding.

What happened? George says, one of the assistants. Your girl friend beat you up again?

Simon blubbers out an obscenity. Alec reaches for the fly swatter and the chase is on again.

Simon is a sad sack, the world’s punching bag but he does have one trick up his sleeve. His dad is Lord Mayor of Mars. No one else can claim that.

How he got there long before Elon Musk is not explained but Simon basks in his glory. On Mars International Day — yes, there is one —Simon comes in, wearing his red skivvy and breaks into the Mars National anthem till he is chased out by Alec’s furious flyswatter.

One day Simon slumps in. Dad is not well.  Dad needs Simon to take over. How will he get there? Everyone knows by now that Simon has a rocket ship tucked in a corner of his bedroom at the ready. But Simon as Lord Mayor? Would those Martians treat him seriously?

Simon doesn’t appear the next month nor the one after that.

In fact, he doesn’t appear again.

Can one disappear into one’s own fantasy?

*pic courtesy of Wikipedia

The Third Sentence

Many creative writing classes and manuals will stress the importance of the first sentence, that it must grab the reader’s attention. Even Hemingway espoused this fallacy. But the first sentence is never enough.

Yes, it must grab the reader’s attention, If it doesn’t the reader will go elsewhere. There are plenty of options — but if the second sentence is flaccid, all will be lost. The second sentence fulfills the promise of the first.

But it is the third sentence that seals the deal. The third sentence assures the reader that the writer is authentic, that they are worth listening to, that they have something to say and have the command of language to say it with flair and authority. They can be trusted.

After that the writer will be ‘in full swing’. The reader will be committed;  will go along for the ride.  

All Those Posts … And No Novel

Just think.

500 posts in three years.

I could have written a novel

or short story collection

or that non-fiction book I was always going to write

about the life and death

of board games

or as my grandkids call them

‘bored games’.

Did I choose the form or did the form choose me?

I could be hard on myself

for lacking focus, not chaining myself to my chair.

I would like to be a great writer like David Foster Wallace

but I don’t have the constitution for it.

Besides I don’t look good in a bandana.

A Children’s Picture Story Book

that’s what I’ve always wanted to do.

I’m a lover of the short form.

Posts.
They’re my thing.

Unwrapping them each morning. People unwrapping mine.

There is joy there.

Meaning.

And who is to say one form is superior to another?

*what do you think?

If Only it didn’t Get in the Way

 

I came across a woman who kept tripping over her shadow.

If only it didn’t stand so close, she said, tripping over the shadow’s right foot.

She lifted herself from the ground and before she could hit full stride, the shadow tripped over her.

Fuck! It yelled. She keeps getting in the way.

It lay on the ground, grunting. I think I’ve twisted my ankle.

Here, let me help, I offered. The shadow was tall and spindly and so was relatively easy to pick up.

The sun went behind a cloud and briefly the two became one.

Then it came out again, and the pair went on their slapstick way, tripping and falling.

How they made it home was anyone’s guess.

 

 

 

I Can’t be Buggered

I could go for a walk but I can’t be buggered.

I could check my Facebook status but I can’t be buggered.

I could cut back the bush near the letter box so the postie can chuff past more easily on his motor scooter.

But I can’t be buggered.

I could put more effort in getting my next manuscript together — the editor is interested — but I can’t be buggered doing that either.

I almost can’t be buggered writing this poem about not being buggered.

Would rather curl up in the sun out the back with a good crime novel and lose myself in the plot.

You Coming Up?

It’s a great day to be on the roof. You coming up?

I don’t know, I say. It’s an awfully long way.

Don’t be a wuss! She says.

Watch it, I say.

 

But she scrambles up, climbing the tiled slopes and disappears.

What’s it like? I call.

Fan—bloody—tastic!! She says. You should see this.

You can tell me about it later, I say. Write me a poem.

 

The sun climbs towards its zenith, begins it s long slide towards the sea.

I hear nothing till dinner time when I hear plaintive cries.

I let her stew for a while then  go out the back, look up.

She’s near the gutter but doesn’t go any further.

 

What’s wrong? I say.

Get me down, she whimpers.

What’s wrong? You can get up. You can get down.

It’s an awfully long way, she wails.

Who’s a ‘fraidy cat now?

I’m sorry I called you a ‘wuss’, she says.

I reach up, lift her down. She runs straight to her bowl.

 

What’s the forecast tomorrow? She asks after she’s finished eating.

Overcast with a chance of showers.

Damn! She meows but sounds almost glad.

 

 

You Should be Ashamed of Yourself

 

“I have never read Jane Austen.”

I said.

“Emily Bronte and Jean Rhys but

never Jane Austen.”

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself,”

she said.

So I hung my head in shame and kept on

not reading Jane Austen.

Jolt

 

Every now and then you read a story which gives you a jolt. ‘Suicide Watch’ is one of these. In spite of its confronting title, the story is not depressing. It takes you into the teen world of social media, with its relentless pursuit of ‘likes’ and ‘comments’ and what lengths teens will go to so they can elevate their quota. The tension and uncertainty are nicely calibrated so the narrative skips along.

 

It has one of the best openings I’ve read:

 

‘Jill took her head out of the oven mainly because it was hot and the gas did not work independently of the pilot light. Stupid new technology! And preferring her head whole and her new auburn sew-in weave unsinged, and having no chloroform in the house, she decided she would not go out like a poet’.

 

I love the humor and desperation in this. The ending though comes with a jolt. Partly expected, partly not. The writing is an exercise in style, masterfully balanced between the vernacular and the poetic.

 

AS Adam Ant says, “Do yourself a favor’ and read it. *

 

Have you read a story recently that has given you a jolt?

 

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