Another World
By Starfish Girl
- 1826 reads
Something I wrote a while ago, unsure whether to continue or not (the sad story of a lot of my writing!)
Conjure up the perfect English landscape, rolling hills; tall, stately, oak trees; a stream tinkling and sparkling over rocks smoothed by time and at the heart of this vision a cottage, roses climbing around an old gnarled door and smoke spiralling lazily out of the crooked chimney. It is a beautiful summer’s day; bees and butterflies idly seek out nectar from the abundant wild flowers. There are children, the sound of their joyful laughter reverberating around the placid hills. To complete this idyll the parents sit at the base of the old apple tree a picnic of delights awaiting the children.
‘Is that your latest offering for Mills and Boon?’ Lucy asked leaning over Adam’s shoulder. She pushed his fingers away from the keyboard and made a few corrections to his punctuation.
‘This is going to be the last one, the next one will be by Adam Penhalligan,’ he was always inventing a new nom de plume, ‘and not by that awful hack Anita Summers!’
‘Anita has been very good to us. She helps keep us in the style to what we have become accustomed.’
‘I’m going to kill her off and give Adam the chance to write the novel that is bursting to be written.’
Lucy shrugged her shoulders and left him to his creation. She had heard this so many times before.
When he’d been made redundant three years ago he started to write short stories. They were lightweight things, the sort that women’s magazines liked and he sold quite a few. Then he’d sent one off to Mills and Boon using the pen name Anita Summers they liked his work and had given him a contract.
Adam had begun to hate the people in his stories, they were so perfect and things always worked out. Not like real life.
He didn’t tell Lucy but they, his story characters, had started to people his dreams. Always in that valley with the oaks, the cottage, the children, and the couple sitting at the base of the apple tree. But each time the dream came there were differences.
Conjure up an English landscape, rolling hills; tall, oppressive oak trees; a stream sluggishly flowing over rocks smoothed by time and at the heart of this vision a cottage. Roses once grew around its old, battered door. The roof now open to the elements. It is a miserable summer’s day, bees and butterflies reluctant to venture forth. There are children, two, a boy and a girl. They sit on the swing; its frayed rope attached to a bough of the apple tree the creaking sound grating like fingernails on a blackboard. To complete this picture the parents sit at the base of the tree, watching their children..
Adam sat up quickly for a moment thinking he was in that valley, he could feel the wind blowing, sighing through the tree, could sense the eyes of the children upon him as they slowly swung backwards and forwards. He was unaccountably afraid as though something evil was waiting in the shadows. It was dark, indistinct shapes surrounded him and then Lucy was there with a hot drink and some chocolate biscuits and a big smile.
‘Come on luv, about time you had a break. You’ve been up here all afternoon. How’s it going?’
She read what he’d written.
‘Bit dark isn’t it? Not Anita’s usual style!’
He looked up at her puzzled and then down at the computer screen.
‘But…!’
He couldn’t remember writing it.
Lucy didn’t notice his confusion.
‘I dare say they’ll sort it out and all live happily ever after, as usual!
You do look tired, why don’t you give up for tonight and start fresh tomorrow?’
He nodded clicking the ‘save’ button before closing down the computer.
A good night’s sleep worked wonders. He was up bright and early determined to finish what he hoped was the last story by Anita Summers. He’d delete that nonsense and revert to the original, the one more in keeping with Mills and Boon. He had a vague idea of what was to happen and as Lucy had said it would all end up happily.
He started up the computer the story had changed yet again, and he had no recollection of having written it.
‘Was it a mad flash of inspiration that got you up in the middle of the night? I can see you’ve written more.’ Lucy was standing in the doorway smiling at him.
‘Well as the muse has returned I’ll leave you to it.’
Adam stared at the screen, none of it making any sense.
A blighted landscape, stumps of once majestic oaks standing like rotten teeth on a barren land. Dust driven by a hot, sultry wind swirls and drifts along a dry stream bed. A pile of rocks and wood show where a house once stood. Two children are in the middle of the rubble, tears leaving white trails down their dirty cheeks. Suddenly they both turn and stare at a figure silhouetted against the crimson orb of the setting sun. The boy grabs the girl’s hand and they both run.
Adam pressed delete.
A complete rest from it, that’s what he needed. ‘Luce!’ he shouted, ‘I need to blow away the cobwebs. How do you fancy a nice long walk?’ A trek over the nearby hills seemed to do the trick. He now knew how his story should go.
The alien story was there again, in spite of the deletion. Was he going mad?
The valley had been ravaged; not a blade of grass grew, or would grow for many years to come. HE scoured the landscape trying to look into every nook and cranny. HE would find them, and find them before they could tell anyone. HE would deal with them and then…
The screen went blank. Adam pressed keys but to no effect and then slowly things returned to normal, or did they?
Conjure up the perfect English landscape, rolling hills; tall stately oak trees; a stream tinkling and sparkling over rocks smoothed by time and at the heart of this vision a cottage,…
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Comments
keep it going
I really enjoyed this, I loved how the dreams kept changing and decaying. I do hope you write more but if you are stuck, take a break. I recently uncovered stuff from a few years ago myself and now I have all kinds of new ideas to add to them.
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I enjoyed this - could be the
I enjoyed this - could be the start of something...
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Lindy, I'm a serial starter
Lindy, I'm a serial starter and finish over months in dribs. You can come back to this if it doesn't feel right now - sometimes takes me a year for a 3, 000 word story to settle or solidify before I can even spit it out. Hope you know what I'm blathering on about. There's a wicked chapter in Vanessa Gebbie's 'Short Circuits' on the benefits of not forcing an end or assuming a big piece of work just because you like writing as long as you still write regularly and exercise muscles. Worth a read if you haven't got the book.
It's imaginative with charm. Hold on to it.
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Hi LIndy
Hi LIndy
I really like this idea - and agree with the others that it is worth sticking with.
I must admit that I have changed my idea of "Mills and Boon" type stories. I chose three to read on holiday, just because it was the only type of reading material available at the Walmart next to my motel, and I enjoyed each one very much. And one of my favourite authors started her career writing for Mills and Boon.
Jean
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