Where I'm Going
Entry by: Jacula
31st July 2015
THE TROUBLE WITH SHORT STORIES
Hello. My name is Cassie Whale and I’m a successful short story writer, or at least I was… until real-life events de-railed me.
I haven’t slept well for years; always something on my mind. If it wasn’t The Divorce with its chuck-a-bloody-great-rock-into-a-pond-and-watch-the-tsunami effect, it was watching my Dad unravelling like a piece of badly cast-off knitting; first forgetting little things, then bigger ones, then Mum, then me. The only thing he remembered at the end, when he died from Aspiration Pneumonia – which has nothing to do with wanting more in life and all to do with losing your swallow reflex and being given food or drink by impatient care workers who just want to tick off things on the list on the clipboard at the end of your bed - was his army number. He could rattle that off pat and salute with the best of them. My daughter was ill, too – in a clinic doing her best to become skeletal. What, with running between the two clinics, cleaning out the 20 or so hutches and cages of the small, furry things she had gathered around her to feel needed and loved, plus trying to look after her older brother, I barely had time to think let alone write. I hardly knew where life was going, so to know where I was going would have been too much to ask.
What I hadn’t bargained for was the fact that the characters I’d created were real and they were waiting for me to finish their stories.
I have to give them their due – they were very patient. They prodded me every now and again for 15 years before their patience ran out.
I had the cold from hell, had dosed myself up with lemons, honey, pain-killers, decongestants etc., and was lying on the sofa one weekday afternoon, watching some crappy daytime news programme when they launched their attack.
The first to appear was Brad, an adventurous type I’d left hanging by his fingernails from a very high up bit of rock.
‘I can’t hang on much longer!’ he told me. ‘I need to know where I’m going.’
I saw that his knuckles were white and his fingernails raw and shredded.
‘Oh, please bring him down safely!’ said his girlfriend, Sabrina, shaking like a leaf. She had been a daring, strong and brave woman when I began the story. It was her record for climbing the sheer rock face that he’d been trying to beat.
I suppose 15 years is rather a long time to hang on.
‘HELP! Oh, please help!’ was the next cry I heard. It was Martha, the 14-year-old Victorian scullery maid I’d left in the act of falling down a narrow flight of servant stairs whilst bringing down the upstairs folks’ night soil. In other words, buckets and buckets of pee, and a bucket in each hand. Martha was a tall, thin girl with size 7 feet and the narrow staircase didn’t accommodate more than a size 3 foot unless you walked sideways.
Then Jed, the 17-year-old groomsman from the house came right up in my face.
‘You’re not going to kill her off! She’s going to become my wife and we will go on to have seven children and nineteen grandchildren.’
By now, I was assuming all the pills had made me delirious. I got up off the sofa and made myself a mug of tea, adding two chocolate digestive biscuits to be sure I was in the real world.
The doorbell rang. It was my mother, arriving for a chat and a cuppa. As we talked and her dog roamed around the garden, barking at random cats and sniffing at everything, I told her about my visions.
She wasn’t a bit surprised. She’s not a writer, but she is an avid reader and TV watcher, and had been bothered in the past by characters wanting her to get on with letting them know their fate.
‘I’ve left some poor bloke in ‘Lost’ hanging by his feet in a well for 5 years!’ she told me.
Now, I felt even more concerned about my duty as a writer.
‘And so you should!’ said Lady Alicia Rothwell, when she interrupted my sleep that night.
Oh blimey! I’d forgotten about the Regency story.
I’d left Lady Alicia, trying to marry off her niece, Adeline Bonnington, to a rich and successful chap called Rodney Marsh-Crumpington who was heir to all sorts. Thing was, Adeline loved Matthew, the local farrier. They’d been meeting in secret for months.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, Algernon Sprunkel, my Prussian detective, drew himself up to his full height of 5’ 2†just before dawn and told me that I was damaging his reputation by not letting him solve his latest case in record time.
I didn’t dare tell him, but I couldn’t even remember what his latest case was, not even when I checked back over my notes.
I’d like to say that I’ve sorted them all out now and given them closure or happy endings, or whatever. But, do you know what? I haven’t. I’ve been too busy writing a new short story – one that I hope won’t be too short. What story is that? My story: with a new lover - and a daughter who didn’t manage to die, but lived to tell tales of her own. I also have three kittens that drive me mad because they want everything now, and new characters who also want their stories telling with the resolution coming as quickly as possible.
I know where I’m going now, but what about my old characters? Where are they going? I do know that they are never going to give up until their stories are told. Both Martha and Lady Alicia had another go at me last night. So, I guess I’d better get writing again then… ‘Brad had never been so relieved in his life, as when he heard the sound of the helicopter…’’
END
Hello. My name is Cassie Whale and I’m a successful short story writer, or at least I was… until real-life events de-railed me.
I haven’t slept well for years; always something on my mind. If it wasn’t The Divorce with its chuck-a-bloody-great-rock-into-a-pond-and-watch-the-tsunami effect, it was watching my Dad unravelling like a piece of badly cast-off knitting; first forgetting little things, then bigger ones, then Mum, then me. The only thing he remembered at the end, when he died from Aspiration Pneumonia – which has nothing to do with wanting more in life and all to do with losing your swallow reflex and being given food or drink by impatient care workers who just want to tick off things on the list on the clipboard at the end of your bed - was his army number. He could rattle that off pat and salute with the best of them. My daughter was ill, too – in a clinic doing her best to become skeletal. What, with running between the two clinics, cleaning out the 20 or so hutches and cages of the small, furry things she had gathered around her to feel needed and loved, plus trying to look after her older brother, I barely had time to think let alone write. I hardly knew where life was going, so to know where I was going would have been too much to ask.
What I hadn’t bargained for was the fact that the characters I’d created were real and they were waiting for me to finish their stories.
I have to give them their due – they were very patient. They prodded me every now and again for 15 years before their patience ran out.
I had the cold from hell, had dosed myself up with lemons, honey, pain-killers, decongestants etc., and was lying on the sofa one weekday afternoon, watching some crappy daytime news programme when they launched their attack.
The first to appear was Brad, an adventurous type I’d left hanging by his fingernails from a very high up bit of rock.
‘I can’t hang on much longer!’ he told me. ‘I need to know where I’m going.’
I saw that his knuckles were white and his fingernails raw and shredded.
‘Oh, please bring him down safely!’ said his girlfriend, Sabrina, shaking like a leaf. She had been a daring, strong and brave woman when I began the story. It was her record for climbing the sheer rock face that he’d been trying to beat.
I suppose 15 years is rather a long time to hang on.
‘HELP! Oh, please help!’ was the next cry I heard. It was Martha, the 14-year-old Victorian scullery maid I’d left in the act of falling down a narrow flight of servant stairs whilst bringing down the upstairs folks’ night soil. In other words, buckets and buckets of pee, and a bucket in each hand. Martha was a tall, thin girl with size 7 feet and the narrow staircase didn’t accommodate more than a size 3 foot unless you walked sideways.
Then Jed, the 17-year-old groomsman from the house came right up in my face.
‘You’re not going to kill her off! She’s going to become my wife and we will go on to have seven children and nineteen grandchildren.’
By now, I was assuming all the pills had made me delirious. I got up off the sofa and made myself a mug of tea, adding two chocolate digestive biscuits to be sure I was in the real world.
The doorbell rang. It was my mother, arriving for a chat and a cuppa. As we talked and her dog roamed around the garden, barking at random cats and sniffing at everything, I told her about my visions.
She wasn’t a bit surprised. She’s not a writer, but she is an avid reader and TV watcher, and had been bothered in the past by characters wanting her to get on with letting them know their fate.
‘I’ve left some poor bloke in ‘Lost’ hanging by his feet in a well for 5 years!’ she told me.
Now, I felt even more concerned about my duty as a writer.
‘And so you should!’ said Lady Alicia Rothwell, when she interrupted my sleep that night.
Oh blimey! I’d forgotten about the Regency story.
I’d left Lady Alicia, trying to marry off her niece, Adeline Bonnington, to a rich and successful chap called Rodney Marsh-Crumpington who was heir to all sorts. Thing was, Adeline loved Matthew, the local farrier. They’d been meeting in secret for months.
And, as if that wasn’t enough, Algernon Sprunkel, my Prussian detective, drew himself up to his full height of 5’ 2†just before dawn and told me that I was damaging his reputation by not letting him solve his latest case in record time.
I didn’t dare tell him, but I couldn’t even remember what his latest case was, not even when I checked back over my notes.
I’d like to say that I’ve sorted them all out now and given them closure or happy endings, or whatever. But, do you know what? I haven’t. I’ve been too busy writing a new short story – one that I hope won’t be too short. What story is that? My story: with a new lover - and a daughter who didn’t manage to die, but lived to tell tales of her own. I also have three kittens that drive me mad because they want everything now, and new characters who also want their stories telling with the resolution coming as quickly as possible.
I know where I’m going now, but what about my old characters? Where are they going? I do know that they are never going to give up until their stories are told. Both Martha and Lady Alicia had another go at me last night. So, I guess I’d better get writing again then… ‘Brad had never been so relieved in his life, as when he heard the sound of the helicopter…’’
END
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