I know, I know, I know, my dishes fill the sink. The ironing’s piled up high and my life is on the brink. But there are twenty pages more that I have to write, Before this very day becomes this very night.
The lawns they do need mowing, but you can hire a guide, For from front gate to my front door I’m sure you will survive. A plague or two dust bunnies breed beneath my bed, While characters and settings bounce around my head.
I woke with such a start in the middle of last night, A stunning bright idea almost made my heart take flight. I raced towards the study and tripped upon the dog And suddenly I found my mind enveloped in a fog.
I sat and sat and waited, for inspiration to return, But my muse had up and taken that holiday I yearn. Just yesterday my editor had shown to me her ire, “Chapter eight and chapter nine by Monday I desire.”
I glanced around the study, and frowned in consternation What reason can I quickly find for my hero’s altercation? And who, what, why, where, how and when, raise their ugly head. I also need a sneaky way to have a villain dead.
A bleary glance upon the clock, revealed it two A.M. Please, dear Lord, some sleep I need, I pray with soft Amen My mind is gone without a doubt, and insanity I pled When my editor phones and asks of me, “Why are you still in bed?”
I wish that I could wake, and sleep, and eat in automation, while my mind produces twisting plots with perfect inspiration. The writer’s life brings joy and pain and takes much energy, But write I must and here I know, I’m in good company.
After reading posts about books, editing, and reading from Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner and Mike eyedancers.wordpress.com Fedison, I felt a spark of silliness and dragged something out of the attic to post. If you’ve ever sought the services of a professional editor, I’m sure you’ll relate to it.
He’s tall and slinky, but don’t be mistaken, He has the charm of a large hungry kraken. Your words he’ll devour, left right and centre And gerunds and gerundives will fly from his tower.
“You split the infinitive,” he’ll moan out loud. “And the tense of your MS is under a cloud.” You think splitting the infinitive is not as much fun, As splitting the atom right under his … seat.
He phones you at midnight when your defences are down And you stutter and fumble and sound like a clown. He declares Sally the yak, might run and leap, but it’s beyond her power to drive the pink Jeep.
Edward dies in a plane crash in chapter four, But ten sees him blithely run through the door. Oh, how could you make such a huge mistake? And you weep, sob and moan till daybreak.
“Fear not, oh writer,” the Kraken announces, And for one fearful moment, he looks ready to pounce. “I’m here to advise you, lend a hand and assist, get rid of your faux pas, glitches and unsightly messes.”
“You need my help to see this through, to make sure you show instead of just tell For though you may think I’m a heartless predator, I’m really and truly, your loving editor
Horatio ducked under an overhanging branch of the giant tree fern and flattened himself against its trunk. He tried to calm his breathing, slowly, slowly, breathe – don’t let her find you again. He risked a quick peek around the fronds and pulled back hurriedly. She was coming closer – snuffling the ground, trying to follow his faint scent.
Wincing, he examined his injuries; there was a sizable chunk taken out of his left leg where his enemy had spent ten minutes chewing on him. He groaned; his smart uniform would never be the same again, and he daren’t think about his handsome face where the savage beast had slobbered on him as she carried him by the head. The very thought made him shudder.
A slight movement from the far side of the lawn caught his eye and he turned towards the garden bed where Jack and Jill waved and motioned for him to make his way through the fairy ring, which had sprung up overnight, and over to them where Alyssum and Viola spilled over onto the gravel driveway.
Horatio was halfway across the lawn when he heard a delighted yip-yip and felt the ground tremble as the giant, slavering beast bounded towards him. He dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms, waiting for what he felt would be the inevitable end. Then just as he felt the beast’s hot breath on his neck, a shrill whistle broke the still morning air and a cry of, ‘Here, puppy, fetch.’ Horatio peeked through his fingers and saw the scourge of the backyard running happily after a ball, thrown by Little Boy Blue and Humpty Dumpty from the second-storey playroom window.
Taking the opportunity the diversion provided, Horatio leapt to his feet, ran, tripped and then tumbled down the hill towards Jack and Jill, who had done their own fair share of tumbling down in the past.
While the beast was occupied with the bouncing ball, Jack and Jill carried Horatio in their bucket to the safety of the garden shed.
Jill inspected Horatio’s wounds. ‘Poor Horatio, look at your paintwork. It’s all chipped, and there is a big lump out of your leg.’
Jack nodded none too sympathetically. ‘Yep, sure not as smart looking as you were before. The girls aren’t going to give you the time of day after what the pup has done; your uniform looks a right mess, me old mate.’
‘Jack, just hush,’ scolded Jill, ‘Horatio doesn’t need you to make him feel any worse than he already does.’
Horatio sighed, ‘It’s all right, Jill. He’s right you know… I’m a mere shadow of what I was before. That wretched pup has reduced my former glory to the point where I look like a bedraggled hobo.’
Jill patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Horatio, we’ll all help fix you up.’
Jack snorted. ‘After what that pup’s done to him, it will take hours of work to make him look as smart as he did before.’
‘Not if we all help.’
The three friends turned to face the doorway as Mary, who can be quite contrary at times, came into the garden shed.
‘I have some paint left over from when I fixed up the picket fence around my garden.’
‘Yes,’ said another voice, and King Cole poked his head through the doorway, ‘and I have some gold we can melt down to make new buttons for you.’
‘See!’ Jill said, hugging Horatio as he grimaced in pain. ‘Before you know it, you’ll look so smart that even the pup will follow you as docilely as one of Mary’s little lambs.’
Horatio smiled in gratitude as his friends gathered around.
‘Right!’ said King Cole, taking charge. ‘Let’s get to work.’
Well, they do say (whoever “they” are,) that a little bit of excitement is good for you, and maybe two ambulances and four police cars rocking up to your house at 2:00am might just about qualify.
Why were they there you might well ask. Well, they were there because some brainless cretin with nothing better to do, phones 000 and reported, “There’s yelling and screaming. I think they’re killing one another – he’s got a knife.”
My poor daughter who is a nurse, answered the door half asleep to be confronted by all these police. When they explained why they were there, she invited them in to take a look around, but they must have realised from her dumbfounded look, that no murder or mayhem had taken place.
They apologised and said they’d had multiple calls about “incidents” taking place in our street late at night over the past few weeks.
My son-in-law, true to form, slept through the whole thing. Our dog Bailey had started barking and growling when one of the officers checked down the side of the house and dared to venture onto the deck. I told him off for being a naughty boy but sadly missed all the excitement of all those handsome police rocking up.
I just hope they manage to catch whoever made the prank call next time and throw the book at them. The police and ambos have better things to do than having multiple vehicles tied up when there could be a real emergency to attend to. We are, however, extremely grateful for their swift response to what could very well have been more.
It amazes me how much spam mail gathers in my spam folder over a week. I usually just click “Delete All Spam,” but occasionally I’ll read some of them if the topic sounds interesting or it’s from a company that I know is real, but bogus in that particular case.
They always stuff up somewhere with spelling or grammar. A sample of this week’s offerings… * Australia Post (with their official emblem) becomes Australian Post or Post Servise and I have a package they couldn’t deliver without confirmation (of what I wonder?)
* Pay Pal want to send me a 100$ give card (Just put it in my account already.)
* Paul Hogan wants to give me his Bit Coin advice (maybe this is why he was in trouble with the Australian Tax Office – he made so much money.)
* A security company want to help me proteect my home (thanks, but I have three rottweilers.)
* Kogan want to reward me for being a great customer and put $500 in my account (I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.)
* Kogan (again) want to reward me with a 💥💥💥 FREE 💥💥💥 i-phone 14 (hmmm… hey, buddy, the latest is i-phone 13.)
* Exotic Ukrainian Women are waiting for you Now! Apparently they’ve seen my very handsome photo and it makes their heart go BOOM BOOM BOOM (oh brother… do they ever need glasses 🙄)
Have I ever had the temptation to reply to some of these emails? Ha! A snowball would have more chance in hell.
There is, however, a very brave sole who has done so – on more than one occasion – and has made You Tube videos to show you how it’s done. His name is James Veitch. My personal favourites are the episodes Mary Gary, Solomon, Toaster and Snail Farm. If you want a good chuckle, I highly recommend them.
Oh, and these emails always say, “To unsubscribe click here.”
Here is my story for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. Come on over and join in the fun. This photo for this week’s story was contributed by Ted Strutz.
By the time the smoke cleared, his heart rate had almost returned to normal. Leo marvelled that he’d survived the explosion considering the condition of his car – or what was left of it.
He looked closely at the pile of bits and pieces and shook his head. ‘Bloody squirrels!’ he muttered picking up several acorns. They hated him and his car. Said it kept their babies awake when he revved the engine.
He leapt back as angry chattering came from the tree above him. He’d have to leave town. A badger was no match for an angry mother squirrel.
Sarah shivered as the fog swirled around her; its tendrils reaching out like fingers to caress her face.
‘What idiot decided to build the garage so far from the house?’ She trudged across the lawn; her shoes soaked from the rainwater lying inches deep on the grass did nothing to improve her mood. ‘First thing I’m going to do is put a decent bloody path in.’
She screamed and flapped her arms as an owl screeched and swooped low, brushing the top of her head. The house loomed out of the darkness and Sarah stumbled gratefully through the huge double doors, and slammed them shut behind her. The whispering started immediately, ‘She’s late.’ ‘Sir Rushton will be cross.’ ‘I like her; she’s funny.’
Sarah stamped her foot, ‘Shut up – all of you, or I’ll turn you into fire starters. The whispering ceased except for an occasional giggle as Sarah leant against the entry doors and tried to slow the pounding of her heart.
‘Great! Still no electricity.’ she toggled the light switch. ‘What on earth possessed me to move in before the rewiring was completed?’ ‘Oh do stop complaining,’ an elderly voice wheezed.
Sarah couldn’t stop her involuntary scream and found herself berated once more. ‘Must you do that? You know high-pitched noises set my pages on edge.’
Within the safety of the house, Sarah’s fear evaporated, and moving to the three-hundred-year-old desk, lit only by a single candle, she lifted the book an inch or two before letting it drop. She was rewarded with a yelp of pain and a rustle of pages.
‘Don’t do that,’ moaned Sir Rushton, ‘I shall have a headache now.’
Sarah sniggered, ‘you can’t get a headache – you have no head. You’re a book – just an eighth-grade reader.’
‘Humph! That’s how much you know, Miss Clever Clogs.’ Rushty snapped his pages shut.
‘Oh come on Rushty, please don’t sulk.’
‘That’s Sir Rushton, to you,’ a muffled voice came through the cover.
Sarah sighed. Her friendship with Sir Rushton Mortimer Fitzwilliam was fraught with temper tantrums – sometimes his, sometimes hers. Rarely did she marvel now at owning a library of talking books. It all seemed so perfectly natural. Though in reality, Rushty was the only one brave enough to speak to her. The others barely opened their covers in her presence – except for the children’s picture books who giggled as she turned their pages.
When she first heard the whispers, she feared the house was haunted; but Sarah didn’t believe in ghosts so there had to be another explanation. The loudest whispering came from the library, but the minute she entered, it was silent.
The mystery was solved when Sarah accidentally dropped an old book on the floor, a torrent of abuse assailed her, and that’s how she and Rushty met. It took a few days for Sarah to regain her courage and return to the house, but when she did, she knew things would never be the same again.
Sometimes she lay awake at night in the enormous four-poster bed and doubted her sanity. Books just didn’t talk – at least not in the rational world. And yet, here she was; the owner of a three-hundred-year-old house and a library of talking books.
She never knew what to expect when she opened Rushty’s pages. Sometimes she found herself transported to Wales or Cornwall – her two most favourite places in the world. Sometimes he’d dump her on a clipper ship in the middle of a storm and even had this ability to change the story as Sarah read. That’s usually when one of her temper tantrums kicked in. The last time this happened, he’d deposited her on the edge of a volcano – on Mars – and even though it was extinct, she told him if he ever did it again, she’d rip his covers off. He, in turn, said she had no sense of adventure, and that anyone else would jump at the chance to visit Mars.
After that incident, she’d thrown Rushty across the floor and called him a cheap paperback novel. The insults flew back and forth between them, and the readers – one of them fragile from time, the other fragile in spirit – ignored each other for a week.
Sarah had inherited the manor house from her great-uncle. She fell in love with the old place immediately, and despite advice to sell it, decided to move in. The location of the house suited her solitary nature and she looked forward to the long winter evenings to come and imagined herself curled up in the huge old armchair reading by the open fire.
But tonight, she had hurt Rushty’s feelings.
He’s just a book, she reasoned. No, he was more than that, over the last six months he had become more than just a book – more than just an eighth-grade reader – he had become her friend.
Descending the wide staircase, Sarah paused at the library door. ‘When will you introduce us, Sir Rushton?’ The voice was strong and had a richness that warmed her.
‘Soon, Luc, soon.’
Sarah pushed the door open. The room was empty. ‘Rushty, who were you talking to?’
‘A friend.’
‘What friend … where is he?’
Rushty hesitated a moment, before saying, ‘The West wall.’
Sarah frowned but looked in the direction he had indicated. Her eyes widened as the knight in the portrait smiled at her. She moved closer and found herself looking into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and when he held his hand out to her, she took it without hesitation.
* * * ‘The sale of the house comes with an irrevocable caveat.’ The estate agent said, turning to the newlyweds behind him. ‘The library remains intact, the book on the desk is never removed, and the portrait of Lady Sarah and Sir Luc Guarinot stays in place.’
‘Agreed.’
The young woman gasped, and then laughed nervously, ‘Just for a moment, I thought they smiled.’
The estate agent nodded, ‘Yes, it’s easy to imagine things here – it’s the atmosphere. But it’s just an old house – just a very, very, old house.’
‘Will…’ Alice whispered looking at her husband over her shoulder, ‘what have you done?’
Will Bottom moved to the doorway and stepped protectively in front of his wife.
The man standing at their door wore the king’s livery – there was no doubt about it – everyone in the kingdom knew the distinctive eagle with outstretched wings emblazoned across the man’s chest.
‘There is no need for concern, Will Bottom. Neither you nor your good lady has anything to fear. His Majesty simply requests that you both accompany me to the castle forthwith.’
‘But…’ Will swallowed as his heart pounding loudly in his ears. The king did not “simply request” anyone.
Alice placed her hand on her husband’s arm, ‘Come, Will, we must not keep His Majesty waiting.’
The king’s messenger bowed slightly, ‘Thank you, madam, your understanding is appreciated,’ he swept his arm towards the unadorned carriage waiting outside their small gate.
Once Will and his wife were seated in the carriage, the king’s messenger climbed up to sit beside the coachman.
‘Home James,’ he said with a grin and clapped the coachman on the shoulder, knowing how much that sentence irritated the man.
‘One of these days, Roderick, I’m going to chuck you off this carriage.’ His companion growled.
Inside the carriage, Will and Alice stared at one another in silence, each wondering what the other could have possibly done to upset the king, for when the King’s messenger arrived at their tiny shack, they assumed they were in big trouble. But then, if the king was displeased with you, he didn’t usually send a carriage to bring you to the castle – he would more likely be a troop of soldiers to burn down your home with you in it.
Will and Alice held each other’s hands for courage and comfort. They watched out the carriage window as the castle loomed into view. Alice’s grip tightened as the carriage rumbled across the drawbridge and passed through the Barbican into the Bailey.
‘Will, I’m…’
‘It will be all right, Alice. The king’s messenger assured us we have done nothing wrong.’
‘But…’
‘Shhh, my love, it will be all right.’
The carriage drew to a stop at the steps leading up to the castle’s front door and the king’s own steward descended the stairs and opened the carriage door.
‘Welcome, Will Bottom and Lady Alice, please allow me to escort you to the king.’ He held out his hand, and Alice took it hesitantly as she stepped from the carriage. They followed the steward up the steps and through the front door.
Alice gasped at the size of the great hall and stepped closer to Will as King Raymond himself strode towards them with outstretched hand. ‘Welcome, welcome, my friends. I am delighted you could accept my invitation.’ He seemed somewhat harried, and Will and Alice grew more and more confused. There had to be some mistake – surely the king had mistaken them for someone else.
King Raymond drew them through a curtained doorway and into a long passage. ‘Young Will, your talent is spoken of heartily and I cannot wait to see your work completed.’
Finally, he stopped at a huge studded door and pushed it open. Light streamed in from the larger than normal window making the room a warm haven. Queen Sophie sat in a huge armchair holding her grandchild. She smiled encouragingly at them.
On the floor in the middle of the room a pile of wood of various sizes, a pile of screws and a several Allen keys of various sizes.
King Raymond turned to Will and pointed in deep frustration to the aforementioned objects, and said, ‘Will Bottom, it is my hope you will be able to work your magic and turn this pile of … obnoxious items into my beloved granddaughter’s crib.’
Will stepped forward trying his hardest not to laugh as he saw sheet of instructions with the legend, “Easy to assemble – IKEA Ganatt Baby Cot with Drawer.”
My warm, snugly, holiday Monday sleep was interrupted by my ‘fur grandchild’ whose usual ‘nobody wake me before 9:00am’ attitude changed. The vertical blinds in the lounge room flapped and there were whimpering sounds that equated to ‘I NEED TO GO OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW OR THERE WILL BE VERY UNPLEASANT CONSEQUENCES.’
So, being the kind and loving non-furred grandma that I am, dragged myself out of bed, stuffed my feet into slippers, flung a blanket around my shoulders and opened the door onto the deck. Said fur grandchild flew out the door and onto the nearest patch of grass. I’m sure I heard a sigh of relief.
While I waited for what desperate doggies do at 6:15 am, I noticed an intense glow coming from behind the garage. Convinced the neighbour’s house was on fire, I raced through the frosty grass and leapt like a dainty gazelle onto the back deck to come face to face with this….
I stood staring in wonder while doing a goldfish impersonation and whispered, ‘Wow, You do such beautiful work, God!’ Nobody else was around to enjoy it with me, so praying it would last, I raced back inside to grab my mobile phone and took some photos.
After the pooch and I went back inside, I said, ‘You can drag me out of bed any day if you know there’s going to another sunrise like the one we had just shared.’
You know, there’s even a Bible verse that sums it up beautifully, “Nothing on earth is more beautiful than the morning sun.” (Ecclesiastes 11:7 CEV)
Written for Today’s Author – Write Now Prompt 16th March 2021. If you’re after some great prompts and general help for writers, this is the place to go.
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He turned the collar up on his coat, tucked his head in like a turtle, and ran from the doorway. Only two blocks to the tube station and the relative warmth of the train. No point in trying to hail a taxi, the cabbies were all on strike. As for buses, well, you could forget that, the drivers were all blind at this time of night and ignored most of the bus stops as if they didn’t exist.
Wonderful, just bloody wonderful! Not only had he been retrenched out of the blue after fifteen years of faithful service, but now the weather turned against him. What started as a light evening drizzle now turned into a thorough drenching as the rain increased and the wind picked up in ferocity, dropping the temperature several degrees. By the time he reached the station, he was drenched through and the trains were all running behind schedule.
An hour later, he boarded a train. There were no spare seats of course, so he stood in the vestibule area between the upper and lower seating areas, shivering each time the doors opened when the train stopped at a station.
He reached his stop at last and pushed his way through the crowd trying to board the train. He shook his head. Was there no consideration or manners left in the entire world?
Trudging down the lane towards his house, he was certain there was nothing that could brighten this cold, dark, dreary day.
There was a light on in his lounge room. He’d forgotten to turn the light off before he left this morning. Great … eleven hours of power wasted.
He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door…
Author of Dual Visions & Vashla's World, also co-author of Fan-tas-tic-al Tales and Mystery, Mayhem & Magic, Backyard Beasts & Curious Capers as Coordinator and one of The Ten Penners, and contributor to Spooktacular Stories and Tell 'em They're Dreaming as one of the Share Your Story Angels. I write book reviews, articles and other interesting prose.
The Call of the Pen 
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