Jeffw's Blog

Get OUT of my pub!

Just joking, WELCOME! Here, you'll find some short fiction stories, anecdotes and my possible grumpy opinion on pretty much everything and anything. As you didn't in the slightest asked for it and because I can be magnanimous, I'll try to wrap it all in a clever cocktail of sarcastic witticism and stylish dark humour of the latest fashion, under the icy sophistication of which, you'll discern my true cry of despair to witness our world going to pot... or maybe it's just something I ate.
Don't hesitate to leave a comment! Thanks you, come again.

Caution MAY CONTAIN STRONG LANGUAGE AND HAZARDOUS PUNCTUATION... and with a bit of luck, some English too.

Monday, 2 September 2013

The Author

The author is wrapped up warmly in front of his keyboard. His chair is surrounded by the used tissues that now litter the floor of the small room that passes as his study. He tightens absentmindedly his dressing gown and readjusts his woolly scarf. In his multiple layers - thermals, long Johns, pyjamas, pre-war cardigan, threadbare bathrobe, itchy scarf, ski socks and carpet slippers - the author feels himself gently sweating to the rhythm of his runny nose, in this precarious and cushioned comfort.
The author has a cold.
He casts a bleak look at his murky world, his mind wandering nowhere, empty of all inspiration. He sniffs loudly and broods a bit more on his present misery. Outside, a cold rain hammers on the skylight through which creeps a poor grey light, which does nothing to lighten the mood of the author.
The situation reminds him vaguely of a childhood film, in which the 'hero', a writer, oscillates between reality and fiction, between his small Parisian life and some incredible adventures under the sun of the Caribbean islands, by proxy, through his main character. He believes that he even remembers a sequence with the lead actor in a similar setting to his, with a cold...
And why not? - “I also craves for the Tropics”...

« St. Preux de l'Aiguillère was relaxing at the pool bar of the Marina Palace in Varadero, just two hours from Havana and yet already so far away from Kroutchov and his plots. He was nonchalantly admiring the sculptural beauty of the sun-bathing women, whose bikinis seemed to melt away, while the bartender was preparing his cocktail. The heat of the late morning was warming his muscles, bulging under his tanned skin. St. Preux was fully enjoying this rare moment of peace.
– “Your hot toddy sir.
– Thank you Eduardo. "
He casually lit a
Churros and_  »

... The author coughs. This is silly. It just doesn't work. What a stupid idea. A hot toddy? In Cuba? And Churros?! Was it a doughnut or a cigar? Tsk... He'd better concentrate on more serious projects.
 – “Where were we then?”

« Maria typed in a final code-sequence and slipped into the suspended animation chamber. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Camilien and the other seven settling in too. In the constant hum of the computers and the Atmospheric Recycling Unit, the astro-medic performed
the last required checks and launched the complicated process.
Soon, she felt every fibre of her body overwhelmed by a gentle heat. While bio-nutrients replaced the blood in her veins, giving her the sensation that a cosy cocoon was closing over her, she left her conscience drift away with a final thought for those 83 years of 'sleep' whicbrqewasdz   »

... The author wakes with a start. The bathroom mirror confirms his suspicion. Indented on the left side of his face, he can read:

   A S D F

The most embarrassing thing now will be to explain to the computer repair service the nature of the liquid that has transformed the F, G, H, V, B and space keys in one solid block...

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