All entries for Tuesday 20 November 2007

November 20, 2007

Patchwork Narrative

In this, the first section was constructed by the members of my creative writing class each writing a sentance and I had to choose from a selection of closing lines. Here's the slightly twisted tale I ended up with...


               Auntie Samantha

It seems to me that, no matter what you do or say, the dreaded aunt will always come back down from the ferris wheel- that is until you take a gun and spray her brains all across your garden lawn. The uncle has given up on her; he is hardly ever at home, and there is certainly no way he was going to accompany you and his despised wife to the fair. He'd rather be with his secretary, wooing her, courting her and shagging her senseless, then give you company in dealing with those hairy kisses which you detest so much. It is understandable- after all, if you had the choice, you'd escape her and her sickening fuzzy embrace. Every time she leans over and purses her lips you can feel the moustache rub against your cheek, and you immediately sense an insane, mounting desire to take a razor to her chin - or even her wrists. People think that she is a delightful old lady who likes to dance the charleston, and who always wears a flowery perfume that creates an odour of musty roses. But you know how much hell she creates for you and your uncle, how much better the world would be without her. Given a time to think while she goes up in the ferris wheel, what would you choose to do?

  I chose to get a pistol and silencer, and carry out a proper assassination, simple, effective, and safe. One night, I told her to come into the garden, because the stars looked so beautiful, flung about a gloomy sky like glowing crumbs scattered across a carpet, and when she came out I exploded her little stubbly face, ruining her perfect hair with dribbles of brain and overpowering her rosy perfume with the odour of drying inner fluids. I did everything I was supposed to. I told my neighbour to tell Auntie Samantha when she comes home that I had just gone to the shops. I divided the body into smaller pieces and loaded them into bin bags which I then placed in the car boot. I drove to a secluded bridge and flung the body pieces into the river, and came back with shopping, asking my neighbour whether my auntie had come back yet. When she said that she hadn't, I started to express a certain anxiety, for my aunt never returned late and you never know who might brutally murder a helpless lady like dear Samantha who likes to dance the charleston.

  I was proud of myself. I really was. But then my uncle started to act in a way I had not anticipated. He cried bitter tears when his wife's remains were found, and his eyes were perpetually webbed with a deep red sadness. He did not see his secretary for weeks, walking about the house in a daze and hardly touching his food. I began to wonder whether I had made a slightly rash decision. You would have done the same, I'm sure, and decided to kill her when she descended from the ferris wheel, but I still couldn't come to terms with the effect the whole event had had on my poor uncle. To have a clear conscience, I sat down with him one morning and, after placing a cup of tea in front of him, pointed out that this time last month he would be complaining of his wife's unbearable ways, and shuddering after having received one of her horrible hairy kisses. "I often go back, in my head, to this time last month", he replied simply, "And all I can think is this: that she'd still be alive now, sitting here in the kitchen with me." 

November 2007

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