Pen Player

by brightonsauce

I’m all hyperventilated and excited.  I’ll take this down in an hour or two when I reads it back to myself, with love x

….

Retired from the pet grooming industry at the top of my game, [I was] internationally respected at Crufts, Kennel Club and them Kraft food.  I got to thinking maybe draft my fucking memoirs – dogs, the bitches, pussy cats and fluffy rabbits, all the crazy characters in the world of showing: the back-combers, Gerry Lequeef, Osama, monkey doctor, and those notorious Mackenzie sisters,  lift the lid on their foul racket in Scottish folds; the  pussies vacuum-packed down the pet cemeteries. They were flown  world ways.  I knew it.  I knew those ladies, and their jewels, knew how the fold ruined careers of the ordinary feline populations from New York to New Guinea – like a tragic tabby, a chihuahua moccasin story. I knew it so much, needed to get this all down in print in my book.

It was morning, [as] I unbuttoned the popper on the lame pyjamas, pissed in my scented lavatory. I looked abouts, saw a man of 52, curly rug of man hair rolled gracefully to his drawstring.  I slipped henry back in his cubby, poppered my popper and hollered for Wendy fix me some breakfast.

‘Make some fucking breakfast, baby.’

‘I am making fucking breakfast.’

Bacon sizzled from the downstairs.  I groomed my brows, swept my mane of delicious hair, and prepared me for an adventure.

‘What you doing today, honey?’ said Wendy.

‘What d’you think I’m doing, you fool?

She was kind of dumb with her questioning.

‘I told you I am writing a book,’ I said.  ‘Today I’m heading down the Florida book club, get me some eyes.’

‘But darling I thought you quit, those turtle eyes, those parrot teeth.’

‘No, man eyes,’ I said.  ‘Need some man eyes,’ I growled.

Woman nearly tipped my bacon on my lap, she gasped with her hand.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Yes, it is time for members of the general public to peruse my writings.  I am applying for membership, get me some voices on my writings, call it criticism.’

‘I would not do that, honey.  You don’t like no critism.’

‘This is different.  Sauce,’ I said.

Ketchup off my plate, I hopped to my Toyota, cruised the freeway, Hotel California breezed through my ears, Tallahassee bound, the public library.

‘Take a seat, young fella,’ said the general.  ‘We gotta casual arrangement going on.  We sit rounds, reads and discuss merits of the prose.’

‘Where’s the photo-copier?’  I said.

‘We don’t have no photographer.  We is just a reading circle.’

‘I need a photo-copier,’ I said.

‘Maybe you got ambition above your station, young man,’ said this geriatric hag, maybe 49 years old. She sat across the room, her legs crossed and paper piled on her lap.

‘You know nothing woman, I’m gonna bust the world of publishing with my revelations.’

‘Good,’ she drawled all sarcastic like a real sarcastic woman, been a problem all my lives.  I shot her a put you down to bed kind of face if she wasn’t so ugly.  She looked away to the windows.

‘I’d like to introduce a new member, Wayne Jackson will read his story third, I believe so, mister Jackson, is that okay?’

‘Where’s the photocopier?’ I said, but still nobody take me serious , and I began to bust at the temple, veins popped under my forehead skin, kind of attractive Wendy says.

Carlos stood, Hispanic by the looks of his hands. ‘Hello everybody, remember chapter twenty-four, my transgender OP mans the guns at Gettysburg, when the British army arrive, and burn all the babies in the barn, remember folks?’ he said.

‘I certainly remember,’ said the general, and reclined in his chair, inhaled the scent of burning babies.

Carlos  too inhaled,

‘I must save the babies,’ said Carlos, dramatic and in character, ‘but my breasts ached, confined in the coarse Confederate uniform of warfare.’

‘Where’s my copy?’ I said.

‘Refreshments are served after the reading, young man.’

‘I NEED A COPY OF THE WRITING,’ I said.

‘Please allow Carlos to read,’ said the hag.

‘You motherfuckers,’  I said, ‘Chavez has finished his story, my turn to go reading.’

The general rolled his fingers through his long white beard.  ‘Go ahead boy, you read your story,’ he said…

‘Chapter one, the folds were crammed a dozen deep into the coffins at the military airbases. Each fold with a street value of 100 000$ US dollars.  I…I…’

‘Is that current valuation?’ said the woman, and stroked her paperwork.

‘Shut up and listen,’  I said, but it was all too late.  I needed a proper writer circle, professionals and not the amateurs of this suburb.

‘I hate your shit,’ I said.

‘Sorry to hear it,’ said Chavez.

Back in the Toyota, I began to understand what a long, lonely road was the journey back to home, and also how difficult it might be to launch my story on the world.  Yet deep inside my soul I knew I had successfully overcome the first hurdle of the struggling writer, all that talking to pricks at writer club.  I decided to flap my wings, engage the second tier of craft, and that night as Wendy chewed under her mask I composed the first of my masterpiece poems for the Thursday night poetry open microphone event.  I will keep you all updated, thank you.

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