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Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts

The young ones. She's in Big trouble.

 

An overheard conversation.




Big Serious Trouble

 

I mean, I love him and all, but it’s just … that…

            He’s not the one for you?

No, he is. I think. God, I hope so. I know he is, but he’s lying to me.  I can feel it.

            Oh. Like intuition?

Yeah exactly. We know stuff. Like the other day, Thursday, he said he was really tired and wanted a quiet night. So I go, okay, fine, I won’t see him. I won’t even text him that much because I know he has to get up early for work. So we talk for like an hour, and then at about eight thirty or whatever, I let him go.

            Doing the right thing.

Exactly. And so I said good night and he said good night and like, I was pretty bored and everything, so I just went out for frozen yoghurt with Patricia. Then, get this, at about eleven thirty or something, I get this random text, saying like come over baby, I really want you now and all this shit.

            What the hell?

I know right? He was all horny and acting weird.

            He was drunk.

Well. That’s what I said. But he said I was crazy and laughed it off.

Did you go over?

No chance. I’m not falling for that shit. So the next day, he says he must have been half asleep. I don’t think he even remembered.

            Yep. Drunk.

I reckon too, but he said he wasn’t. He insisted.

So, where do you think he was?

Out with the boys maybe, I don’t know. I mean he sees them every Saturday afternoon at football so why does he have to see them during the week? He should be with me, right?

            You should kick his ass to the curb.

I’m his girlfriend. I should be enough.

            Hell, yeah. Selfish prick. Dump him, quick.

Nah. I’m gunna change him. Just wait and see.

 



This was written in 2013 yet is timeless. Despite changing attitudes and customs, people never change. If in doubt, read the ancient Greek philosophers. They understood people better than many today. 


The image at the top is AI generated by me (does that mean others can't create the same image with the same prompts?). 



Meditations on relationships




Hope you have a good week.
Peace


Revenge - An Anti Reality TV Story

 



Revenge is a dish best served warm

*Origins of the story at end.

Read below or download pdf HERE


Revenge is a dish best served warm

 

          To the side of the door was a small plaque that read Melissa F. Ashist Productions Pty. Ltd. Very non-descript. If he hadn’t done his research, he could have easily walked by without a second thought. Definitely not the big flash company that had wooed him and others with promises of fame and money that had led him to apply for the show.

He tested the door. It was locked. He pushed the buzzer.

‘Yes?’

‘Delivery for Miz Ashist.’

‘Okay. Come up to Reception. First floor. Second door on the right.’

‘Right.’

There was a hum and a click and he pushed the door open. He went up the stairs and to the second door. It was propped open and led to a large open plan area with lots of light from the big glass windows. There were a half dozen tables behind a reception desk. There were four people seated at their computers, including the receptionist, a girl too gorgeous to be real.

‘Yes?’ she said, a look of near disdain upon her face.

He was distracted by her looks and shook himself free of it. It was his lust beacon that had gotten him into trouble in the first place. But then again, they knew that. And milked it for all it was worth.

‘I need to see Melissa.’

‘Where’s your package?’ she asked.

Damn. He had not thought of bringing anything. Only the water bottle shoved into his rear pants pocket, out of sight.

‘My package?’ He grinned, trying to make light of it but knew instantly that it had not gone down well.

‘Der. Like, what are you actually delivering?’ Her condescension suddenly made her look very ugly, like a perfumed piggie.

‘Um, it’s a verbal message.  I have to tell it to Melissa. Personally.’ He looked about and saw one office sealed off in the far-right corner. Inside was Melissa, standing, with one arm crossed defensively and the other hand holding her phone.

‘What do you mean verbal?’ the receptionist stammered. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Yes. Verbal. That’s right.’ He had to move fast.

 

 

Three weeks earlier

 

          They were in the backyard. He was flirting with her again. He knew he shouldn’t be but she was definitely flirting with him. Had been for days. Was she genuine? Or was she doing it for the cameras? Had they told her to flirt with him? He had to be careful. His girlfriend was sure to find out. Especially once the show went to air. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not yet. Just talking. That couldn’t hurt. Right?

Suddenly, a person he recognised as the line producer came into their space. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ He leant across to him and whispered, ‘You need to get to the bedroom.’

‘What?’

‘Get to the bedroom. Quickly. Something’s waiting for you.’

Rex smiled and walked back inside the house, a cameraman following him. When he opened the loungeroom door, there were two young camera people inside, a man and woman, tracking his every move. He knew them by name but wasn’t allowed to look at the cameras while they were filming. He had to pretend they weren’t there. It was all pretty fake but that was the nature of reality TV. He and his girlfriend Asha were one of the three celebrity couples. Well, they weren’t really celebrities, but they would be after the show aired.

As he reached the bedroom door, he thought he heard a noise. A familiar noise. A female moan. He threw the door open, knowing that moan all too well. Asha was in bed with Graham! His bare arse! ‘What the fuck?’

The sheets went up. Asha went under and Graham rolled off, a half grin on his too good looking, smarmy, chiselled face.

Rex launched himself at Graham, who couldn’t get out of bed in time, before fists began flying. Asha screamed, more a series of shrieks and rolled away until she fell on the floor, unprotected by any covering.

The camera people jostled at the doorway, capturing it all.

 

 

One week later

 

          Despite the fact that Rex had stormed off the show, the producer’s lawyers had assertively reminded him that he had signed a contract and unless he wanted to face court and lose a shit load of money that he didn’t have, he would have to ‘obligate’ his commitment. Obligate being their word. Slavery being his.

 

 

Seven weeks earlier

 

 Melissa shook his hand, and then Asha’s. ‘Congratulations. You’ve made the cut.’

‘Yes!’ he yelled.

Asha clapped like an excited child. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe it!’

 

 

Now

 

‘Stop!’

The receptionist was following him but he was almost there. He removed the water bottle from his rear pocket. It was two thirds full of a pale-yellow liquid.

Others were virtually transfixed but the receptionist yelled, ‘It’s that guy from The Hottest Switch!’

One person stood and headed towards Rex’s obvious destination, Melissa’s office.

But Rex got there first. He unscrewed the lid.

Melissa at the door, confusion and anger on her face, yet still on her call. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? This is an intrusion! Somebody call the cops!’

Rex flicked his arm and the piss went spraying onto Melissa. She jumped back instinctively without knowing what the liquid was. He continued flicking, chasing after her as she tried to get away but the office was too small. She knew what the liquid was now. She could smell it. She was by the wall and he tipped the rest on her head.

She screamed and screamed.

‘We’re human beings! Not animals!’

He turned and left.

 

 

One hour later

 

He was at home. Feet up on the coffee table, thinking. And waiting. Reliving the events, over and over. He wished he had said something like, ‘Should I take the piss out of you now?’ or ‘I didn’t mean to rain on your parade, biatch.’

There was a knock on his door.

He sighed. Now he would be famous. Be careful what you wish for. He half smiled. And went to accept his fate.

 

*****

 

 

© Anthony J. Langford 2019




I wrote this after watching a ridiculous preview of one of those shows where couples are teamed up with people who aren't their partner and encouraged to flirt, cheat, whatever.

This story was a special bonus to people who bought my 2019 book, A Refugees Rage. This is the first time I've made it pubic. Er, public.

If you enjoyed Revenge, you'll Love the Wolf!

Order Lone Wolf in time for Christmas! HERE - The Perfect Gift!







She disappeared - Famous After Death #14 - Barbara Newhall Follett





Aged 12




Famous After Death

Barbara Newhall Follett


Believe it or not, Barbara was already famous by the age of 12. 




She had written (with the help of her father), the novel, The House Without Windows. This in itself was a little ironic as it was her mother who was the writer, Helen Thomas Follet, a children's writer. Her father was a critic and editor.


It's who you know, of course, and the book was published to great acclaim in 1927. She would follow it up with her second novel, The Voyage of Norman D. based on personal experiences on a schooner. Barbara had been home schooled and had quite the different life to many. Despite the somewhat privileged upbringing and early fame, she would never know such success again.


1927

In fact, few would know her name today. Perhaps her story doesn't belong amongst this series, yet her personal story is quite unique and is sure to surface again at some point in the future, perhaps in a biopic. She may have known fame but perhaps what came later, overshadowed her brief time in the spotlight.

Before we get to the mystery, a last word on her writing. She did continue to write. Several more manuscripts were written but would not see another publication in her lifetime. Her nephew has made one available for free online at farksolia.org





The Mystery


Things fell apart when her father left her mother for another woman. She was devastated. Her family fell apart, and then the Great Depression hit. Literary careers had to take a back seat as Barbara went out to work as a secretary in New York. She married while still a teenager. They were not poor and traveled throughout Europe. The early years were happy ones.


Last known photograph

Inevitably there were problems. By her mid twenties, Barbara believed her husband was being unfaithful. She became depressed. In 1939, after an argument, she stormed out and was never seen again.
According to her husband Nickerson Rogers, that is. He didn't report her missing for two weeks. The police didn't put out a bulletin for four months.

What really happened? One can surmise. But we'll never know. Her mother certainly believed that Nickerson was at fault. She wanted the police to investigate him but this was already thirteen years after her disappearance. She believed to her death that Barbara's husband was responsible. 
The media weren't made aware until the mid 60's, 25 years after the event.  Officially, it's still a mystery. 




You can download her first famous book here for free



A Death in the Family



'Wat do u thnk? Got wat he desrved?'




Finally, after a few runs around the block, my story In Memoriam has been published. It was written a few years ago now (four) but has undergone a few minor edits since then.

You can read it here at Drunken Monkeys. (Publication not defunct).


Go to my Books to read this story in the collection, Us & Them 

It's not a deep story or particularly well written, but that's not really the point. I simply enjoyed experimenting with the varying styles of communication concerning a single theme.

If you can please leave a brief comment there it will let them know that people have read it, and perhaps influence future publishers that my work is enjoyed, (hopefully enough to take on one of my novels). A few words is just fine. That would be great.



Next post, 

A brand new video poem, One for the Show, starring yours truly, along with Jack Peck doing voice-over duties. I'm very happy with the final result and can't wait to share it with you.

Also I'm thinking of doing a new series entitled Share the Love. Explain more when I get around to it.
Hope you're doing well. If you like anything you see here, a quick share is fucking awesome.

Cheers





 My Books






A very damaged man




I Cook the Sausages


            is a published story that I wrote based on an ex-neighbour. (I was still living next to him when I wrote it). He had a mental illness, quite severe, yet lived on his own. I injected some fictional elements so it's actually not a depressing story at all. I'll let you make up your own mind.

It's free to read, right Here

(Update: This story is available in the story collection, Pseudo Stars, found HERE)


Please share as it gets my name out there and also supports other writers and artists.
Thanks so much.


Forge


Next post,

A new video poem about the complexities of a couple who lives together. 
One for the Show, One for the Money as read by Mr. Jack Peck esq.



The top painting is by Amber Christian Osterhout.


A tornado victim





 '... she was rising from the floor as the roof twisted and the walls crumbled.'


I have a flash fiction piece online now at Micro Literature.

She was slim once.


The story is fiction, yet I am affected by these types of tragedies, as indeed, many people are and I felt moved to write. I wanted to make the victim real rather than a simple statistic.







Please swing by and leave a comment, small independent publications really appreciate knowing that people are reading. It would make me happy too.

Thank you! 

Here are a couple of other stories you may like, both of which are based on true events.
Two men and a half dog.
All Quiet in the Bell Tower. 

My Books



Why Show vs. Tell is merely a fad




Once Upon a Time…


Iconic words. Yet are they show or tell?
I’m not here to explain to you what the differences are. I’m sure you’ve heard it often enough from websites instructing you how to write and especially from publishers and agents. It jumps out at you from submission guidelines and rejections letters.
Don’t tell us! Show us! I disagree. A book isn’t a film. Unless it’s a picture book, it’s all telling. It suggests that readers are stupid and can only have their prose directed at them a certain way. It’s an insult.

Make no mistake, the edict of showing is merely a trend. Yes it can be an effective form of storytelling, but it is merely one method.
There are so many examples of telling a story throughout the history of literature that it’s hard to know where to begin. Simply flick through any variety of classics. Oh but that’s how it used to be done, I hear you say. Here are two modern first pages, chosen quickly from my bookshelf without having to hunt for an example. 

Aish would think him a pervert if she had overhead him. But he was definitely not that. He simply loved women. Young, old, those just starting to blossom and those beginning to fade. 

From Page 1 of The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas, Winner of the 2009 Commonwealth writers prize. 




 
And this:
Walter and Patty were the young pioneers of Ramsey Hill – the first college grads to buy a house on Barrier Street since the old heart of St. Paul had fallen on hard times three decades earlier.

Jonathan Franzen’s multi award winning, Freedom.





If the aforementioned authors had listened to these so called experts, these great works would not exist. It’s a wonder anyone can tackle a blank page with such stringent advice. The first timer bends over backwards to tick all the prerequisites (and there are many) and still finds themselves at the bottom of the slush pile. So follow your gut. You have to be satisfied with your work, not gratify some unseen entity that will only provide you with a cut and paste response months later, if you’re lucky.

Telling is an effective tool in itself. It can shift the focus of the story from one scene to the next without unnecessary explanations. One can provide a quick backstory, while still staying in the moment, such as the examples above. Guaranteed, if these authors were unknowns, their work would be rejected on the basis of Tell and not Show.

An author should not feel constrained. As the saying goes, learn the rules and then dismiss them. Creativity emerges in many forms. In fact, a combination of styles can make for compelling story telling. There are really only a couple of basics. The story should have highest priority, if not the characters. Everything else is irrelevant. Too often in recent times this all-pervading rule is thrown out there, confusing the novice writer and dismissing potentially exciting works from more established writers. We should all be wary of the One Rule Applies to All dictations thrown at us by the safe, lazy and ill-informed. I guarantee their lives are just as conservative and rule bound. The unspoken philosophy of show business is nobody knows nuthin.




 Those in power hold too much of it. Writers bend over backwards to please them, hoping to get a foot in the door, yet often undermine their work by subjecting it to the whims of (usually) a single individual. Show vs Tell is a literal slicing tool, a light sabre for publishers to cut through the mountain of submissions. Oh that’s Tell, Not Show. Slice. Vader would be proud. It is true that publishers and agents are swamped by submissions these days but that’s not the fault of the writer. It is due to industry cutbacks. This occurred long before the insecurities of digital publishing. 

Publishers fired most of their in-house editors and slush piles saps. They now take their recommendations through an agent so it’s left to them to sort through the pile and they do not have the time either. They look for any excuse to dismiss a novel. They are lucky to read the first page. In fact, many don't bother at all. I guarantee that thousands of great novels have been passed over. It’s always been a selective and flawed system yet works are now more likely to slip through.

The truth remains that publishers don’t know what readers want. We’ve seen it time and time again where literary smash hits come from left field, such as recent (albeit terrible) fare such as 50 Shades, works that ‘snuck through the back door.’ This is not a great example but it does illustrate that no matter how bad the writing, it’s the content that matters. No one wants to see a flood of badly written books, but the point has been made. Rules count for naught.





Alternatively go back through the decades and look at some of the works that have become classics and the authors who wrote them. Take note of how many times they were rejected due in part to such inane philosophies as Show vs Tell. 


Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach – 18 rejections
M*A*S*H by Richard Hooker - 21
Dubliners by James Joyce – (18 times to 15 publishers)
Dune by Frank Herbert – 23
Dr. Suess – 27 times
Carrie by Stephen King – 30 (famously threw it in the bin. His wife saved it).
Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen - 140 rejections
C.S. Lewis received over 800 rejections before he sold a single piece of writing.
Staggering, isn’t it?


It doesn’t necessarily mean that your work is great, however there are lessons here. 
Academics have long been dissecting creative works and coming up with terminology’s and strategy’s that the authors apparently implemented. The creative designers know better. James Joyce famously said that Ulysses would have academics in stitches for decades. He was right.







Show vs Tell has its merits, yet essentially it’s a silly little edict which has snowballed due to non-writers jumping on the bandwagon with a desperate need to appear relevant. This blanket approach is reaching out across the world like simplistic social media speak, creating a universal language of blandness. I say to hell with that. Be bold. Be original. Let the story and characters dictate the work. If the story is engaging who cares how it is told? 

Writers should always go with their instincts. If it must incorporate a variety of styles, so be it. If the story lends itself to the style of telling, does it really matter? There are no rules for literature, just as there are no rules for art. Yet it is important to read, research, edit and work hard. Instil self-belief, be strong, be daring and above all, be yourself.

‘Books are well written, or badly written, that is all.'
Oscar Wilde

The End.






Two men and a half dog - Based on a true story




Two men and a half dog

A flash fiction



It’s late afternoon but still pushing 35 degrees. At least in his unit. The balcony door is shut. He can’t afford aircon and his small fan only manages to rearrange the heated air. He can manage a decent draft if the kitchen window and the door work together. But that’s not often is it? That little barky carpet roll is at it again. Fuck knows why this time. A bird, a plane, a friggin fly fart. Sweat pours down his back. His balls are itchy. The TV is loud but it makes no different. He can’t get the dog out of his head.

John is patient, sorta but everyone has their limits. It was the same with his ex-wife. She pushed him to the edge. Pity coz living in a house was nice. Only families can afford houses. Now he has to share a crummy unit block with a bunch of druggies and old degenerates. Which is no bloody place for a dog!


He knows what to say. He’s rehearsed it many times over. Not that he hasn’t made a complaint or said things before. He’s no bloody wimp. But sometimes you have to bite your tongue, you know, for neighbourly conducts, or whatever. That’s why it pisses him off so much. The fact the Walter doesn’t share the same attitude. Why should John be the one to suffer?

He lumbers with determination to his front door and out into the hallway. He feels like his favourite hero in The Alamo, John Wayne. He paces to the next unit, number seventy three, exactly ten more than he in years.  No point being a pussyfoot. Or pussy. Whatever.

He bangs repeatedly.

‘Piss off John.’

‘I’m not pissing off! I coulda come over here heaps of times lately and I haven’t!’

‘You’ve caused enough trouble mate.’

‘Open the door ya gutless mongrel!’

There’s a pause but John knows the coward angle will work.

The door opens. Walter has a look that says there’s a line in the sand boyo and you better not cross it.

A breeze flows past John. He can see that Walter’s balcony door is open. ‘Must be nice to have fresh air hey?’

‘What the hell you want John?’

‘I’m not going away this time.’ It seems neither is in a mood for another pointless roundabout argument. This time it’s a battle. Or a war. Or somethin’. 

John pushes past Walter. ‘Where’s that yappy mutt? I’m gunna kick its bloody head in!’

Walter is taken off guard but despite being smaller and six years older is not about to let a poofter push him around. Even if John isn’t a poofter, he enjoys calling him one. ‘Get out ya old poofter!’

He follows John into the kitchen. The dog is hiding behind the wooden blue kitchen table that Walter has owned since 1982. As John approaches the dog runs, avoiding the stranger’s wrath.

‘Get here ya little shit bag!’ John shoves the chair aside just as Walter reaches him, seizing his arm. The men grapple.

‘Poofter!’

‘Stupid bastard!’ John double palms Walter’s chest who staggers backwards, almost tripping.

John powers out of the kitchen in pursuit, determined to keep said mutt quiet once and for all. It had run onto the balcony where it causes all the damage. No wonder John felt like it lived in his head. It’s favourite haunt was only a few metres from John’s couch. All those bloody stress brains. Or migraines. Or whatever.

John blocks the balcony door. The dog can’t get past him. ‘Gotchya!’ A sense of righteous surges up from his gut. It’s lustful hate, come home to roost.

The dog knows the man means it harm. It backs against the wall, baring its tiny sharp teeth.

‘No more barkin’ ya filthy carpet rat! I’m gunna shut you up for good!’ John takes a big step forward and lifts his foot.

Walter tackles, more like falls onto John, who tips sideways against the railing. In an instinctive reaction John grabs Walter but topples over the railing regardless, taking Walter with him.

The dog takes creeping steps, slips its head through the slim metal bars, gazing at the two inert figures seven stories below.

For once, it is silent.




Please share.


I read about two men fighting in a unit. One died. They were mates. 
Tragic but true.


Next post,

A new entry in a new series, Best 0f 2012 music tracks,
More poetry coming
plus an entry in the series on Greatest Written Films.

Until then,

Cheers


My Books