h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Hi,

Time for some new threads I think.

Nice to see you back. I seem to recall you saying that you like to write after a journey. So will we be seeing new stories from you soon?

Tales of…

“How to get hammered”, or
“Tools not to pick a fight with”, or
“I fought the axe and the axe won” perhaps?

Anyway, do hope you are not too badly injured.

No news of the EOS shortlist, though a few hoaxers on this site have claimed to have been contacted. There’s still a week or so to go, so there’s 17,000 people walking around with crossed fingers.

There’s a nice little competition called, “Judge a book by its cover”. Only 500 words and you still have 3 or 4 days to enter.

http://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/programmedetail.php?id=88&season=13


C U Around,


Thoth,
X

Hi, Thoth,
Well, phooeeey to all that, we the unselected say (I include you in the we - unless you write under a different name, with a different face - sorry, I happen to be listening to B. Dylan's Desolation Row at the mom...). I can't deny, I had some hopes. But then I've never entered a writing competition before. And for a girl who won runner's up prize in the Name the Sugar Puffs Bear competition (Hugo was mine, much better than Jeremy - well! Jeremy didn't last long, did he?)
I think we rather expected better...
(I can't find a smiley going off in a huff at the moment).
My leg, thank you, is going through the healing process. I take it out and show it to people occasionally, but, to be honest, the bruises are fading a bit now.
Have you entered any of those other comps you mentioned?
I shall take your advice, Thoth oh wisest of all etc., and maybe post a bit or two. I don't think I'm a competition animal, but its nice to be kept on the ball, a little, about writing. (Did I tell you? I'm a translator by profession (technical, commercial etc. not lit) so your encouragement is great because, well... I know I use words, but I know I can use them better. I'm not a story-teller, I think you are.
Oh, I've just realised, I can tell you a story about my trip to France.
While I was at the market, a number of flyers were put under my windscreen wiper. Among which was one which took my attention. (This was a couple of days before 14 july - Bastille day). It was fron the village the other side of the nearest small town to me. Their quatorze juillet celebration was, among other things, to opem up gardens in the village to various things. Folks songs in one, peotry reading, painting, reading from Colette, dance etc. A really small village. I spent, on my own, about 4 hours there - but the very best for me was "Franckie's Garden". It wasn't a garden, it was a lean-to sort of shed affair and Franckie was a Story-Teller, awoman in her fifties with a wreath of grasses in her hair. At a pause point, I stepped over the wall and sat down. I listened to just one story - I could have stayed for ever. I can't describe it. There was a magic there, Thoth, if you wanted it, an absolute spell binding.
I've never heard a story teller before, not like that, in a small village, just like that. It made me think... oh, ... its our voices which are important. Our telling and retelling...

Sorry, it's late...

Keep in touch, Thoth, you're good.
Best,

Denise

Good Morning,

Great to hear from you and I hope the recovery is progressing.

Though when it comes to Denile showing off her pins – isn’t that a little brazen?


In olden days, a glimpse of stocking
was looked on as something shocking.
Now heaven knows, anything goes.
Good authors too who once knew better words,
now only use fourletter words writing prose,
anything goes.

=====

The lady story teller sounds fantastic. What “an in” to a fabulous story - “novelette”.

Really, you should think about it...

======


As for short stories; well I like to use them as exercises, just to learn and improve. Well that’s the idea, anyway.

Here’s the light-hearted one I sent into the “Judge a Book by its Cover” competition.

It may make more sense if you look at the book cover on this site.


http://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/programmedetail.php?id=88&season=13



----

OBSESSION

Obsession – why the judges didn’t have the vaguest idea what the word meant. If they had they wouldn’t have awarded first prize to a hormone-challenged blimp with a shoe fetish. I called one of the panel afterwards, one of the brighter ones with an IQ approaching double figures.

He said, “You can’t spell, punctuate or tell a story. Hell will freeze over before you win a writing competition.” That was when I decided to teach them what ‘Obsession’ really means.

I started with the prize-winners. First the shoe-lady; it seemed daft to me that she should lust after shoes when all she needed was a pair of clogs, reinforced by Krupps. I considered a concrete-boot, but that was a bit too complicated, and besides, I’d have needed a bloody crane to drop her in the river. KISS, Keep It Simple Stupid, as they taught us in the army.

So I nicked a lorry load of shoes, cheap stuff like you see down the market, ‘shoes £5.99, buy one get one free’ type of smutter. I’ll say this for the lady though, she made a fine parking spot.

Second place gave me a bit of a problem. I mean; knocking someone off is easy; it’s doing it right that’s difficult. Elvis was his bag – well what was I supposed to do – stuff him full of burgers? I couldn’t think of anything, until I remembered one of Elvis’s old songs. In case you’re wondering - a piece of advice – never do an Elvis impersonation in front of my hound-dogs. It took me a couple of months to train them, but boy do they enjoy their work.

Third and final was a cocktail freak. He liked to get drunk on booze from around the world. According to his story, he went barking over weird foreign plonk. I mean, call that obsession? I call it being an alcoholic. But when he wrote about how he likes to mix his prissy little drinks, those literati giants who call themselves judges, gave him a prize.

The flat opposite his was empty so I ‘borrowed’ it for a day. After all, what’s the point in creating a masterpiece if you don’t get to witness it? I left a parcel outside his door with a note, ‘From a grateful off-licence’. It was a laugh to watch as he tore at the wrapping, like a kid at Christmas. Inside I’d sent a bottle of Uzbekistani, strawberry and fermented goats’ milk. And boy did it stink of goats. This was probably a good thing as it hid the taste of the cyanide. He seemed to like it though; in fact he was about to down his third glass when the poison hit.

So that’s the winners - now for the judges, what did that jerk say? Oh yeah, “When hell freezes over.”

A phone call first I think, “Hello, is that Arctic Truck Rentals? I’d like to hire a refrigerated van.”

-fin-


----

I did a different version of this story with very poor spelling and grammar, (as opposed to mediocre), and someone suggested I write it in crayon and send it in like that…

======================



Here’s yet another light-hearted tale.

A local writing group had a BBQ and we were asked to produce a short piece under the topic... "Memorable Meal"...

Here's my effort.

Just a bit of fun really…

=====================

"Rubbish”, I yelled at the Barbie–esque creature on television. How could anyone believe she’d been Cleopatra in a former life? It was laughable. Why, even Cleopatra’s handmaidens had been less plastic than this later day charlatan.

How did I know? Simple - in a past life I had been Queen Cleopatra’s chef.

If you doubt me, allow me tell of a memorable feast – prepared in the roman style. It was in Alexandria, soon after the birth of my queen’s twins, and she and Marcus still glowed with that radiance of proud new parents.

We were instructed to prepare the standard fare for the feast, and in its way the food was unexceptional. Cleopatra once wagered Marcus that she could craft the most expensive banquet ever. At the end of what had been a magnificent meal Marcus remarked that - while the banquet had been sumptuous it hadn’t been extraordinary. He thought he’d won the bet until my queen took a wondrous pearl – a treasure so precious it was worth a small kingdom – and dropped it into her wine. After the pearl had dissolved she drained the glass.

In truth the pearl didn’t dissolve – Cleopatra simply drank it with the wine. I know because my friend Aemilia was charged with retrieving it – ‘in the fullness of time’.

Aemilia was a bubbly character, with curves as taught as a felucca’s sail. She was ever happy to share a glass and gossip a while, but try as I might, I could never get close to her. And I did try – I showered her with flowers and aromatic oils, once I gave her painted fan, but she never weakened.

*****

The night was deliciously cool, with a breeze carrying the scent of flowers and cicada love songs into the palace. As the guests arrived appetisers were served - white and green olives, Syrian plums, tiny sausages cooked on a silver gridiron, and dormice sprinkled with honey and poppy seeds.

And of course Mulsum - made from the finest Rhodian wine, sweetened with honey from the lavender hills of Gaul.

When the company had settled to their couches, the meal proper began. There were mussels harvested under a waxing moon, oysters, sea urchins and scallops from Tarentum. There were salads of lettuce and tender shoots of leeks, onions, radishes and mushrooms, and a pickled young tuna garnished with eggs and rue leaves.

And more Mulsum.

The main course was a triumph. The principal dish was Umbrian boar which had been raised on acorns. In accompaniment we cooked platters of antelope, hare, gazelle, wild goat, lamb and sucking pig. For poultry lovers we prepared chicken, geese, duck, partridges, pheasants, cranes, doves, thrushes, figpeckers, peacocks and a flamingo.

And we poured more Mulsum.

There should have been pigeons too, but a clod called Sergius overcooked them. I tossed him from the kitchen with a kick to his backside, and swore he’d be sold as a eunuch. Of course I didn’t sell him, but he’d earned a few hours of torment.

When the second course was finished handmaidens washed the guests’ hands. The soiled tables were removed and fresh ones carried in. Then we served honey cakes, nuts and plain and stuffed fruits.

And Mulsum.

Best of all though was my speciality - Dulcia Domestica. These are prepared thus – first pit some dates, fill them with a mixture of fruit, nuts and spices. Then soak in wine - finally lightly salt and fry in honey. If ever there was food fit for the gods, this was it. I confess I stole a plate of them to share with Aemilia.

Why was the feast so memorable? Well – the gift of Dulcia to Aemilia worked – three times!


==========



Footnote.

The Menu, the trick with the pearl, the handmaidens etc. have some basis in historical fact.

PS. I’m taking orders for Dulcia if you’re interested.

PPS. I did think of posting this off to a ladies mag as a light filler, in case they have a suitable sized slot. Well you never know.

=======================


Radio Kent do a monthly comp.

This site gives the details, but the August starter hasn’t been posted yet.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/kent/your_space/words/shortstories/index.shtml

-----------------

I have one other story that you may like to see but I prefer not to post it in a conversation.

I think it might be the sort of tale Denise would enjoy reading.

If you care to send a message to this address I will mail it back to you.

[email protected]

Note, I never give out e-mail addresses, nor send unsolicited mail.

===================

C U Soon, and get scribbling.



Thoth.
x

(Mike)

A van? A refrigerated van? Come on, we must be able to get together and hire an arctic artic at least...

Denile covers her very badly wounded leg (there's still a mark there, though) in confusion and apologises.

A story about a storyteller? Well, maybe. At first thought, I thought it wouldn't be right. At second thought, I think she'd sit back and laugh.

I'll e-mail you in a min and take a risk on the other story.

yours in etc.