Because some of you asked...

Last week I posted the beginning of my current work, Pen-Enemy. If you haven't read part one, click HERE and read it if thou wishest. All the lovely people who commented were extremely sweet and complimentary, and some of you asked if I'd put up the next part. So here it is. (I won't put the whole story on my blog, it's too long, here's just a few more pages from where I ended the last time.) I hope you enjoy it!

 

Mrs Jimson read the letter, and made a surprised kind of face. She mumbled some things of no consequence and showed it to her husband, who did the same. ‘I say,’ he said. ‘Martin, ask him how old he is in the next letter. Now, that’s something I’d like to know.’ And then he went off, mumbling other things of no consequence. ‘Male deer? What gibberish.’

 Hello Michael,

HOW OLD ARE YOU? Answer. Quick.

Martin

That was all the second letter had in its contents. The question was an important one to Martin, seeing as ages meant incredibally much to him. He had severely hoped this Michael would be eight, or nine, with baby blue eyes, and better still, with a lisp. But now – he seemed sarcastic and domineering. Martin shuddered. This pen-person was on the way to becoming his greatest enemy.
He sent the letter, and sat on his bed to think of some mean things to write in his next letter, thus finishing the day with a glimmer of satisfactory feeling in his bosom.
As before, the reply came promptly.

My dearest Martin,
How delighted I was when your note arrived. There were no typos whatsoever in it this time, therefore it was a good letter. In my opinion, anything without mistakes in it is a good thing, short or snappy as it may be.
How old am I? I understand your curiosity completely, my dear fellow. As a young boy, me too, I was always curious about what’s and when’s of every obstacle that ever entered into my young and blossoming life. If I saw a dog, why, I had to know its name and its breed and its age before I could go on with my life. Now, as an older and more sensible, mature young man, although I respect and totally comprehend you asking such things, remembering my youth, I must say I think you should try to overcome your curiosity, just as I have. When one is curious, one worries about not knowing enough. And when one worries, day in, day out, one’s life becomes stressed and dim. Dear child, do stop asking questions. Answers will come in due time, young man.
Yours, Theobald
~
Most annoying little Michael (honestly, don’t call yourself Theobald, it is a milion times worse.)
You are so annoying. Honestly, I can’t stand you. Writing to you is the biggest burdun that has ever entered my life and I wish you didn’t exist. If you went lame, I wouldn’t have any compassion. You are just an outstanding nuisance, and I don’t feel bad saying it, because it’s a fact. If you stood here, right before me, right now, I wouldn’t know how to react in a nice way because I think you’re so annoying.
Stop calling me ‘dear child’ and ‘young man’ and ‘dearest’. Also, stop commenting on my way of writing! It’s so rude. How would you feel if I mocked your way of writing!? Bad? Well, then I shall. Your way of writing is boring.
Now, Pen-friends Pen-people ask each-other questions. That’s what they do. So tell me how old you are. What’s so hard about that? Just write down how old you are! If you don’t I will phone your father and tell him all about the greatness of your annoyiance.
End.
~
Martin old chap,
Your letters are sincerely delightful. The last one, despite three cringe worthy typos – which I won’t go into with depth and gusto seeing as you so kindly required me not to – elapsed me into peals of mirth and jubilation. How interesting to discover more about myself. I have always wondered what my faults were. I’m annoying! How interesting, my dear fellow, how interesting.
As per request, I shall not call you a dear child, or a young man, or dearest. Of course, you continue to resemble all the aforewritten descriptions, but I understand why they would hurt your feelings. Slightly girlish, and all that jazz, I understand, I understand.
I have chosen between confirming my age and you phoning my father. Although my age is by no means an embarrassment or a secret, I have chosen the latter. I would be very interested to hear how my father reacts when he listens to your description of myself. He has been rather upset lately, ever since mother discovered he had a diary, and he is in need of some uplifting of spirits.
Yours cordially, John (does that name make you vomit too? If it does, pray tell me, so I can change it. Everything to make you happy, my good old bloke, everything.)

Martin could not read that letter more than once.
He went to lie on his bed and frowned as deeply as he could, once again staring at the Coca Cola poster on the ceiling and using his old Winnie-the-Pooh-bear as a cushion. He had to revenge, but first he had to know his age. Why was he so secretive about it? Martin had the feeling that he was just trying to annoy him and that it was working. After a couple of muse-full minutes, Martin decided there was nothing else he could do but phone Mr Whrat, tell him about the annoyance of his son, and ask him about the age. If he didn’t phone, Michael would think he was a sassy-pants. ‘And I’m not,’ Martin grumbled.
So he went downstairs, and took the phone off the hook. He finally found the number in the cardboard telephone book, turned it, and waited. He felt embarrassed when he heard his heart was banging louder than normal, but it was. The conversation was as followed:
Mr Whrat: Hello? Fred Whrat at your service.      
Martin: Oh. Hello.
Mr Whrat: Who is this? I don’t think I recognise your voice. You sound like an Owl.
Martin (furious): An Owl? I say! You have the nerve, sir!
Mr Whrat: Thank you! How nice it is of us to exchange compliments. We really are nice.
Martin: I say! You think telling someone he sounds like an owl is a compliment?
Mr Whrat: Of course! Owls, if they could talk, would do so with real distinction and finesse. Your voice is very much like that. Of course it’s a compliment.
Martin: But Owls can’t talk. How could you tell how they would talk if they could?
Mr Whrat: Imagination. Imagination does all. You know, I wish I talked like Owls. There aren’t many people who do, you know. You’re the second person I’ve met. There was another someone – he looked like a Goldfinch, but he talked exactly like an Owl. An old college friend of mine.
Martin: Ah. Yes. That’s my father.
Mr Whrat: Oh! You must be Martin then! Michael’s pen-pal! Delighted!
Martin: I’m not, really. I’m here to complain.
Mr Whrat: Do so, dear child! I don’t usually enjoy complaints, but when they are done with distinction and finesse, it’s a pure delight.
Martin (mumbling): You’re just like your son.
Mr Whrat: I beg your pardon?
Martin: What I wanted to say is this. Your son is annoying. He doesn’t do anything but annoying me. Day in, day out; he annoys me. Give him a smack and tell him to be behave.
Mr Whrat: Ha! Ha!
Martin (unbelievable): What now? Don’t say you—don’t say.
Mr Whrat (dabbing eyes with tears of laughter): How delightfully amused I am!
Martin (furious, remembering something else): Oh, how old is Michael? Tell me now.
Mr Whrat couldn’t answer – he was choking on his laughter. Martin flung the telephone back on the hook. Yet another bad day for Martin.

End of Chapter one

To see if you like this...

Randomly nice picture

 

As you probably know, I never lack writing ideas. I started this new story recently, and I would like to know your opinions on it. This is the beginning, and I hope this is reader-approved.

Mrs Jimson was a lady who liked the colour green and had grey hair, dyed blonde. One Saturday morning, after she had made dinner in her red tiled kitchen, she called her son Martin. He wasn’t doing anything in particular, anyway. He was just lying on his bed, using his old Winnie-the-Pooh-Bear for a cushion, and staring at his Coca Cola poster which he had stuck on the ceiling. She thought it was about time for him to do some proper things. That particular ‘proper thing’, needed to be three things:

-       Educational

-       Time-consuming

-       With a purpose.

She and her husband, a man who looked like a Goldfinch, had talked this over the day before, in their bed with the orange flowered eiderdown, and had finally been able to think of one. It took a long time to think of, because Mr and Mrs Jimson had never been the cleverest people. But they had managed to find something which was both educational, time-consuming and which had a purpose. It was educational because it involved writing, time-consuming because it had to be done once every two days (or so they would tell him) and it had a purpose because it involved getting to know a person he knew nothing of.

Martin Jimson was going to have a pen friend.

‘A pen friend?’ asked Martin. ‘No. Sorry, but that’s the silliest notion – no. Don’t even think of it! I don’t even know this person! Why would I want to write stupid letters to it?’

‘He’s a nice boy called Michael Whrat. Your dads went to university together! They talked together on the phone yesterday evening, and it’s all settled. Every two days you will write a letter to this boy.’ Mrs Jimson smiled and then whispered. ‘Come on. I’ll be fun.’

Martin was stubborn, among other things, which included adoring sugar, never having less than one plaster somewhere on his body and telling people he didn’t enjoy things most people did. Being stubborn, he remained with that aforementioned attitude for several hours, even after Mrs Jimson threatened never to give him anything of her delicious banoffee pies for the rest of his life, which sounds like a promise she wouldn’t have kept. Mr Jimson told him Michael was looking forward to writing letters with him.

‘He’s not like me then,’ said Martin with a scowl. ‘Oh all right, all right. I’ll write letters to this stupid person, just so that mum will give me that last piece of banoffee pie – Mum, I said I would do it, can I now –’

So, with a big hefty sigh, Martin sat at his desk crowded with bits of school essay, cookie crumbs and a miniature statue of his least favourite actor, Charlie Chaplin, and started to write his first letter to the boy Michael Whrat, who he imagined was smaller and younger than him, blonde-haired, and ridiculously soppy. ‘Probably the kind of chump who enjoys placing scales on the piano,’ he said.

Hello Michael

My name is Martin and I’m ten years old. It’s absolute fright to write to you! Mum says I have to tell you about my favourite colour and all that. You don’t have to do the same, because I don’t really want to know anything about you. From the sound of your name alone I practically have to vomit. Please bear in mind during the rest of our lives that all the letters I write to you are all because I am forced with a threat of not having any banoffee pie for the rest of my life. None of these words I write to you are done with my hart. Right so, let get this over and done with so I can go and do something I actually enjoy. I don’t have a favourite colour and I don’t know what Mum means about ‘all that.’

Bye. Martin. x (Mum told me to add the x, or else it would certainly have not been there. Pip-pip.)

Martin read it over and thought about how nice he was about this whole situation. Then he put the letter in the envelope, licked it shut, and went downstairs to find something to eat so that the disgusting taste of envelope would get off his tongue. Martin was not having his best day. The following day, when he received a reply of his pen-friend (or rather, pen-enemy), did not vouchsafe to be much different.

Dear Martin, Your letter, although written with the intention of breaking me into the utmost tears and scaring me immensely – as it would have done with any cowardly person – amused me greatly. Your typo in the sixth line, however, never ceased to make me wince slightly whenever I thought back on it during the remainder of the day I had the honour of receiving your note. The word ‘heart’, when spelt without the second letter – thus happening to be an E in this case – can be mistaken by the word ‘hart,’ which is a male deer, my dear child. One must reread letters in order to overcome these little trifles. Nevertheless, for a boy as young as you, I must say your way of writing could be far worse, and therefore I shall overlook it cordially.

As you specifically asked for nothing whatsoever about myself, I dare say I shall stick to what I have written already and end hastily.

Yours, Theobald (I changed my name so you wouldn’t have to vomit. You’re excessively welcome, my dear boy, excessively welcome.)

‘Mother!?’ Martin crunched up his nose and stared at the letter. ‘Mother. What is this? How old this this Michael fellow? Sixty-two?’