The Perils of a Writer.

Mr Twister had a sister who now had another name. She was different from him, being tall and slim where he was; quite plain. His face was fat and he wore a big hat, to cover what little that remained of his hair. He was sooo large that when he bent forward, he almost fell off of his chair.

He was a writer you see, and had grown fat on the proceeds of his livelihood. He’d had a dream one night, and told it well and found out that; he could. He shouted and screamed, swore and yelled, as the characters in his story would do, but that was the straw that stuck in her jaw, and was too difficult; to chew!

One fateful day she’d had enough…”This home is far too rough, for a girl like me to stay. I’m off to marry the man I love whose name I cannot convey. I’m leaving you my brother for another, who is more kind and thoughtful of me. I’m leaving this home, so you will be on your own, and you will have to fend; for thee.”

Tom Twister begged his sister, not to leave him so hopeless and alone. He tugged at her sleeve as she was about to leave and started wailing in a loud moan. “Don’t abandon me Hope, and go and elope with a man you must hardly know. Think of the things you may do with him, and the outcome they may bestow.

The months passed away, and Tom grew grey, but slimmer he became as if overnight. Each day he prayed that Hope would return and everything, would turn out; all right. But in his heart he knew, that nothing would do, and a happy ending would not be forthcoming. The end would come in a way, as they say…unbecoming.

On marched time, and for no reason or rhyme, hope sprung eternally inside Tom. He had a premonition, that changed his disposition, and he knew that nothing could go wrong. The door bell rang and up he sprang “Is that Hope?” he cried out in delight, but on opening said door, it was the sight that he saw; that killed him; outright.

It was she you see, but the story she had told, had been a lie. The truth would never have sat well, with a man who was stuffing himself; to die. No man had made her leave, but a story to perceive, and fame and fortune to chase. What stood before him that night looked like a spirit….as if from…outer space.

She had worked all night and every night her story to print and tell. An agent had called and her world had been turned into a prison; with a padded cell! Night after night, with flickering light, her fingers shrunk into stubs. With pain in her eyes she told her lies and the errors; she simply rubbed.

Her work was published but everyone rubbished her effort and that made her cry. No joy could hit her, as her one follower on twitter, bid her; goodbye. She cried and cried, and with tears undried, off to Beachy Head she did drive. The night was cool, the moon was full and no heartstrings were there….left to pull.

Her fall was halted by a thing, akin, to an Angels outstretched wing, and down she fluttered, soft….unflustered, still luckily; quite slim. Her lack of bulk found the chalk that coated herself in white, and it was that ghostly white that caused the fright that led directly to Tom’s death….that night.


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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