Home About Books Authors Services Competitions Submissions Contact
NOTES:
NEW WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED
Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.
This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.
.
"From Oblivion to Metamorphosis in one easy lesson"
by Vivienne Blake - Cerisy la Salle, France
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Vivienne Blake is a 71-year-old grandmother of five, living in rural Normandy. She started writing three years ago, with Open University creative writing courses, and has by now written a great deal of silly poetry and a few short stories. Her husband reckons that writing keeps her off the streets and out of mischief!
COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:
1. The first person character leaped to life off the page. A good exposition of a not particularly original situation, which started better, I felt, than it finished.
2. Very cleverly written for the most part, though I personally didn't like the in-your-face style and swearing. However, the story itself starts out strong and is well presented most of the way through. There's a blank spot between the decision to turn over a new leaf, and the presentation of the book to the agent - too easy to slide by this one without getting into it; cheating the reader. I felt the ending was weak; it just petered out and the last sentence, instead of delivering a punch, was rather meaningless.
The writer should certainly work on final delivery.
THE STORY:
….'OK Derek, I know I promised, but it's been a hell of a month. I swear you'll have it by the end of next week.'
'I better had Gerry – you've already spent the advance. You'll be owing me soon.'
I put down the receiver on my pestiferous agent, palms sweating. Reprieve, if only temporary. Why can't I get on with it? It isn't as if I don't know how. I ought to, I've been at it long enough. Now all I have to do is turn on the computer. Blast that irritating hum, I can't write with that awful racket. Let's see what can I do to drown it? That new recording of the Saint-Saëns. Where did I put it? Damn, it's in the bloody car.
Where did I put the keys? What a waste of time. I could be writing, should be writing. Hell, it's raining. God, how it stinks. Who's been smoking? Not me, thank God. That's one of the few things I don't regret, giving up the fags. My stupid son. I'll have to have words with him. If I have to keep him in the manner to which he'd like to become accustomed, I refuse to finance his lung cancer. Ah, here it is. Better lock up and hide the keys from Ray. I want to find the car here when I need it, not be forced to 'phone round his friends to see where it's got to. Now, how about a drink to warm me up?
God, that's bloody good whisky. That fabulous peaty aroma takes me back to Islay the year Maureen left me. I was in the middle of Oblivion then. Now if I can write another Oblivion we'll be in clover.
Stop it Gerry. You're procrastinating again. Where was I? Documents> unnamed novel> Must do something about that – it's got to have a name soon. It would help if I had a bloody plot that I knew how to finish. Bingo. Tools>statistics. Christ is that all? Sixty K? I'm sure it was seventy thousand last time I checked. OK here goes…
*
'Dad' – a yell from the bottom of the stairs. 'When are we eating?'
'You what?' I don't believe it. Eight o'clock. God my shoulders ache. I have to stop right now. Something must have clicked. I've been sitting in front of this bloody screen for six hours straight. Eureka. Click Save. 'OK boy, down in a tick.' Statistics again. Wowee eureka and God bless Bill Gates! I can't believe the numbers: 66,000 words. Impossible, I must have mis-read it last time. Goodness knows what rubbish I've written, but at least I've written something. Six thousand words in six hours. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I'm still muttering to myself, only half in the real world, as I get to the top of the stairs. Holy smoke. What's that I smell? Sniff. God that's good…onions frying. Yes that'll be it. No there's more… garlic …something spicy … something … meaty? It can't be. Can it? 'Ray who's cooking?'
'Come and see, you old grouch. A man's gotta eat and I'd wait all night if I left it to you.' This is a bit of all right. When an eighteen year old boy cooks a meal for his old Dad there has to be a light at the end of the teenage tunnel.
'Dad you've got to do something. We can't go on like this. Look at it'
'Look at what?' I'm tucking in voraciously to only-slightly-charred steak and oven chips.
'Over there. You can't miss it. It stinks.'
The slum the kitchen has suddenly turned into hits me in the nose. Suddenly? I count back. Yes, it's all of three years since Maureen walked out. But hang on. Didn't we have a cleaner? I seem to remember an alien presence from time to time pushing a Hoover about.
'Dad. You're not in this world. Mrs Thing left months ago. She couldn't stand the squalor.'
'Couldn't stand the ….? But it was her job to sort it out. Wasn't it? Didn't we pay her enough?'
'I don't think even Beckham's salary would have been enough for her to put up with this lot.' Ray is nodding significantly towards the sink, piled with a tottering heap of dishes, and a load of dirty clothes by the washing machine. Yuck! Sweaty socks!
'God Ray. I'm sorry. I'd no idea it had got this bad. Shall we have a blitz?
'I think we need a bit more than a blitz Dad. I think we…. No, re-phrase that. I think you need a woman.'
'Hang on son. Are you sure that remark is politically acceptable these days?'
It dawns on me that I have not been exactly fair to Ray these last months. Fantasy writing can be obsessive, and it tends to remove the author from reality. At least it does this author. What have I been thinking of? The boy must be going spare. His 'A' levels must be soon. Where are we now? February? Where's the bloody calendar? Yoiks, April 28th. How could that happen?
I settle into the old recliner, replete and semi-comatose. Then it hits me. I am a total shit. I can't keep a wife. Why not? Because I'm a shit, that's why. I've neglected my son shamefully, at a time when he probably needed me most. When his mother took off, never to be seen again, he was doing his 'O' levels. It never occurred to me that that was a problem. I took it as read that he'd cope. What a boy. All those A stars. On his own. No input from me. Oh no. Far too bound up in my own problems. I couldn't even run the house properly. Or feed us. How has he survived? And what have I done to deserve this wonderful lad? Zero, zilch, nada, rien. New leaf time. But how?
*
'There you are Derek. Never say I don't keep my promises.' I slap the pile of paper onto to his desk, a hard-working week later.
'This has to be a first, though, Gerry,' grumbles Derek for form's sake. He never did trust me to perform on time. 'Has it got a name yet?'
'I thought maybe Metamorphosis. In fact it's me that's metamorphosed. I've grabbed my life back. Hired a new daily. Done the laundry. Cooked a few meals. And Ray and I are working well together, you wouldn't believe. Talk about role reversal. It took him to change me, not the other way round. I'm kicking myself for wasting so much time. You wouldn't believe how he's buckled to with his revision. He's a star in the making.'
'Well I don't know about that, but this epiphany seems to have done wonders for your writing.' Derek has been leafing through the pile of paper while I've been shooting my mouth off in largely wishful-thinking-cum-bravado. 'This looks like the best stuff you've done for years. Bravo. By the way, I've got some mail for you somewhere.' Derek rummages in the dog-eared files on the floor by his desk, and hands me a blue envelope. Not a tax demand then. I stuff the letter into my pocket. Get that! Me in a suit. Haven't worn one since the dark ages.
It's all very well, a leisurely train journey, but I've left my only decent bit of reading matter on Derek's desk. Where did I put that letter? Here we are. What's this all about? Some crank? Oh well, it'll pass the journey…Hmmm…Blue paper. No scent.
'Dear Gerry Pierson,
I wish I had written your book.
'Oblivion' I mean for its language sublime
I wish I had written your book
for the poem you hid in the prose,
every word that you chose
was the right one.
I wish I had written your book
for the lessons it taught me
in telling a tale,
the fantasy world you
brought to reality.
I wish I had written your book.
I should be honoured to meet you if you should ever find yourself in Cambridge.
Sincerely,
Joanna Hurley
Blimey, what a turn-up. I must have done something right. Might be a giggle to meet her. But suppose she turns out to an awful frumpy old bag? Or a teenage groupie. I'll see what the boy thinks when I get home.
*
'Hey Ray, get a load of this. A fan letter – not a bad poem either. What do you think? Should I?'
'What's it about Dad? …….Oh yes, you have to meet her. You never know, she might be really fit.'
What is it with this boy? He seems determined to fix me up.
'Well, if you won't phone her I certainly will. You don't have a clue what you might be missing.'
It comes to something when six feet of adolescent spots tells his father how to run his life. Shall I do it?
*
Why did I agree to this? I must have been bonkers. How corny can you get? Even the red carnation and the Times Lit Sup. Oh how I hate waiting. And surprises. I think I should disappear. Too late. Help. That must be her. Brace yourself Gerry. No juvenile chat-up lines. Wow! She's a bit of all right. Stand up, you idiot.
'Ms Hurley?'
'That's me. Joanna, please.And you must be Gerry Pierson.'
'Guilty.' Goodness, I sound about as juvenile as Ray – more so. This is going to be really sticky.
'What can I get you Joanna? Cream tea? Whisky?' On a slow boat to China, more like. 'I liked your poem. Very flattering for an old codger like me.'
Then the lady smiles. And I melt. Creep that I am. Ray, what do I say next? I'm fluent enough on paper. Why can't I talk to a woman?
'I have a confession to make' says Ms Hurley.
'Oh?
'I'm here under false pretences.'
'Oh?' Is that all I can say? She'll think I'm a moron.
'Yes. I didn't write that poem. Your son did.'
'Ray – but how? Why?…' I start to gibber.
'My sister is Mrs Shakeshaft, your son's English teacher, and she roped me in as a dare. Your son happens to be a star pupil of hers.'
'Is that so?' You could've fooled me. 'Why would he do that?'
'Well, he seemed to think it would be good for us to meet. I have a sneaking suspicion that he wants to get rid of you!'
'Yes, that's as maybe, perfectly believable. But why on earth did you agree? ' Pass.'
'But you must have a reason.'
'Well, I hate to admit it, but I am an honest-to-goodness fan. I know we academics are supposed to be above your kind of stuff, but I'm hooked on fantasy. When I came across 'Oblivion' I was bowled over.'
'That might explain it. But where do we go from here? Do I pretend I don't realise it was a con?'
'We could try, but I think your Ray is much too bright to be taken in. Why don't we give it a whirl and see what happens?'
'Do you mean that? ' This can't be happening to me. Erm… 'Well Joanna, if we're to put on an act, we'd better find out about each other, don't you think? Shall we find somewhere to eat?'
Copyright (c) 2009 by Vivienne Blake - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
|
Home About Books Authors Services Competitions Submissions Contact |