Insomniac Pen, d1
The author could not sleep. To his left side, his little author wife snoozed, and made those tiny rodent sounds that all women make during their sleeping time.
‘Heem, phneh, phneh, fetch twigs,’ she squeaked.
Obviously her otter fantasy was in full flood. He would not wake her. Imagine the breach in the otter dam, the consequence for the baby ottlets cocooned in their bale den.
He growled in a manly fashion. Quite naturally he growled. It was something exceedingly masculine about his nature, how he growled, even opening a fridge.
Already it was 2am. How would he sleep? He was far too excited about his return to the work-place environment the next morning. A great writer, however he moonlighted as a chicken farmer – as you all know already.
There was nothing for it. He would rise, check his many writer websites on-line, peruse wildlife photography, then perhaps discover, if there was such a thing, a special website to help him sleep.
Naked, he sat at his computer stool aside the bed. The incognito facility winked at him from the top right hand side. He would be quick, rapid browse and return to blanket. He flicked mouse, arrived at milky.com. Enormous bosoms filled his eye-line.#
‘Ball-pond, ball-pond,’ he moaned.
Suddenly the bedroom door swung wide open. Ignatius, the guitar strapped to his back, staggered into the twilight.
‘Got a fag, Dad? I’m…OH MY GOD YOU’RE WANKING.’
‘What, what, grab the furs,’ said his wife.
‘Shut up, son. I am not wanking,’ the author whispered. ‘I am writing naked, of course. It is quite normal.’
‘What are those?’
‘Mmm…take the packet, go…go…leave us alone. How was the gig? Great, great, tell me tomorrow.’
The author returned to the family quilt, inheritance legacy, resumed his second or fourth favourite activity. How would he ever string those two hundred and twelve short stories into a single narrative Nobel prize-winning block-buster, and then sit by a swimming pool forever?
He needed to remember. An alternative universe, Charles Darwin strangled at birth, check, and also Captain Cook never did it, never went there, he joined the army. Good. Now, the protagonist – that chap Spencer he wrote about him – he, he discovers Australia. Yes, and the voyage, good..and also the pirates and the lady slaves he rescues, very good. Don’t forget any of this in the morning, this is brilliant stuff. But which slave? Does it matter? Of course it matters, think of your readership zzzzzz.