In the end everything will ignite.
Books. Skin. Pre-apocalyptic utopian puppies.
All of it.
My second novel will smoulder alongside the incinerated remains of my first while I stab at my molten keyboard, desperate to smash out a story idea before my fingertips fuse to the metal.
As a rule I don’t tend toward violence but Hubert, fat useless fuck that he is, brings out the devil in me so to speak. Every movement he makes is a stain on my existence but he is, at least, regular.
Tomorrow morning at precisely 7.27am in he will shuffle, pause briefly next to the dog food then grease-waddle his way along the aisle. For sin I shall play my designated role as the dutiful shopkeeper and attend to him with smiles and no small courtesy.
That is, of course, if I don’t stay out all night in the rain.
I find myself caught somewhere between the badlands of apology and the sunrise of recognition.
I am too quick to anger. Too swift to judge. Too ready to yell.
Since the moment you kicked and screamed your way into this world I have asked you to be quiet.
You have ignored me.
Since Theodore took up residence in my scrotum, life has become somewhat more complex.
“Call me Teddy.”
“I’d rather stick to Theodore if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself. I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”
“Why on earth would I want things to be easier? Having a miniscule, talking…thing inside my nutsack seems like a perfectly reasonable and normal arrangement.”
I got bored earlier and did a quick search for top tips for a successful blog. Based on the results it’s clear to me that no-one else knows what the fuck they’re doing so I feel strangely comforted. Given that the internet is a place where you can probably confirm and/or deny that the collective noun for opening gambits is indeed a pentagram it’s best to set your expectation-phasers to stun(ningly low).
There were a couple of pearlers in there – perhaps the best of which was, “Be Awesome!”
Here I was settling for a consistent dose of mediocrity where all along what I should have been striving for was a hunka-chunka-burning-awesome.
His stance spoke of the softness of academia. The protected air of hallowed halls shielding him from the realities of the world outside.
The slightly stooped shoulder curve. The narrow chest.
Our breaking story at the top of the hour…ruling party in turmoil as slush fund revealed to be “slightly frozen water”
Senior politicians are tonight distancing themselves from fresh allegations of corruption after two prominent Indian businessmen are seen leaving a Saxonwold shebeen with what eye-witnesses have described as a “leaky black holdall”. Moments later the pair were seen in a heated exchange where the taller of the two proclaimed “this is not the fifteen and twelfty million Msholozi promised us”.
To whom it may concern:
I am writing to inform you of my resignation from the position of Acting Junior Vice-Assistant to the Deputy Director of Marketing with immediate effect. I seem to recall something in my original contract about a thirty day notice period but in the spirit of agile management and notwithstanding the fact that I wiped my arse with said document a couple of months back, it’s probably best for all concerned if I slip off quietly into the night.
Go on admit it. You’d love it if I genuinely slipped off into the night. You probably wouldn’t complain too much if I slipped off noisily, say, from a fourteenth-floor window but in the famous words of Mick and the boys…you CAN’T always GET what you WAAAANNNNT.
So you know how I always keep moaning about the fact that I spend too much time running and then I’m tired and can’t come up with story ideas and have nothing to write down and than spiral into a red-wine fueled misery-machine?
Well I’ve solved it.
I’ve put together another blog called The Write Runner.
“It’s time,” she said and in we stumbled like lambs bleating in the slaughtered air. Any lingering hopes that he would be granted some final serenity or peace dashed in a maelstrom of tortured angles and the sweat-soaked rictus of a face that has been long lost to madness.
“No. Not blood. Not exactly.”