The Poetic and the Prosaic

A Diversion

2010-12-15T01:05:00.005+10:30

On Saki and Why You Should Be Reading Him.

2010-12-01T01:15:00.014+10:30

It’s 3:30 in the morning as I write this. It’s also November*, which, as all you writers out there will know, is National Novel Writing Month. I had scheduled an ‘all-nighter’ for tonight in which I could catch up on the novel I’m writing (I’m sad to report that I have fallen slightly behind in the target word goal), but unfortunately before sitting down at my computer, I happened to pick up a book. Not just any book either. It was a book titled The Best of Saki, a collection of short stories written by the master of the short story, Saki (the pen name of H.H. Munro). This is a book I have read countless times before and one that I will doubtless continue to re-read in the coming years. One thing I’d like to make clear before I continue writing this analysis is this: Saki is not a writer that I have on my bookshelf, he’s one I keep next to my bed; his short stories are what I read when I have nothing new to read, they are the book equivalent of a comfy, security blanket. So great is my admiration for him that I even named my cat Tobermory.

So, what is it that I like so much about Saki’s stories? I could mention a lot of things really: his wit and humour, the unique way he had of stating things, his wonderful characters, his almost childlike imagination and his very adult cynicism. However, the thing I appreciate most about Saki is his ability to bring pandemonium to even the most ordinary of situations. Simple and mundane activities like sharing a park bench with a stranger, missing a train, catching a train and visiting the zoo could become interesting (and hilarious) when Saki was wielding his pen.

A trend I have noticed in reviews of Saki’s work is the tendency of the reviewer to share the story of how they were introduced to Saki. Becoming a reader of Saki is much like being initiated into some secret club, because while Saki’s stories have experienced a certain amount of popularity, they have never enjoyed the kind of mainstream success that the works of Oscar Wilde or Arthur Conan Doyle have. Yes, Saki’s body of work is a gem of English literature, but it is a gem that is only uncovered by much digging. I fortunately didn’t have to do much digging of my own. My mum acted as a kind of literary excavator and recommended the book to me; I am, pretty obviously, very glad she did. Ever since I finished reading The Reticence of Lady Anne, I’ve been hooked on his delightfully cynical, utterly hilarious and wonderfully insightful brand of storytelling.

You can learn more about Saki and his stories by reading his Wikipedia article. You can also view an almost complete list of his stories at WikiSource. In addition to the stories I have linked to above, I especially recommend the following:

*I wrote this post early last month, but I only just got around to publishing it.

Writing Challenge Week 8 - Mr. Hatchet Grumbles

2010-09-27T21:37:00.003+09:30

Mr. Hatchet Grumbles slowly and wearily dragged himself out of bed. He glanced at the clock on the wall whilst rubbing at his eyes. It was midday … again. It always seemed to be midday. Not that it mattered really. He rarely had any work these days; his job as a clown wasn’t exactly bringing in the big bucks any more. When he’d first started out he had had a modestly successful run doing children’s birthday parties. However that source of income had gradually dried up about a year ago. According to a client (i.e. a concerned parent) he was ‘too creepy now’. The last time there had been any real demand for his services was last Halloween. The implications of this were not lost on Mr. Grumbles.

He staggered into the kitchen of his dingy, little apartment and fumbled around irritably in his cupboard. He finally located a bowl, laid it on the table and staggered off again in search of something to put in the bowl. Cereal? That’d do. Mr. Grumbles walked (he had recovered some of his equilibrium by now) to the fridge. No milk.
‘Typical,’ he said aloud to himself. ‘Guess it’ll have to be water then.’
And he stomped over to the sink, now feeling even worse about the day ahead.

As he ate his miserable breakfast Mr. Grumbles reflected on his life. It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment when everything had started to go downhill for him. All he knew was that at some point he’d awoken and the day had seemed that little bit darker, his enthusiasm that little bit tempered and his heart that little bit heavier. He now likened his attitude to the world to that of someone staring through a dirty window: no matter how beautiful the sight on the other side of the glass was the view was still spoiled and tainted. Day after day he had woken up to find his day was going to be just the same as the one immediately preceding it. Today was no different.

Except that it was different. In the course of eating his breakfast Mr. Grumbles’ eyes flickered to a letter stuck on the fridge door. For a moment he froze and stared at it like it was the most unusual sight in the world. Eventually he recovered his senses, wiped away the bran from his face and seized the letter almost eagerly. Almost. He had received the letter a few weeks earlier but hadn’t really given it much attention at the time. It hadn’t really seemed that important then. Today, in his milk-deprived state, it seemed like a godsend. The letter ran:

Dear Mr. Hatchet Grumbles,

My name is Andrew Bryant and I am the owner of a small (but thriving) chain of restaurants named ‘Hot Dog Hotspot’. You may have heard of us. Along with a local radio station, I have organised a public hot dog-eating contest and I am writing to enlist your services. It is my hope that you’ll agree to appear and provide comic relief to the competitors who will doubtless be flagging by mid-afternoon. I couldn’t see a fee included in your advertisement but I’m willing to pay you a total of $500 for the whole afternoon. Hot dogs will naturally be provided to you free of charge.

I feel I must state that you are invited strictly as an employee of ‘Hot dog Hotspot’ and on no account are you to actually win the competition. If you are available please contact me to confirm.

Yours sincerely,
Andrew Bryant.
CEO Hot dog Hotspot.

Included with the letter was an invitation, emblazoned with the logos of both ‘Hot dog Hotspot’ and the local radio station, which included details that any clown hoping to get paid would need to know. Mr. Grumbles stared at the place given as the location: an old slaughterhouse.
‘Sort of appropriate for someone as creepy as I am, I suppose.’ He mused as he hurried off to apply his make-up.

Later that afternoon Mr. Grumbles was spotted arriving at the designated location in his rather beaten-up clown car. As he walked up to an official-looking young woman holding a clipboard he noted the large number of families, balloons and other objects of supposed festivity. If it wasn’t for the lingering impression of death and blood he could almost have forgotten he was entering a slaughterhouse. Almost.

The young woman smiled at him as he approached.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked in a tone that suggested she had been asking that same question all day.
‘My name is Hatchet Grumbles and I was employed by a Mr. Andrew Bryant,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry but there doesn’t seem to be anything in the papers here mentioning you. You said your name was Grumbles?’
‘Yes, I have this letter here explaining it all.’
The woman took the letter from him and examined it carefully.
‘Did you ring up and confirm that you would be attending?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘In the second paragraph it says you needed to RSVP. That’s probably why you’re not on my list.’
Mr. Grumbles stared blankly.
‘Does that mean I’m not getting paid?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

Mr. Grumbles grabbed his letter out of the woman’s hands and walked away.
‘I can’t believe I dragged my worthless carcase out of bed for this!’ he muttered angrily under his breath.
With a face like thunder he stared at the offending letter. However his face softened as a particular phrase in it jumped out at him.
‘I feel I must state that you are invited strictly as an employee of ‘Hot dog Hotspot’ and on no account are you to actually win the competition.’
He wasn’t actually an official employee now. He was at perfect liberty to enter the competition; it was public contest after all.

With a lighter heart he headed back to the woman with the clipboard.
‘Excuse me but is it still possible to enter the competition as a regular entrant?’ he asked.
‘Yes, actually it is,’ the woman said. ‘We’re taking sign-ups for the last heat now.’

Half an hour later Mr. Grumbles was standing at a long table with the other competitors. When the representative from the radio station rang the bell he began shovelling the hot dogs down his throat with alacrity. The bran in water was all he had eaten in hours and he was ravenously hungry. In five minutes time he was gloriously declared the winner of his heat and the final hot dog assault later that evening was, if anything, only more triumphant. Hot dog after hot dog disappeared into his mouth; the other competitors just couldn’t keep up.

That night Mr. Grumbles could be spotted driving home in his rather beaten-up clown car. Memories of the applause he had received lingering pleasantly in his mind. In the backseat there was a large novelty cheque for five thousand dollars, in his wallet there was a smaller real cheque for the same amount and on the face of Mr. Grumbles there was the first real smile in months. He had a tidy amount of money in his pocket, an invitation to do a radio interview the next day and many inquiries from different families asking if he was available for parties. For the first time in a long time things were looking up for Mr. Hatchet Grumbles.

Writing Challenge Week 7 - Porcelain and Tatterdemalion

2010-09-23T22:56:00.003+09:30

Porcelain stood on the shelf in the little second-hand shop and stared out the window, her blue glass eyes reflecting passers-by on the street in front of her. Despite her humanoid form her beautiful face had never registered the feelings of anger, hate and malice known to the people passing before her. She was free of the taint of humanity but she also had none of its sparkle. She had never laughed at a bad joke, never made a bad joke even, never hugged anyone, never felt excitement, never cried with happiness and had never loved. Porcelain was only a doll, an unwanted doll.

After all, who would want an old, clunky doll like her when they could buy a new, plastic doll instead? There might’ve been a little girl out there who could have loved her but it seemed modern parents didn’t realise that their children didn’t always want the latest word in toys. Children have the faculty of limitless imagination, a faculty we seem to lose as we get older. Porcelain wasn’t worth anything to a collector either. Hundreds of her ilk were now residing at the city dump, their beautiful china faces smashed beyond recognition. It was a harsh world; the toy standing beside Porcelain could attest to that.

Tatterdemalion the golliwog also stared out the window. His name hadn’t always been Tatterdemalion. He had once been a very smartly dressed doll but now the years were starting to show on him. His clothes were raggedy and threadbare and covered in dust. He was, after all, very old and long out of fashion. However despite these circumstances a rosy smile never left his face. Tatterdemalion was also only a doll and the contemplation of his existence wasn’t included in his two-dollar asking price. Perhaps that was a good thing though because Tatterdemalion’s lot in life was, if possible, even more tragic than Porcelain’s.

Once upon a time every nursery and storybook had featured a golliwog like Tatterdemalion, a popular toy for girls and boys alike. Nowadays however nobody would be seen in public with a toy like him. He was expunged from storybooks and replaced with more family friendly characters. He was tossed from nurseries like a disgusting rag.
“Racist!” they cried.
“An ugly piece of propaganda from a bygone age.”
Tatterdemalion didn’t hear these accusations though – indeed he wasn’t capable of hearing them – but if he had he wouldn’t have understood them. He had been made to bring joy, not anger and disgust.

And so there they stood, felt hand in porcelain hand, two toys that had outlived the world in which they were made. Every so often somebody scurrying past the shop window would turn and look at these old curios, standing in all their faded glory, but these glances were few and fleeting. Why linger in the past, after all? Are there not a million more exciting gadgets and gizmos in the world than two old dolls? Of course there are. But where will these marvels be in ten years? On the curb as likely as not. Where will Porcelain and Tatterdemalion be then? Standing on the same shelf, in the same stop, staring at a world where they are now slightly less alone in their redundancy.

Writing Challenge Week 6 - Bubbles

2010-09-11T18:00:00.009+09:30

Author's Note: I got the inspiration for this story from this random logline generator. My prompt was 'An indecisive spy, an incredulous bank teller, and a nudist limo driver kidnap an orang-utan.'

‘Give him another banana,’ the bank teller whispered loudly. ‘He keeps trying to grab at the money in my jacket.'
‘He’s a girl actually,’ said another man in a trench coat and fedora. ‘And I’ve kinda got my hands full here. Orang-utans are quite heavy, you know.’
‘Well, where’s Jim got to then?’ said the first man
‘He’s bringing the car around. He should be here in a few – OWW,’ the man in the fedora broke off suddenly.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She keeps kicking me. Can you grab her legs? No wait! Can you get the bananas out of my bag?’

Bubbles the orang-utan, latterly a resident of the city zoo, seemed oblivious to the pandemonium around her. She eagerly seized the banana offered to her by the bank teller and promptly started to whack him over the head with it. This drumbeat continued for several minutes before being interrupted by the arrival of a sleek, black limousine.

‘Thank God you’re here, Jim,’ said Mr. Fedora as the driver emerged from the limo. ‘What took you so long?’
‘Paying for the parking took me longer than I expected. Couldn’t find the correct change. It’s a bit difficult when you don’t have pockets,’ explained Jim as he walked around the side of limo and revealed himself to be in a state of complete undress.
‘Urgh, I wish you’d put some clothes on,’ said the bank teller pulling bits of mashed banana out of his hair. ‘I can’t believe you would continue with your alternative lifestyle while we’re pulling off an operation as sensitive as this.’
‘My car, my rules,’ Jim said simply.

The next few minutes were filled with much physical exertion as the three men hauled Bubbles into the front seat of the limo.
‘I’m glad we didn’t go for one of those big Bornean males now,’ said Mr. Fedora. ‘This Sumatran female is quite big enough as it is. Now that I think about, maybe we should have chosen an even smaller one? We might cause even more of a stir if we took one of the babies.’
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed the bank teller. ‘I can’t believe you’d even think about lugging this thing back and getting another one. I didn’t get all this banana in my hair for nothing.’
‘Would you guys stop fighting and get this great lump away from the Hi-Fi,’ Jim interjected.
‘Hey Jim, ever read any Poe?’ asked Mr. Fedora. ‘You know, The Murders in the Rue Morgue?’
‘No, what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Um, not much. I just think it’d be better to let her play with the Hi-Fi if she wants to.’

Jim sat in the driver’s seat and wiped the sweat off his brow although, due to recent proximity of his naked skin and the cold night air, he was probably the coolest of the three.
‘Phew,’ he said looking over at Bubbles who was finally strapped into the front passenger seat next to him. ‘I’m glad that’s done. Are you guys in back okay?’
‘This is crazy,’ said the bank teller. ‘I can’t believe we actually did this. Remind me of our plan.’
‘Well,’ said Jim. ‘The first step was getting the gorilla.’
‘Orang-utan.’
‘Orang-utan then. The second step is telling the authorities and the zoo that we’ve got this banana-eating menace. And, of course, the third step involves us collecting the …’
The three men turned to look at each other and their voices rang out joyfully in unison:
‘MONEY!’

Writing Challenge Week 5 - More Than Ordinary

2010-09-05T19:13:00.004+09:30

Sara McKee moved at great speed to the bus stop, chewing gum squishing under her feet and breeze blowing her hair in her face as she ran. Finally she reached the doors and clambered aboard, smiling a touch insanely at the driver as she validated her ticket. She stumbled to a seat near the front and sat down with a feeling of relief. After smoothing her hair down and finding a place between her legs to discreetly stow her bag, she surveyed her fellow passengers. A fairly churlish teenager sat listening to his music player, an old couple sat talking quietly between themselves, a rather dirty-looking man in faded jeans and a baseball cap stared out the window; all very run of the mill, very ordinary.

‘Not that I’m anything special,’ Sara reflected as the bus started to move. ‘I’m as ordinary as they come.’
She looked down at herself. She was wearing an ordinary grey suit, an attempt to look professional and businesslike. She was only twenty-five and had taken a position in a bank to pay off her uni debts. The work was dull and unrewarding but Sara was determined that her colleagues would find her a serious-minded and conscientious worker. She took on jobs that nobody else wanted, would offer to pay for drinks or meals at work functions and was generally polite to the point of obsequiousness. Sara was desperately eager-to-please.

Presently the bus pulled up at a stop and a woman got on. Her facial features weren’t unlike Sara’s and she was of a similar age. This is where the similarities ended though. This woman had bright purple hair, several facial piercings and an air of nonchalance about her. Her general demeanour suggested only one thing: ‘I don’t care what you think of me.’

After a few moments of shilly-shallying with her ticket, the woman moved to the empty seat next to Sara and started fumbling with her bag. Sara used this opportunity to surreptitiously give her the once over.
‘She’s much more interesting than I am,’ thought Sara sadly, after finishing her inspection. ‘I bet people notice her.’
And indeed, several heads had looked up when this woman had gotten on the bus.
‘I wonder how she does it? I’m pretty near invisible. I’m just boring, I guess. My thoughts and ideas are unoriginal. I bet that even having thoughts about being unoriginal is unoriginal. I guess I do okay though. Maybe I don’t need to be interesting.’
With that thought lingering in her mind Sara reached into her bag and fished out a book, a recent bestseller. ‘So what if everyone else was reading it?’ She decided.
The woman next to her had turned to stare at her but Sara was too absorbed in her book to notice.

A few minutes earlier:
Minnie Rhodes (born Margaret Rhodes) strutted on to the bus, ignoring the driver as she passed him. Flicking her purple hair out of her face, she headed to the ticket machine. A few heads looked up as she dropped her ticket and let out a loud exclamation of annoyance. After validating her ticket she walked defiantly to a free seat next to a woman in a grey suit. Making sure to ignore this woman completely, Minnie started to go through her bag in an effort to find something of some amusement. Her hand lingered on a recent bestseller but this idea was quickly rejected.
‘I wouldn’t want to be seen reading this in public,’ she thought.
Finding nothing else in her bag to hold her attention, she turned to the woman sitting next to her and had a good stare.
‘God, what a boring woman!’ Minnie decided.

Writing Challenge Week 4 - The Clockwork Soul

2010-08-31T17:04:00.003+09:30

If you go to a forest, any forest in the whole world, on the night before the full moon and walk counter-clockwise around a fairy ring seven times you will suddenly find yourself in a parallel world. But which parallel world? Could be any of them really. Could be the one wherein everyone looks like their passport photos, the one where cows quack and ducks chirp or maybe the one where the ocean is comprised entirely of milkshake. But it could also be the silent dream of a world that I’m about to relate to you. This world will look exactly like the one you just left, only it will be emptier somehow, quieter. You won’t see or hear any birds. Even the breeze will be silent. This place won’t feel abandoned though; it’ll simply feel like no one has ever been there before. If you walk to the edge of the parallel forest you will find a mass of junk. This is the detritus of our reality that has fallen through the ether that separates the worlds. This is where you will find him.

He lives in a small makeshift hut in the middle of his kingdom of rubbish. A dwelling constructed out of a variety of materials salvaged, or scavenged from different places: sheets of old and rusted tin, cracked windowpanes, ornate bed frames, planks of decaying wood. He doesn't have a name. Well, he does but he won't recognise it, even if you call it out to him. It has been so long, you see, since anyone has spoken to him. As for his appearance, well, he's a short man, looks like a gnome or an old wizened elf and, indeed, maybe he is one. But I think it’s far more likely that he was once a human being living in our world, a piece of human detritus who fell through the cracks. It's been so long that even he doesn't know any more. It’s been so, so long.

Walk into his home. He won’t stop you; he probably won’t even notice you. He’ll likely just assume that you are nothing more than a moving picture from his old, battered VCR. On a desk in this hovel you’ll find his most treasured possession: his soul. Well, I say soul but really it’s only more rubbish. Well, to you and me it’s rubbish; to him it’s his everything.

It’s cobbled together from bits of clockwork and various other thingummies. He hasn’t got it quite right yet, more needs to be added, and things need to be tweaked. ‘One day it’ll work, maybe?’ You might think?
Of course not! His soul will be found only in other people and he doesn’t know any of those creatures. In his loneliness he has come to believe that a soul can be built but it never can be. So, day after day he’ll work on this piece of glorified clockwork, believing that he’s getting closer to feeling something real but he’s only moving further away. In the detritus, on the edge on a forest, in a parallel world is where you will find him. It is also where you’ll leave him.

Writing Challenge Week 4 Postponed

2010-08-22T21:39:00.002+09:30

Been too sick this week to do anything but sleep. I'm not being lazy by not posting anything I've just felt too rotten. Postponing this week's story until next week.

Trip to Victor Harbor on the Southern Encounter

2010-08-16T18:44:00.004+09:30

In an effort to give this blog a more 'personal feel', I'm going to post the occasional entry about myself and what I'm doing. I still want to keep this blog mostly as a place for posting my stories though. Anyway ...

Yesterday, Sunday, 15 August, I went to Victor Harbor with my brother on the Southern Encounter train. We had to be up early to catch the train from Mt. Barker in the morning. I didn't get to take many pictures of the scenery during the trip because I didn't have the window seat. Shame! We arrived in Victor around midday so we had lunch at the Grosvenor Hotel. I had an enormous beef schnitzel and, because I'm a pig, I ate it all and the chips too. I didn't touch the salad. Also had a look in the shopping centre, bought a present for my dog and chocolate and cereal for us. Yes, cereal (the price was right). We caught the train back to Mt. Barker at 3.15PM. I didn't get home until 7.00ish and I was very tired by then.

My foot. Artistic photo, isn't it?

Me holding coffee. Like my fluffy, pink fingerless gloves?

View from the train window.

Outside the train. No, I'm just kidding it's inside the train.

The beach at Victor Harbor. Picture taken from the train window.

The Southern Encounter starts from Mt. Barker at 10.00AM and leaves Victor Harbor at 6.15PM every fortnight until November. Visit the SteamRanger site for details.

Writing Challenge Week 3 - The Moon on the Waves

2010-08-13T17:39:00.002+09:30

Mike Wilder looked out the window of his car and smiled. He was on his way to the beach after a particularly busy day at the accountancy office where he worked. It was his wont to take a swim after work each day. He found that it was a good way to unwind and keep fit. He didn’t get much exercise in his line of work and after a day stuck at a desk he was itching to stretch his legs a bit. The beach wasn’t crowded but it wasn’t empty either when Mike pulled into the beach car park. It was a warm afternoon and there were many people keen to take advantage of the sunshine.

Mike pulled on his wetsuit and headed down to the water. It certainly looked very inviting – a calm, cool blue. Mike waded into the gentle waves and started to do backstroke. He got tired of this quickly though. It was a nice, lazy afternoon and Mike didn't feel like doing anything strenuous.
'One of these days I should take up surfing,' he mused to himself while watching the seagulls fight for chips on the shore. Catching sight of a still patch in the water, he leisurely made his way to it and floated on his back for a while.

Mike closed his eyes and turned his face to the warm sun. He was conscious of movement but it was pleasant and relaxing. The yells and laughs on the shore seemed to get quieter and more distant, as if they were moving away from him.
'Good,' thought Mike dreamily to himself. 'I like the quiet.' So he continued to drift along pleasantly.
It was perhaps ten or fifteen minutes later that he opened his eyes and looked up. He couldn't see the shore in any direction no matter how much he strained his eyes. Panic washed over him. It was clear what had happened: he must have got dragged out to sea in a rip tide.

Mike suddenly started to feel very cold. His wetsuit didn't feel very protective any more and the wind no longer felt gentle and calm, it felt positively feral now. He didn't have his watch with him but going by the growl in his stomach, it was probably about dinnertime. ‘Would anyone come to look for him?’ He wondered. He hadn't told anyone in particular that he was going to the beach that afternoon but surely someone knew enough about his regular habits and could make a guess at his location.

A cloud of gloom settled over Mike and he was prey to all breeds of morbid thought. ‘What if I’m never found? Does it hurt to drown? Oh God, is something going to take a bite out of me?’
He tried to tell himself he was being silly. He could be certain that his car would be found at the very least and he was a strong swimmer and was unlikely to drown. As for the last one, well, he had simply watched too many movies. However no matter how many times he told that to himself he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was swimming around his legs. The sun was dipping lower and lower into the sky; it would be dark soon - an idea that Mike really didn't relish.

It was just before sunset that Mike saw something on the horizon; one of the things that he had been dreading: shark fins. They were too far away for him to make a guess at what species they were but he was sure that they wouldn't be averse to taking a bite out of his leg. Panic set in again. Mike tried to calm himself; thrashing around would only attract the monsters. He was conscious of every thudding heartbeat and every measured breath, scared that the sharks would somehow detect him. By now night had fallen and he couldn't see more than a five-foot radius around him. Nevertheless there was still something that he could see; more than see, he could feel it. It was the rising moon, the rising full moon.

The change was nearly instantaneous. Mike could feel his very bones changing and warping, his teeth becoming jagged and sharp and his nails becoming claws. Fur pushed its way through his skin and was immediately soaked in the freezing seawater. The shreds of his former wetsuit were washed away in the waves. Mike writhed and splashed in pain. He could feel his mind starting to slip away from him but made no attempt to try and hold on to it. He wouldn’t need his human mind or form tonight. The predatory nature, the stamina and the improved senses of the wolf would serve him much better. One last thought flitted through his head before the wolf instinct took over his mind completely: 'I guess the sharks aren't the most dangerous thing in the water tonight after all'.

Writing Challenge Week 2 - The Poetic and the Prosaic

2010-08-08T17:53:00.003+09:30

‘Ah, spring,’ reflected Jonathan Bradley. ‘The sun is bright, the birds are singing, and the leaves are returning to the trees. A time of new life and infinite possibilities.’
Thomas Moore, his lunch companion, suppressed a smile.
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed an increase in possibilities myself,’ he replied, ‘although I’m in complete agreement with you on the increase in leaves. My yard has become so overgrown I may have to resort to actually pruning my trees.’
Jonathan decided to ignore this prosaic statement.
‘I can’t remember when I last felt so inspired. Spring has such a magical quality about it. So poetic! I feel as though I could accomplish anything. Perhaps I’ll write a piece on it when I have the time,’ he said.

This time Thomas didn’t bother suppressing his smile. Jonathan, the owner of a small bookshop, hadn’t changed a bit since they had been at school together. Even in his school days he had cherished a dream of being a published poet.
‘A dream that probably sprung from the erroneous assumption that just because he could read poetry, he could write it as well,’ Thomas had often thought, somewhat unkindly, to himself. Jonathan could never look at something simple like a tree without seeing “leaves dappled with golden sunlight” or “a trunk of raw sienna gently topped with a chartreuse crown”.
‘Why did he have to be so pompous and grandiloquent? Why couldn’t he see things as they really were?’ Thomas asked himself.

Jonathan smiled too. Thomas had always been utterly dull. At school he had failed miserably in subjects like music, art, and creative writing - anything that required a shred of creativity or inventiveness. In many ways Jonathan felt sorry for Thomas.
‘It must be terrible to wake up in the morning and not see the possibilities inherent in each day,’ Jonathan thought. ‘To be so completely devoid of imagination that the only things you can believe in are atoms and empty space.’

Thomas, suddenly snapping out of his daydream, glanced at his watch.
‘Look at the time,’ he said, ‘the lunch hour is nearly over. I really must be getting back to the office.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Jonathan answered. ‘I should head back to the shop. I’m going through the inventory at the moment and that always takes an age to finish. Shall I meet you here at the same time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, I’ll see you then,’ said Thomas.
The two men walked off in their separate directions. Despite the fact that Jonathan was an idealist and that Thomas was as pragmatic as they come, they both understood each other. For an hour each weekday both men got the chance to appreciate the world from another perspective.

An aging butler kills a dolphin in a spooky cemetery.

2010-08-03T13:36:00.007+09:30

Last night I had some time to spare so I decided to do some writing. I went to this random plot generator and chose the prompt: 'An aging butler kills a dolphin in a spooky cemetery'. I then headed over to Write or Die and this is what I churned out in 20 minutes.

"The cemetery had been there for over two hundred years. The butler walking through its gates hadn't existed for quite that long but he was still quite advanced in years. He was eighty years old and had been working as a butler for sixty of those years. He was tired but not too tired for what he now had to do.

The cemetery was a very eerie place. The branches of the trees swayed in the wind, throwing ghostly shadows on the crumbling tombstones. Still the butler had a job to do that night and no amount of creepiness could put him off his task.

The dolphin that was lurking in the cemetery also had a job to do. This butler had ruined his schemes for the last time. Mr. Splashy, for that was the dolphin's name, worked hard at the local marine park ... scamming tourists, kicking puppies and jaywalking. The butler, who was the personal servant of the owner of this park, had thwarted him time and time again. It had finally come down to this: a battle to the death in a spooky cemetery.

The butler advanced on Mr. Splashy, crowbar in his hand. Mr. Splashy hurried forward and whacked the butler with his flippers, spitting out his cigarette as he did so. The butler took this beating manfully. Grasping his crowbar tightly he aimed it at Mr. Splashy's tail. The dolphin fell to the ground in pain, uttering expletives and stomping on daisies; this is when the butler took his chance. Reaching in his pockets he grabbed at a plastic bag - the non-biodegradable type. He aimed it with precision: Mr. Splashy had no chance to do anything for in an instant to the plastic bag of doom was on his head and he was struggling to breathe.

The bag had done the job. In a few minutes Mr. Splashy, the dolphin terror, was no more. The butler looked upon his victim sadly. He had always had the greatest love for dolphins and sea creatures in general. Even going so far as to eat dolphin safe tuna. It was a sad sight to see a noble dolphin so far fallen. Still, Mr. Splashy had been a very bad dolphin indeed."

Disclaimer: I do not endorse the killing of dolphins in any way.

Writing Challenge Week 1 - The Stranger in the Pub

2010-07-31T16:29:00.005+09:30

The evening of June twenty-sixth last year had been normal in most respects, albeit very cold. I’m not exactly sure why I decided to go into that little pub. I’d already had a drink that night. Perhaps it was the charming neon sign that caught my attention. More likely I was tempted by the chance to get out of the cold night for a few moments. Whatever the reason, I went in and sat on a stool at the bar. The place was mostly untenanted, not that I minded. I ordered a pint from a bad-tempered bartender.

I hadn’t been sitting down ten minutes before the man walked into the establishment. I gaped at this stranger quite rudely at first. He was a positively terrifying man though, so perhaps my staring was justified. Sallow skin clung to his gaunt face. His hair was long and straggly, the colour of dishwater. At the ends of shrivelled fingers he had talon-like nails. He was not someone you would want to meet in a dark alley - or in a small backstreet pub even. He sidled up to the bar and, unfortunately, took the seat next to mine. By this point I had ceased staring at him, as I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I tried to catch some of his words as he spoke to the bartender. I heard him clear his throat and ask Surly-Chops for a glass of wine in a raspy voice. This struck me as odd, not only because I have never understood the appeal of that particular drink, but also because he didn’t seem like the kind of person to be a wine drinker by choice.

It was about five minutes later that I noticed that his eye was often fixed in my direction. I had been sitting quietly, trying not to make eye contact with him, when I had caught sight of him in my peripheral vision. Needless to say, this made me feel very uncomfortable. He had a piercing stare and I felt like he could see right through me. Like all of my thoughts, feelings and intentions were being laid bare for him to see and judge. I considered moving to another seat but I realised his eyes would just follow me there.

After what seemed an eternity, he downed the last of his drink and made his way out of the pub. I heard the door clang behind him but I still felt uneasy. What was the meaning behind those glances? Did he know something about me? These thoughts ran through my head in less than a minute of his leaving. Abruptly I got out of my seat and headed in the direction he had just gone. I’ve never been a person to let things sit.

The cold hit me as soon as I left the pub. Almost like getting slapped in the face with an icicle. I saw the man just slightly up the street and hurried after him, wrapping my coat around me as I ran. The street was as silent as the grave and there was no one around when I caught up with him just outside a dark bakery.
‘Why were you staring at me back there?’ I demanded, perhaps a touch hurriedly. I don’t normally express myself so tersely but this guy had me seriously on edge and I was desperate to get the bottom of the matter.
He looked at me for quite some time before answering. That searching stare that I had come to hate so quickly. When he finally spoke his voice was the same rasp I’d heard earlier.
‘I was staring at you because there’s something not right about you,’ he said.
‘What’s not right about me then?’ I prompted. ‘Please enlighten me.’
‘You’re empty inside. When I look at you it’s like there’s nothing there. Like you’re dead,’ he answered.

At this point I paused. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to a statement like that. He must have noticed the look of incredulity on my face because he answered my next question before I had even put it into words: ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I can read auras - a sort of glow that surrounds people and represents their inner thoughts and feelings,’ he said. ‘You don’t have one though and it’s so strange. I can’t understand …’ he broke off suddenly.
I turned my head in the direction he was looking and understood his sudden silence. His eyes had strayed to the windows of the bakery where he saw himself … Just himself.

A look of realisation dawned on his haggard face and I knew I didn’t have long. Quickly I looked from left to right; the street was fortunately still empty. In an instant I advanced towards him and sank my teeth into his throat. He didn’t struggle for long or even cry out, not that it would have mattered if he had. I didn’t completely drain him, didn’t need to. Like I said, I’d already had a drink that night. After a minute or two I let his body drop to the ground and I headed home. I had to be back before the sunrise.

My Bookshelves

2010-07-25T15:45:00.003+09:30

Tomorrow I'm going to start working on my first weekly writing challenge story. To pass the time until then I thought I'd post some pictures of my bookshelves. The books shown don't represent the entirety of my library, these are just the books I could get pictures of. If you want to know the title of a particular book feel free to ask me.

That's it for now. Phew!

Introduction + Weekly Writing Challenge Rules

2010-07-21T23:19:00.009+09:30

Hi, I'm new to blogger but I already have a lot of plans about what I'm going to be doing here. But before I get to that, I should introduce myself. My name is Lilly. I'm eighteen, female and I live in Australia.
My interests include: sudoku puzzles, Saki stories, Vegemite sandwiches, orange crush, Neopets, sleeping, Doctor Who spoilers, my dogs and cat, crosswords, xkcd comics, feeling smug, sarcasm, Mars bars, mystery stories, rainy days and a bunch of other things.

I'm also a huge slacker and a terrible perfectionist.

That's sort of why I'm here actually.

Each week I'm going to set myself the challenge of writing a short story. If everything goes to plan, this should get me off my lazy arse and doing something constructive. I also hope it will curb some of my perfectionist traits and help me feel more relaxed about writing in general.

The Rules:

Every story must be +500 words.
Stories must be fiction but can be any genre I choose.
I begin writing on Mondays and must post my stories to this blog on Sundays.