Elena stirred, alerted by the long, long silence to the fact that business was exceptionally slow. There was no great need to worry: their bookshop was ticking over in the black – just about – and had been for years now, given a fortunate location and loyal clientele. It was just – wet Wednesdays, and early closing day, and a long way off payday for a lot of folks. The thing was, a lack of customers gave her the urge to mess with her brother, even if only for her own personal amusement.
She looked over at him, hunched beside the elderly till, a vintage Guy de Maupassant spread out before him, and a mug cooling by his side.
Ehhh, feels like time to re-make and re-write some of my old fanfic WiPs, rebuild them into original fic. Not that I haven’t already been doing a bit of that, under aliases SarahTender and WandaWithers. But for my two old faves this seems like the right ID. So very shortly indeed, expect a mangling re-working of a tale loosely based on ‘Notting Hill’. With new added werewolves!
*Kipling, darling. Love a bit of Kipling. ‘If’ used to reliably make me cry, before I got so hardened and contemptuous.
So, you know how as a writer – wewriters, bub, you ‘n’ me – very often you’ll keep a notebook beside your bed? So that if you wake up with the germ of a great idea in your head, you can dash it down quick and not lose it?
(So that someoneelse gets to very lightly re-write it, claim it, and cede not one word of credit, of course. For another day, bud! For another day! Oh, the mooks. Watch out for the mooks!)
Anyhoo. Ya do that. That’s not novel. Everyone does it. Writers, anyhoo.
But what do you do when you wake up, with something nagging at your brain. And you turn over, to take a look at your notebook. And lo –
– in your handwriting –
– scrawled across the top page –
– this legend doth blaze upon it –
PACKED WITH GOATS. PACKEDWITHGOATS!
No, I mean that’s it. No further word of explanation. Can’t even remember writing it. Do you think the Devil made me do it? Whatdoesitmean?
All suggestions gratefully received. Buggered if I know. But I’m quite charmed with it. It may spark off a Saga of goatly superpowers, possession and invasion yet, who knows.
…It’s a New Year (okay, two weeks in) and time to ring the changes with my logo!
First came ‘lovin’guyslovin’guys’ (curtseys, why yes, all my own work. CUZ I ALWAYS CREDIT SOURCES ON ACCOUNT OF I’M A MENSCH NOT A MOOK. Only slimy no-good mooks don’t credit.)
Aaaand second, ‘honeysays my tittygame’sbananas’ – the work of the very, very great Neil Brennan, check out 3Mics on Netflix cuz it’s amazing and tearful as well as hilarious.
And now? Ta-da – ‘eyeball–chewing bastard’, a slightly mangled version of the memorable phrase courtesy of Mr Henry Rollins – inimitable, amazing, a gentleman and a punk rocker. Yeah, three words can constitute intellectual property and imply a duty of attribution, dependent on circumstance and intent, if you have any ethical grounding and integrity whatsoever. Fair use in good faith don’t mean mine grab mine grab mine.
Water should be clear, invisible. He should never have to think about water. Because his mate is near, a fact that ought to trump every other consideration.
But the water’s thick, with blobs of synthetic snowdrift. It’s more terrifying than the winter scenes he can dimly access, from his other life.
Then he spots her, through the growing mist.
Still in human form, despite the moon: scuba diving through the aqua depths, her wetsuit gleams as she swims frantically towards him, a kilometer away. Because she can feel it, as he begins to choke, to spasm.
To die. Greg wonders if his mate’s pain will be the last thing he knows. Her shark form is triggered, she begins to rip off human adornment, to launch herself towards him as her gills open.
He’s choking. And he wonders. If they’ll die together, in this storm of man-made plastic snows.
He’s man. And he’s shark. But it’s men who’ve killed him, and her too.