Donkeys in spandex overcoats

The author looked out through his kitchen window as he made his morning coffee. There wasn’t much to see, just two or three dozen donkeys in spandex overcoats, in an array of colours, standing on his drive and on the road that circled his house. There was even one, dressed head to tail in bright pink spandex, pressed up against the kitchen window, staring back at him, as only a donkey in spandex can stare.

Coffee brewed, he retreated to the lounge. The window of the lounge looked east. Through it, more donkeys could be seen, dozens and dozens of them, all dressed in bright spandex coats, reds, pinks, yellows, blues, a veritable rainbow of spandex donkeys.

The author didn’t move, he just sat on the sofa, staring at the donkeys staring back at him. But if you like, you can join me on a tour of the house, we can circle the whole building, looking out through the windows of every room. The sight we see won’t change, through the living room window we will see donkeys in spandex overcoats, if we look through the bathroom window we will see donkeys in spandex overcoats, and if we look through the utility room window we will see donkeys in spandex overcoats, hundreds of them altogether, covering every inch of soil, staring back at us through every window.

Donkeys in spandex overcoats were the writer’s curse, they were everywhere, they were everything. There was no escape from them.

It began many years ‘previously, with a story he wrote, a short novella, or a long yarn, describe it as you will. He was already published with modest but growing sales, but the Donkeys in Spandex Overcoats was his breakthrough novella, his first big hit.  So successful that he was able to live his life’s dream – leaving his job and becoming a professional writer.

The novella attracted a quirky fan base, mostly young men, the more obsessive of whom purchased donkeys and dressed them in spandex overcoats, just like the narrator of the novella. They started bringing the donkeys to events he was speaking at, following him around, lurking outside his house. Everywhere the author went a donkey in spandex was sure to follow.

His next novel was a flop, even though the critics loved it. His problem was that his fans hated it, refused to buy it, because it didn’t feature donkeys, and though the critics loved it, their opinions didn’t matter. They didn’t generate a single sale.

Driven by market forces, he decided to write a follow-up: Return of the Donkeys in Spandex Overcoats. It was an overnight success, went straight to the top of the fiction charts and firmly established him as a ‘name’ in the publishing world.

The only downside was that the lucrative literary festivals had stopped inviting him to speak, because every event he featured at attracted dozens of men with donkeys, and most literary events weren’t happy with clearing up piles of donkey poo. However, the author’s agent came up with an ingenious solution, Donkey Fest, a literary festival that not only catered for donkeys but positively encouraged them. If your fans could afford to buy a donkey just because they liked your book, the agent reasoned, they would pay serious money to take their donkey to see you reading your book.

Donkey Fest was a triumph, hundreds of people came that first year, within a few years the numbers had reached thousands, all paying significant amounts of money to see the author read stories about donkeys, answer questions about donkeys, and for a photograph of the author with them and/or their donkey.

He published another donkey-free novel, which was another flop, his fans not interested in his non-donkey work, and the critics no longer interested in even reviewing a book by the spandex-donkey man. His niche had become too niche for the mainstream men.

He was forced to write a short story collection, Short Tales of Spandex Donkeys, the follow-up Short Tails of Spandex Donkeys, and the Halloween collection: Scary Tales of Donkeys in Spandex Overcoats.  His work became 100% dedicated to donkeys in spandex overcoats, even his attempt to branch out ever-so-slightly with the novella Donkeys in Green Cardigans was a flop. The donkeys had to be donkeys in spandex overcoats, or there was no point writing about donkeys at all.

It became impossible for him to walk down the street without constantly being pestered by men and their donkeys. His house, rather than suffering the occasional visit, became constantly surrounded by donkeys in spandex. The police were called out, but it became such a pointless chore that they ceased to help after the thousandth donkey.

Thus was the life of the author when we meet him, he was trapped in the world he had created, he was trapped by his own cursed imagination in a world consisting of nothing nor no-one but donkeys wearing spandex overcoats.

The author finished his coffee and trudged to his computer. He had a deadline to meet, the thirteenth donkey in spandex novel to finish: Donkeys in Spandex in Space. He wrote 5,000 words without so much as engaging his brain. Another novel finished. He sent the email to his publisher without so much as bothering to spell-check, the editor would do that, or the editor’s unpaid intern, or the unpaid intern’s unpaid gofer.

He looked out of the window again. More donkeys had arrived, by now the mob of donkeys outside his door were packed so close together you could no longer see the grass under their feet, for miles and miles all that could be see was the horrific pinks, blues, oranges, greens and reds of lurid spandex.

The donkeys pressed nearer and nearer. In fact, the author could see the very walls of the house being squeezed in. Impossible, of course, but it was happening. Too late the author realised he had to escape, he ran to the door, but the door wouldn’t budge, there was a donkey in front. He turned to try another exit, but the wall was, by now, immediately behind him, squeezed by the force of a thousand pushing and heaving donkeys. He was trapped, in an ever-shrinking prison.

He didn’t live much longer. There was no air left to breath, he gasped frantically, but every last atom of air had been sucked in by the massive herd of donkeys in spandex. There was no longer room for both him and the donkeys in the same world.

The last thing the author saw before he died was the face of a donkey in spandex staring at him. It's spandex overcoat was a lurid green, the sort of green that makes you wish you were about to die.