Tag Archives: fiction

The Wednesday Post

Iwoke this morning with a heavy head, remembering that at some point in the distant past I had made a well intentioned, over enthusiastic, yet irrational declaration of intent – apparently I had promised to publish a post every Wednesday on my Wonky Words blog. How had this happened? I sighed and dragged myself out of bed, what the hell was I going to write about? There was Charmaine, of course, and her inky dabblings with italic calligraphy, and I could make mention of Harold, the Spanish flamenco dancer who was also locked in my attic fiddling with his self styled pointed nib….

On Tuesday evening before last Sunday, Harold and I argued ferociously, in an equally determined fashion, with regard to his refusal to learn any broad pen lettering. He believed a copperplate style would befit his passion for all things flamboyant and flouncy. In the end I let him have his way as I wanted to watch Eastenders and Holby City, but I refused to give him access to my extensive supply of pointed nibs and I made a note not to give him a bowl with his gruel the following morning, I also considered withholding the spoon.

So anyway, here we are, it is Wednesday and I am posting Charmaine’s first attempts at italic, and Harold’s first calligraphic marks with a pointed piece of wire that he picked out from an old electricity cable, which he found protruding from the attic wall.

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Charmaine’s first attempt!!

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Harold’s copper ‘wire’ plate….

Charmaine, bless her, is learning some lettering history as she practices, which I think is a rather noble endeavour, although I doubt very much that she will remember anything worthwhile – she may be a sphinx like beauty but she has the memory of a fish. Harold, on the other hand, being the artistic sensitive type, is writing any old random phrase that pops into his head, and claims to prefer using an expressive stream of consciousness for his practice material… personally, I think he is spending far too much time staring at Charmaine’s chest.

A Mogwash Newsflash

News reaches us of the strange disappearance of Richard Etherington-Smythe. Speculation has it that the sat nav system on his ride on mower malfunctioned and he was last seen by friends and neighbours mowing his way through the Butterfly Sanctuary and Bee Reserve at Moggins Meadow, 5 miles south of his 25 acre ornamental gardens at Mogs Mill Manor. In the unlikely event of anyone finding Mr Etherington-Smythe, please telephone the news desk at The Mogwash Mouthpiece immediately. Please note, he is not thought to be dangerous.

Also worthy of mention is the aspiring graffiti artist who, in an attempt to emulate the popular artist Banksy, has been using his mother’s Cath Kidston stenciling set to leave his tags across the village, most extensively in the bus shelter, in the grade II listed phone box, and all over Mrs Fitzpatrick’s hand built alpine rockery [with water feature]. Please note that we at The Mogwash Mouthpiece will not tolerate such blatant misbehaviour; we know who is responsible for these senseless acts vandalism and will be passing on the relevant details on to the appropriate authorities in due course.

Finally, we have received several complaints regarding a website known as Wonky Words. Does anyone know what this site is supposed to be about? The Mogwash Mouthpiece feels that this site is in some way responsible for the German archaeologist who has begun excavation work in the car park next to the scout hut. His name is Mago and he claims that he has been given permission to dig for ancient artifacts in the area known as Mogwash. We would like to assure residents that we are looking into this matter and will report our findings in the Christmas edition of the Mogwash Mouthpiece – on sale in the newsagents from October 21st.

A New Day, A New Bottle…

As a new day dawned over Mogwash, I resolved to put petty grievances aside. Sebastian and I could spat no longer seeing as our latest altercation had led to a ripped pair of lycra bell bottoms and an unromantic scuffle on the village green – we both agreed that writing any sort of sex scene purely to gain readership would be embarrassing, unseemly, and completely out of character… yet, somehow, the contents of Bottled Truth had been retrieved.

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The Joker Bottle

As for the bottle of greed, it still lay undiscovered, dirty and abandoned, hidden in the hole where I had left it many months previous. It was time to be open and honest. The stark truth was that I had not left any clues on my blog. I understood that my legions of fans would be devastated and disappointed by this revelation. Those that followed my ramblings with almost religious relish, would feel duped and cheated. I had been brought to my senses by impending legal action – an overzealous fan had misinterpreted one of my quirky quotations as being a grid reference for a property just outside of Greater Manchester. Five prize winning flower beds, three ornamental rose trees and a garden gnome had been destroyed in less than twenty minutes. Naturally I would take full responsibility, but this madness had to stop… it was time to come clean, time to get serious, time to make riddles with real clues…

An extract from a newspaper article – November 2045

….she staged what was to become her most controversial piece of work. In May 2007 she was discovered to be writing a blog that alluded to the possibility of a bottle filled with priceless jewellery being buried somewhere within the vicinity of Luddley-cum-Mogwash. Pantomime writer, Sebastian St. Johnson, revealed this to be a hoax after he broke into her home and stole the Bottle of Truth. He smashed the bottle open only to find a message that read: ‘To whom it may concern….

Meanwhile….

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Rage

Due to my lengthy absence, Sebastian had joined the local Abba tribute band in a concerted effort to dampen his despair at losing a witty, intelligent, modest and humble friend. Most evenings he could be found posturising in The Mogwash Arms, dressed in a chest flaunting white ruffled blouse teamed with black lycra bell bottoms and surrounded by fellow members of the used tea-bag Collectors Club in similar attire. After a few slugs of Campari he would impress onlookers with a range of ambitious oscillations including an inventive interpretation of a traditional Cossack dance, the climax of this routine being an impressively well rehearsed hand jive.
Reactions to my return were somewhat muted, indeed my first venture into the Mogwash Arms was greeted with hushed voices, muffled murmurs and the odd snigger. I was bewildered, hurt, confused, perplexed, and lots of other words that describe being baffled. Feigning kindness, Sebastian took me to one side and, possessed with the spirit of a pantomime villain, he slurred into my ear….
‘I knowww wherrr-ya-bittle-fortune’sss-burried… [dramatic pause as he swayed and dribbled a bit]…..I’m-gonna-put-ann-end t’all this flippin’ nonsense.’ He threw back his head and laughed with what can only be described as psychotic relish.
It was only when I arrived home that I realised what was behind his errant behaviour; Bottled Truth had been broken, shards of glass shivered in the fire place, the contents replaced with what appeared to be a brown, washed and pressed tea-bag of the Earl Grey variety….

The Only Eccentric Artist in the Village…

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Hot air….

During my absence it appeared that some members of the Mogwash community had wholeheartedly embraced the ideas of contemporary art. For example, Mrs Fitzpatrick, who lived on the fringe of the village in the six bed-roomed neo-Georgian barn conversion known as Rose Cottage, had obviously benefited from our little chats because she had casually assembled and installed a startling piece of sculpture on her block-paved driveway. As a trained artist, with trained artist skills, I could comprehend and appreciate her efforts on a much deeper level, efforts that to the uneducated eye may have been mistaken for the unwanted contents of a dilapidated shed in a skip. With my artist’s eye I could appreciate the exquisite juxtaposition of gold lame evening gown and broken pitch fork as being a subtle metaphor for a society in crisis, emphatically highlighting the intrinsic cruelty of cultural disinclination and disintegration.

I was envious and slightly in awe of her talent, she had even gone as far as to cleverly leave her art piece unmanned so that any passing artist could redefine her vision by adding or subtracting objects, meaning that the piece was continually in a state of flux, forever evolving . . . The addition of a moldy mattress brought a whole new perspective to the project . . . it was enthralling to witness this mutating masterpiece. I contributed in a minor way by donating a bottle of air.

I had to accept that times were changing and I was no longer the only eccentric artist in the village . . .