There’s been a flourish of spring writing activity at the Sunday Writers‘ Club. We’re proud to present here some of the most recent writing coming out of our creative writing sessions. Our participants are not only great people to hang out with on a Sunday morning; they also love creative writing, as you will discover below.
Many thanks to Caroline Stevenson and Gica Trierweiler for their contributions.
It was a grey day when she was born. Particularly there, it was like a distinct dimension in which there’s no sound, thanks to the Laws of Physics. Grey and mute, the exact right scenario for a slow-motion crime scene, an accountant office or even a dream every psychotherapist would love to analyze. Then she was born.
Most of us come to the world and start our adventure into a life of hassle and question marks, of dirty socks and bills to pay, of pain in the lower back and a daily struggle to keep the marriage alive. But not her. Of course not.
There’s something magical around these creatures who will never face adversities. They are always in the right place, the right time and the right endless money. A life of sparkling parties, easy celebrations, and people… Rich people can be boring and shallow, but they smell so good. She was the perfect fit. Her future was brighter than this lazy day tangled to lousy weather.
Time perception is also poetry by itself. It passes by differently depending on if you are having fun, being raped or trying to make a baby sleep for the fifth turn on the past three hours and the alarm clock will be also screaming soon and there will be traffic because of the rain and boss won’t be happy about that report. These things. You know. Life. Time.
Years later she was ready to shine. Standing there, gorgeous, under the spotlight, not for the ordinary, not at all. She was
_What the fuck, Manu! Was that your gun?
_No! Fuck! The bottle
_This one costs a fucking fortune. Boss will kill you.
_I’ve saved half of it.
_Oh, so then it’s ok. You’ve saved half a bottle.
_Fuck, Manu, how can you be so dumb? Of course not. I’m being ironic. You are fucked. We are fucked.
_Turn off the lights.
_I don’t know, ok? Just fucking turn them off.
They were now mute. The room was grey. And she was half empty, thanks to the Law of Physics.
The text was produced by the trigger “tell the story of a half-empty bottle of champagne”.
My Built-In Bastard Alarm
By Caroline Stevenson
Photo from Pexels
Mother always told me, in more child-friendly terms, to steer clear of bastards.
You stick with the people who are nice to you, don’t waste time on anyone else, she said.
But how to spot one before it’s too late? They are a varied breed, coming in various guises.
Under no circumstances should you let one walk you home.
If you have led an untarnished life and are as yet unschooled in detecting bastardry,
Let me forewarn you of the common danger signs.
Take a seat. Sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin.
Indicators of bastardry may be multiple or few, but they are always perceptible.
Never be fooled by any ingratiating first introductions, that’s how they draw you in.
Bastards phrase questions as though they were statements, because they know all the answers.
A smile is either too forced, with no wrinkles around the eyes, or substituted with a smirk.
Striving is for losers. If there’s a test, they aren’t going to put the work in.
The answers will be handed to them on a plate by that dweeb they’ve got under their thumb.
A queue in which a bastard is in front is not a queue to the bastard’s mind, but a crowd of spectators.
Rather than seek help to battle their demons, their self-chosen therapy is to belittle others.
Discourse with bastards is one-sided. They interrupt your explanations and then they’re
Angry at you because you still haven’t given them an explanation! What a nerve!
Limp is the handshake offered by a bastard. If offered at all.
A parting piece of advice: should a bastard inspire you to imitate them, then
Run, non-bastard, run, because
Mother taught you better, thank goodness.