Where the Wild Things Aren’t – Dead Deer

Where the Wild Things Aren’t

The creak of ancients trees shuddered softly across the countless squat crosses. The low, dark rows marking six thousand final resting places. Blossom fluttered by, a gentle gust of wind shaking it loose.

Far away, across the fields and highways, the underpass has a not atypical aroma. Half-light, piss, fear and resignation all combine in this useful cave. Useful, yes, yet ridden with dejection. A close atmosphere somehow keeps the air at bay, despite the yawing entrances.

Even here, a beach, a beautiful, rich yellow beach, the sun beginning it’s decline, after a day’s work of warming the world. A new job begins, as it dazzles those reclining with it’s own setting. Myriad colours, changing, moving, even as they progress ever darker. Yet even here, yes even here, there is little joy. Satisfaction, perhaps, a bittersweet sadness for yet another perfect day gone, lost.

The heavy machinery starts its insistant drone. The first ground is broken. all flora and fauna banished. Gleaming, new, concrete, Man is here. Wild things are not.

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Today I wrote  between 16:37 and 16:47.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

The Sugar Coated Nutsack – Dead Deer

The Sugar Coated Nutsack

“I can’t sugar-coat this, I’m afraid”, the doctor stated, alarmingly, “It is not good news.”

Hector swallowed hard. He hadn’t even wanted to go that day, although he would never have imagined the eventual reason to avoid going. He just usually found it dull. In the end, on this occasion, it was anything but dull.

Nothing appeared amiss when they knocked on the door. It creaked open and he remembers – how oh innocent then! – giggling to himself and thinking that was so cliched, if this were a horror movie. Which is wasn’t, this was life. The frail and gentle old lady behind the door not only put his mind at rest, but also gave him that surge of excitement he had forgotten about.

Here was the easiest of easy marks.

Or so they thought.

It may have been hours, it may even have been days ago, Hector thought as he lay in the hospital. They gained entrance well enough, and started the patter happily. She seemed attentive and responsive. And gull-i-ble. Before they knew what was happening, she was giving them the tour of her modest home. Including the cellar.

Ah. The cellar.

They were found on the street, knocked out, and riddled with pain which got worse as their consciousness increased. The scoring and burning all over their skin was horrendous. Evidence of extreme temperatures, of hot oil, and worse, was everywhere. Sugar melts at 186 degrees Celsius. That is hot.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is completely covered. It will be extremely painful removing it, and then the burns below. Uff. It will be a long, slow, and painful process, I’m afraid. It’ll be a while before you are going door-to-door again, I’m sorry.” The doctor was kindly, but you could tell he wasn’t keen on their shady way of making a living. He hadn’t been noticeably gentle so far. He, like the police, didn’t believe their story for one second.

She was, after all, such a sweet old lady.

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Today I wrote  between 12:32 and 12:42.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

Illegally Brunette – Dead Deer

Illegally Brunette

Let’s be honest, it is more a crime of geography than anything else. The argument was always thin for the segregation, only provided as an excuse for those who wanted it already. For other reasons. In each of the zones stylists naturally specialised, it could not really be helped. Fashions change, however, and of course a certain type of person, at a certain type of age, will always want to shock.

There was nothing, anyway, in any pamphlet, or constitution, that mentioned dyes, of course. Not yet. It was not very easy to find someone willing to do it, although not very difficult either. It was frowned upon, rather than anything stronger. And once the craze hit, the entire industry became a charged one, old friends, partners, all divided neatly into those that dyed and those that didn’t.

No one could really get why that one post on BlondBook made such a stir. Soon viral, and from the initial shock, repulsion even, came some copycats. These early ones wanted to cash in on a bit of the rebellion kudos, but it was amazing how quickly it became mainstream. This is when the problems began; when people started to see the inherent beauty in it.

This led to wider debates, and the once niche ProAllHair group started to gain support, not only across society, but across societies, and cross hair border meetings intensified. Obviously the authorities had to act. What started with a simple ban on dye ended, not so very long after, with many deaths.

A salutary lesson in there, somewhere.

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Today I wrote  between 23:30 and 23:40.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

Not All Tarts Are Raspberry – Dead Deer

Not All Tarts Are Raspberry

When all the tarts, all the pies, all the cakes were brought out a gasp when around the room. It was an intriguing idea, even if it risked the ire of many a guest. The pies were all open top, the cakes heavily iced. But every single one was red in colour. Cherry pies, strawberry cakes, raspberry tarts. Not all the tarts were raspberry, of course. Every red fruit imaginable was represented. Cranberries, pomegranates, even red grapes and red apples.

It was an incredibly striking effect. The shades of red glowing and glistening in the bright lights, a hundred diners gasping and laughing. Well, ninety-nine. The sight of all these beautiful desserts did nothing for one old duffer, parked away in the corner, but with a foghorn voice.

“What the devil?” he barked, “I like apricots.”

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Today I wrote  between 23:07 and 23:17.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

The Secret Life of Trees – Lotta the Otter

The Secret Life of Trees

When you are walking in the forest you think that it’s not good to cut trees down because  it’s bad for nature. That is not true, ok, it is but not just that. Also because it hurts the tree and the noise of the chainsaw is actually the sound of the tree screaming .

Also after the tree is dead all of it’s friends are sad.

That’s why NEVER EVER cut a tree.

 

 

Today I wrote  between 12:43 and 12:53.  I was prompted by an idea here.

The Secret Life of Trees – Dead Deer

The Secret Life of Trees

The lush verdant blanket, from above, has a gently fizzing appearance, and more shades of green than you can possibly dream of. Your dreams are increasingly filled with this forest, once from a distance, across rich rolling hills, now in more detail. Each night your restless brain conjures images, ever closer, moving in and above, and finally, moving ever closer with each moonrise.

Slipping into sleep beckons with yet more anticipation, for now your dreams have taken you close onto a single tree. An honest and open tree, its wide branches sitting broadly and comfortably. I am here, this tree says to you, I am here.

The closing sensation never ceases, and tonight you see a leaf as if it were a continent, it fills your mind, and the details magnify and multiple with a heavy inevitability that is welcome, the pressing feel of a woollen blanket on a cold winter’s night.

Insects, caterpillars, of course. But these are not the details you crave, these are the giants of the scene, barely comprehensible in their enormity. We see every minute grain of the leaf, the drops of water like oceans, and what life even these contain!

A week further, the nights have shifted and elongated, and the comforting dreamscapes have become unsettling. The constitute parts of the atoms may well be awe-inspiring, beautiful even. Yet your rested brain is becoming restless, worried – what lies next?

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Today I wrote  between 12:43 and 12:53.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

A Long History of Nearly Nothing – Dead Deer

A Long History of Nearly Nothing

Have you read my book?* Whilst not in itself very long, it is a long cry into the darkness. A long (long) history of nothing. Well, nearly nothing. A self obsession, the pages ought to not be rectangular, but me shaped. Like a book for babies. Mine is no book for minors, however, although it reads like a man-baby squalling in frustration.

Well, I was frustrated. I am frustrated. Just one in a long list of emotions I am experiencing, none of them very nice. The next book – oh yes, dear reader, that threat looms – should at least be a story of something and of an equalish length. In fact it will be the same, a seemingly never ending series of these short …. dare I? …. vignettes. This time, I promise, with more coherence, less misery and fewer – HOORAY! – poems.

But here again; frustrated. I’m ready to start work on it. Everything is written, it just needs editing, selecting and organising. The cover art (N.B. this time the cover art is good. I didn’t do it) is done, it just needs making up into a cover.

Yet I do neither. And these things, what I write. I’ve had some excellent advice, about characterisations, voice, story, hooks, all sorts of things. Draw the reader in. Keep them interested with show-not-tell. Humour always reads well**. Describe evocatively, put them there, in it.

Yet I don’t do any of this. I am, I suppose, unable. Unwilling to do the hard slog. This time, I promise myself, I promise you. Yet this is the drivel, unaltered, unfettered, that is splurged uncaringly onto the page. Why? To what end? A self indulgent cry into the nothingness. I AM HERE I scream I AM HERE. How can one be so self obsessed and yet feel no sense of self. I sit, here. That cannot be avoided. Pessoa was wrong, I am not nothing. I am here. I am nothing except a presence.

I am worse than nothing.

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Today I wrote  between 19:22 and 19:32.  I was prompted by an idea here.

*If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site. Part 2 coming Summer 2019, sadly. 

**Can you believe that I am funny? Or was. In real life. Wasn’t I? Aren’t I?

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here

The Brat in the Hat – Dead Deer

The Brat in the Hat

Wants, want, wanting. Where does this desire come from? If some is good, more must be better, right? Is having worse than getting? Is wanting worse than having? The glutton, the greedy, these are the great enemies, no? To have, it is immoral, of course it is. On the other hand, we must have something, food, clothes, we must have enough. Where is a line, does anyone need a hat that big? Does anyone need that many hats? When is enough too much, when is desire greed? When you have more than I? I guess.

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Today I wrote  between 20:56 and 23:04.  I was prompted by an idea here.

If you enjoyed this short writing, a whole load more are available in paperback, and kindle editions in your local Amazon site

My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and buy my book here