Tag Archives: writer

1958. Apple-Song and Acorn-Rain

Phyllis had a fairy as a friend. No one believed her. In fact most people thought she was nuts. She would talk to her fairy and her fairy would talk back. They were inseparable. Phyllis’s fairy was called Apple-Song. So there you have it! If Apple-Song didn’t exist how come she had a name?

Phyllis didn’t have many friends apart from Apple-Song. I mean, who wants to be friendly with a girl who is nuts?

One day some naughty boys came along and they pretended to kill Apple-Song. Phyllis was very sad. Then people thought she was more nuts than ever. She still didn’t have any friends until Acorn-Rain came along. Acorn-Rain and Phyllis were inseparable. He was a boy fairy, whereas Apple-Song was a girl fairy.

These days Phyllis is a famous writer. She is a multimillionaire. Everyone else works their guts out achieving little in their humdrum jobs.

See? Who now doesn’t believe in fairies?

1902. Elegy

Gwyneth’s career was about to take off. For maybe a decade she had spent hours a day honing her writing skills, polishing her poetry, proof-reading her novel and proof-reading again and again. And now! A publisher had accepted a collection of her poetry for publication.

It was so rare to get a collection of poetry accepted by a publisher. Volumes of poetry simply do not sell well these days. Every publisher and his mother avoided publishing poetry anthologies like the plague. So to get it accepted was exciting!

Things don’t come automatically however. Things have to be revised and rewritten. Gwyneth was assigned an editor. She was determined to humbly follow every suggestion made; perhaps a change of word, perhaps a different title for this poem or that. The process lasted for two years. It was a tiresome task. Somehow Gwyneth made it through. And then at last! at last! the day arrived! She held her book of poetry in her hands.

Over the next three years two copies sold. The publishing company has now folded.

1770. That’s how you do it

Neville was destined to become a famous novelist. Thus far he hadn’t had anything published. In fact he hadn’t quite finished his first novel. It needed tweaking. There was a reason for his not having finished.

Neville became so attached to his characters that he refused to kill any of them off. Thus the pages of his masterpiece gathered more and more characters. They overcrowded the pages. If they had existed outside the novel, and lived in the same house, there would be one hell of a queue outside the bathroom.

Honestly, by the time he got down to the fourth generation he should have killed great grandpa off. But no! Great grandpa was arthritic and senile and very much alive.

Eventually he submitted his tome to an editor.

“There are too many characters,” the editor said. “Kill some of them off. It’s easy; just cross a few out. That’s how you do it.”

“I know, I know,” said Neville. He left the editor’s office with a heavy heart. He began the long walk home. Who to kill off? And how?

He was so engrossed and desolate that he failed to notice where he was going and got run over by a truck.

That’s how you do it.

1475. Bon appetit!

It was Thanksgiving, and Fred and Jaime Burtwhistle had much to be thankful for, although they couldn’t agree on what their next step in life together was to be. Fred’s Great Aunt Donnabelle, whom they loved very much for obvious reasons, had died and left them a gigantic fortune. It was such a pleasure to be able to spend money and not have their nosy great aunt overseeing. Waiting for her to die had taken years.

Then there was Jaime’s Aunt Mabel to be thankful for. She would never shut up. Talk talk talk. She had a motor accident at some stage during the year and lost the ability to talk. What a relief! What a blessing!

Jaime’s father was a chronic alcoholic and they had put him in a care center of some sort for drunks. It was going to be good not having him around on Thanksgiving to ruin everything.

Fred’s mother, a widow, was a nut case. She had been “institutionalized”. Hopefully in a padded cell. You’ve no idea how embarrassing that woman could be.

So indeed there was much for Fred and Jaime Burtwhistle to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. They had no children, so it was to be just the two of them. Of course, they couldn’t agree on how best to spend Great Aunt Donnabelle’s inheritance. To solve this disagreeable problem Fred had poisoned the cranberry sauce, and Jaime had poisoned the pumpkin pie.

Bon appetit!

1422. Quite frankly, I’m sick of it

Quite frankly, I’m sick of it, Heidi. I come home from work and the place is a mess. The kids’ rooms are a mess. The kids haven’t even done their homework. The only food to look forward to is precooked stuff out of a package. You just heat it up in the microwave like you don’t care. The dishes don’t get done. The kids eat too much junk.

Then all you do is complain about every little thing. You want a better car. The lawn needs mowing – well, mow it yourself if that’s what you want. You haven’t taken the trash out. You’re not separating trash into recyclables. You don’t take any pride in your appearance any more. You look like an old cow.

Oh yes, Heidi, you have a cold. When don’t you have a cold? Moan moan moan. I cut down your work hours at the factory to only 30 hours a week so you could do some home-making stuff you so desperately wanted and all you do is moan moan moan. Quite frankly, I’m sick of it.

Heidi pulled out a gun and shot him dead. It was premeditated.

1389. The beggar’s gift

Once there was, and twice there wasn’t, a poor beggar who had spent years meticulously making a cossatactilass. It was huge! The beggar had spent at least two hours a day making it. Multiply that with 365 days in a year and again with the number of years and you’ll see just how many hours went in to the making of it.

Of course, it was priceless so the beggar couldn’t sell it. He decided to make a donation of it and give it to the king.

The king was over the moon. “This is extraordinary!” declared the king. “Not only am I king but I must be the only king in the world who owns such a valuable cossatactilass.”

The king rewarded the beggar with bags and bags of gold and lots of other valuable things as well.

It so happened that the king’s generosity towards the beggar was noticed by an extremely rich duke. Casting all prudence aside, the duke donated his entire wealth to the king in the hope of receiving in return things at least double the value. The king gave the rich duke the cossatactilass. The duke was furious.

“Is this all I get? Just a useless piece of junk? How come you gave that beggar all those riches in return for this piece of junk? My gifts to you were worth a lot more, and I should have been rewarded by you in a far heftier manner.”

“Aha,” said the king. “Your gift to me was motivated by greed, whereas the beggar’s gift was motivated by affection. So you can suck eggs, duke.”

To make his point, the king whipped the dukedom off the duke and gave it to the beggar. Still later, the beggar married the daughter, an only child, of the king. The beggar eventually became the king himself, and the first thing he did was to have the ex-duke’s head cut off.

Everyone else lived happily ever after.

1381. Poor pawpaw

Wayne’s mother was a solo mother. She didn’t have much to go on. She put Wayne first of course. She always packed him as nice a lunch for school as possible, even though it usually wasn’t much.

On this particular day, all she had was one small pawpaw. Wayne took it to school.

During the lunch break he sat next to Lawrence. Lawrence’s parents were rather well off. For lunch he had some ham sandwiches, and an orange, and a big slice of chocolate cake. When he saw Wayne’s pawpaw he said that he had never tasted a pawpaw, and could he have it. So Wayne gave him his pawpaw.

Then Wayne asked if he could have a bit of Lawrence’s chocolate cake. Lawrence said no he couldn’t. So Wayne had nothing for lunch, and Lawrence had ham sandwiches, an orange, a big slice of chocolate cake, and a pawpaw.

The world is divided into haves and have nots; winners and losers. Guess who is the loser in this tale!

1378. On hearing the news

This story is based on the fact that I don’t have a clue in hell as to what they’re talking about when I listen to the news on my radiogram.

The NQI of the HHLD in VT USA was invited by the KPY to speak on the YSTW that DDT had on the PAU. The ORQ is, can the NQI, an appointment by the HOS, refuse to speak? When asked for a comment, the HOD of the FBI LHFAO.

So in conclusion I’d just like to say:

HUH?

1377. No hot dog

It had been the most horrific twelve months of his life. Blair had undergone operations and chemotherapy and goodness knows what. And now he was as cured as he could be. His last appointment with the specialist was over. All was well. It was the beginning of a new phase of his existence. He was heading home.

That was when the writer of this story couldn’t decide whether to have him choke to death on a hot dog he bought on the way home, or let things alone.

“How may I help?” asked the shop assistant.

“I would like a hot dog, please.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re out of them.”

“Oh well.”

So that was decided. Blair returned to his car alive! Hurrah!

As he got into his car he had a heart attack.

1372. Famous cat

You are such a lucky cat! said Leopold to his cat, Heidi.

Heidi was sitting on Leopold’s lap while Leopold typed.

You, said Leopold, will become a famous cat! You will be known all over the world as the cat that sat on my lap while I typed out my poetic masterpieces. You will be mentioned in every biography of me, and perhaps, if you’re lucky, there’ll be a photo. In fact, I shall take a photograph now of you on my lap. There! Perhaps such a photo might even grace the cover of my volume of poetry.

With a great deal of breathless anticipation, Leopold sent his collection of poems to a publisher. Perhaps, suggested Leopold, the cover could include a picture of my cat? The poems were rejected. Who buys poetry books these days, asked the publisher?

And then the cat got stuck up a tree and had to be rescued by the fire brigade. They hoisted a great big ladder in front of a huge assembled crowd. The press was there. Heidi’s photo was splashed all over the front page. It didn’t even say who the cat belonged to.

Selfish feline.