This thread started on a forum Mike and I shared, when we started playing off each other about this alternative/fantasy persona we each gave ourselves. Since then, we’ve started writing a novel together and Mike has had a number of books published as Michael D. Griffiths (The Chronicles of Jack Primus, Part I, The Chronicles of Jack Primus, Part II, Eternal Aftermath) while I’ve been busy rewriting several books and establishing my Creative Writing classes at Northbrook College. But though he writes horror and I write sci fi, when we get together, we write… differently! So I thought I’d put a slice of our combined madness on my blog…
Dang it SJ
I swear that woman needs rescuing more than fifty teenagers in B rated horror movies. Oh Man now what? It looks like Edgar’s goons must have followed them here. I need to think of something quick!
Wow look at Jack going at them. Lucky thing this is England and guns are scarce. That gives him a chance to do what he does best— Fistiecuffs.
Still that leaves the monster for me. Wow, the crowd sure is going wild. Should I try to stay in character? ‘Forsooth fair maiden fear not, I ah, um, Othello MacBeth, Prince of… ah Wales, will rescue you!’
Now I just need to- Wait the cauldron. ‘Give me that. Hi there you must be the young crone. How you doin? Ergh – I’ve no time for this.’
Okay ally-op cauldron goes over the head and now. ‘Look out – here comes the battle turtle!’
Oops one problem with this plan. I can’t see a thing with this cauldron covering the upper half of my body. ‘Dang cat I….
‘…Ahh Ow! I must have fallen off the stage. Wow. That hurt.’
Which way is SJ? The goons must have found me. Ahh… they’re beating on the cauldron till I’m dizzier than a 15-year-old after their his drink.
Did I just hear an old lady scream? ‘Hey – watch it. Aren’t you smart enough to keep those little kids out of my way?
‘Don’t worry SJ I’m. Coming!’
At last – civilisation. Or, maybe that’s going a bit too far, seeing as we’re talking about a Premier Inn, here. But at least there’s hot running water, central heating and food we haven’t had to chase across a muddy field, kill and skin.
And I have my very own room. Away from Mike and Jack and Candleman (who is currently parked in Mike’s wardrobe). And their endless moaning about Brit weather. Like it’s MY fault.
As I kept telling them – it wasn’t my fault we were there in the first place. I wasn’t the one who insisted on taking the lead role in the Scottish Play. In those tights. Without learning the words.
Neither did I get up onto the stage and start cracking my whip everywhere and canoodling with one of the witches in the wings, after the Director came onto the stage in tears and announced that the performance was cancelled ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’.
Yeah – I did suggest that we take a Welsh cottage for a few weeks till the heat died down, tucked away in a little valley. It was advertised as ‘ideal for the holidaymaker who wants to get away from it all’. They weren’t kidding. There was no running water, just a well. And a small generator for lighting. No TV – and the reception for radio was dire. Couldn’t use mobile phones – and forget about the internet. I still maintain it was a good idea. It wasn’t MY fault about the weather. If you’ve been reading the news or watching TV, you’ll know about the floods in Wales. But you won’t have heard about our adventures. We might as well have been on the other side of the world, we were so cut off.
When I was awakened in the night by the squeaks and patter of rats running over the bed and jumped out of it into six inches of icy water, I couldn’t call any emergency services. By the time I’d hauled on my sopping clothes, yelling that we were being flooded, the others were also surfacing. We all grabbed stuff we thought would be useful. I managed to snaffle a soggy loaf of bread, some butter and a couple of tins of tuna. Mike grabbed his teddy and a bottle of whiskey, fighting off the cat that insisted on perching on his head like some mad hat – while Jack saved his whip and a variety of sharp kitchen cutlery. Candleman just lurched through the puddles.
Half an hour later, the cottage was washed away in a coffee-coloured maelstrom that was more usually a pretty little river running through the bottom of the overgrown garden. I won’t bore you with the endless, dreadful days we spent marooned on a muddy patch of ground surrounded by swirling floodwater. Or the dreary trudge through drenched countryside, existing on various wildlife killed by Jack and CW’s cat. We even caught and roasted a swan (don’t tell the Queen…). Amongst other things. I’ve still got the upset stomach.
Till we reached civilisation, earlier today. Or rather, a Premier Inn… Where we all washed off days of mud, swan feathers, rat skins, hedgehog spines and rainwater. And ate several full English breakfasts. Each. Without speaking to each other. At all. In fact, I don’t care if I NEVER wear my eyes out on any of them, ever again…