Love Hurts

Love Hurts, was the Halloween task for the October 31 Savages meet.   As a born again atheist I don't do Halloween, goblins or any of that afterlife zombie/spectre stuff so I had no idea what to write for a Halloween theme love hurts.  I heard when you don't know what to write just start writing and see what happens, this happened.

The edge of the gravel road was getting picked out dully, the old headlights just showing where the grader had sloughed the loose dirt onto one side. Ray was driving confidently on the newly smoothed surface, revelling in a rapid journey over what is usually a corrugated slow back track to the farm.  Dust powdered up from the wheels and glowed red in the rear view mirror as he touched the brakes. A dry cloud of it puffed into the driver’s window as he took the corner with the smallest bit of controlled over-steer.

A rare smile creased his face and he dropped back a gear to keep the tail out a little longer.  Sideways now he held the slide until he could power out, down and towards the creek, his right foot hovering over the brake as he lifted off the throttle, engine-braking the car and straightening it up to take the greasy surface of the stream-bed at speed.   A reflex grab at the dash-mounted switch sent the wipers arcing over the dry screen a moment before the spray of icy water obliterated all vision momentarily.  Shit!  That was deeper than he’d thought.  The next sweep of the blade cleared the screen in stripes, just enough for Ray to judge the exit and shoot up back onto the road for a left turn.  A foot-full of acceleration spun the rear wheels up the slope and planted the car into the camber of the corner before a couple of hiccups from the engine yelled water in the carburettor.  Ray held the clutch and floored the engine, clearing the water and he dropped her back into gear.  Nothing.  The loss of power ploughed the car’s weight onto the front wheels and she turned into the corner harder than Ray wanted.  Flicking the steering back he forced the Cortina’s momentum to over-steer and broadsided the old girl into a dust cloud of blindness.  Ray hit the brakes to stop rolling down the embankment and coughed in a defeated breath.    The cabin was thick with dust and the engine drowned.  Two yellow beams from the headlights coned into the dust.  Served him right he thought, more testosterone than talent.  Who was he kidding, should know better.  Just as well Maree wasn’t watching, he could hear her now , saying what a fool he was, scaring her like that.  She never tried to understand his love of rally driving and he always relished the rare times when he could get in the old Lotus and go for a bit of a thrash. 

There had been a lot more chances to do that lately and every now and then he did get the old feeling back, the pump of adrenalin, the buzz from clipping an apex in a perfect sweep.  He even enjoyed fixing the faults that came from plugging a forty-something year old veteran along at a silly rate.  As the dust began to settle he unclipped his harness, opened the door and reached back to slide the torch and tool kit from their slots in the floor.  This won’t take long hopefully, just drain the carbs, take off the air filters and limp slowly home.  

The calm drive back would be like taking the Peugeot into town, slowly, cautiously, while Maree sung along to the radio or chatted about things he never listened to.  Sure enough though, as he opened the engine bay, steam billowed out and dirty water dripped from everything.  Ray propped the torch and set about removing the familiar pieces and draining some fuel.  Back in the driver’s seat a few churns of the starter and she fired back up, a couple of blips on the accelerator, she’s running fine, close the bonnet, and slowly crawl the last mile home.   The farm entrance lined by the white painted horse fence and the red gravel driveway had all lost their charm a year ago and as the house came into view he could see the lights he had left on in the kitchen and garage were still burning.   The bedroom and Maree’s office window were black voids in the white front wall.  Maree wasn’t working in the office tonight.  He pulled into the garage and killed the ignition.  Ray sat listening to the engine as it ticked cool from it’s workout.  It was the only sound he could hear, Maree wasn’t watching the TV or listening to the stereo as she ironed.  It was after eight thirty and the Channel Five movie would be starting soon but Ray chose to fix the engine first, dry off its polished surfaces and replace the air filters before dropping the bonnet closed and walking back to shut the garage door.  He didn’t really enjoy watching the TV movies.  As he reached up to close the double garage he glanced over at the covered Peugeot and noticed it’s tyres had gone flat.   

The kitchen sink held the few plates of today’s two meals and Ray opened the fridge to drag out the last of the soup.  Maree’s love flowed out from the warming pan as Ray heated the chunky liquid, it’s recipe his favourite of all her winter meals.  The soup and couple of chunks of bread dropped onto the aga’s plate to warm would be all he could face tonight. 

A fitting anniversary tribute though he thought. 

As he stirred the pot his mind went to what the coming year would hold.   It was a year on, and neither Maree or their unborn daughter would be sharing soup or watching the TV under the blanket in front of the fire. 

Ray would again see the Channel 5 movie, not remember it, and at it’s end he would wash up the dishes and go to sleep in a cold bed to start another 4 am morning on the farm.  At least the cows would always be there for him. 

savage intro

For this Website’s frontispiece I have been asked to write about how I write.
The short answer is ‘I dunno’, but I presume this will not suffice.
I am an analogue child, born in the middle of the last century when telephones were wired to the wall, radios were furniture and writing was done with a pen at home and with a typewriter and carbon paper at work. Back then, in school, we had a class called ‘composition’ which I liked much more than ‘sums’. My teacher asked her young class to write a report composition about our long weekend. My story was marked as a Fail and I cried. My teacher kindly explained she had asked for a report not a fantasy composition. My mother upon seeing my distress went in to the school and informed my teacher that we did live between a Bull family and a Horn family, their kids did look like I described, I had steered the tractor on a farm and I did shoot at rats that weekend. So I got re-marked to an A. Sort of like the current GCSE debate, but the confusion I had caused suppressed any budding desire for creative expression I may have harboured.
I left schooling early, took many jobs and ended up writing legal, admin and marketing stuff for Australia, Japan and the USA. I became a corporate manager and soon realised as I saw folk working away, that people everywhere doubt themselves. Many took on beliefs in invisible friends they trusted to solve their problems and set their rules. I had read some of the story books they said were true, I had also read many other story books. I had fantasy stories read to me as a child. I liked the stories but I didn’t believe any of them.
So I decided that as so much was wrong with the idea of invisible friends and so many wars and troubles caused by these invisible friend’s stories I’d best write my own story, aimed at people who needed invisible friends, or who doubted themselves, who lacked bravery. I sat and typed (on a computer) for an hour or more a day, sometimes much more, passionately producing tens of thousands of words of what, in review, is overwritten, sanctimonious bull. I loved it. I also wrote a long adventure story with a hero, sex, guns and everything. I loved that too. It was trite, flowery and unbelievable. I sometimes re-visit the first and re-write bits as I know there is great portent within the bull. But I am no longer passionate. I erased the failed adventure. I didn’t cry.
Then I discovered that there were some people, many people who liked to write just because they could. People who wanted to improve, to hear writing read out. People who perhaps dreamed of being published and famous or just being published. People who loved writing and secretly hoped they’d get discovered. People like me. One such group was this Leeds Savages and they introduced me to things called flash fiction and short story and five minute tasks and dialogue writing and humorous horror and 1000 word limits and, to be fair, another avenue for a social drink or three.
Oh yeah. So. How do I write? I continue to work in the world for fee and free, writing and communicating internationally, blogging and reviewing as required. Then, once a fortnight, I have the opportunity to sit and concentrate on a short Savage piece, about 1000 words, a scene, a character, a story, climax and conclusion. The task usually sits for an hour or a week, there’s no telling, in the mind, idling away being a small bother until my brain links an idea to the task. Inspiration! Delight! Consternation about how to capture the idea crisply. About half an hour bashing on the keyboard (I still hunt and pick two fingered) and the story sort of falls out, quicker the more often I do it. I have been doing it for a couple of years now. Every time I love my story. Every time it is great or crap. Doesn’t matter. I am hooked, can’t imagine a time when I won’t want to write a piece to a task. I even enter short story competitions, some I get recognition some I don’t. Anyway after I write a piece I leave it to sit. A day, a week, an hour, then I re-read it and change the bits that were fantastic, then change other bits, and then leave it. I return and re-do the whole review again. Then I leave it and read it out on the next meeting, or get someone else to read it. It sounds so different. I take it home and change it. Sometimes though I get a task, I write it, I shuck it down to 1000 words and I leave it.
That’s how I write, some good, some crap. The more I read and listen to others the better I write, I think.
The shorter muse is the one that is swift to be satiated, a rewarding, enjoyable and fulfilling muse, an enticer, a seducer, a lovely welcome thing.
The novel, the book, the novella, the magnum opus, they are the muse of demand, a harsher mistress, a bench of flagellation and a task wearying for me. But. Let me say. About the shorter muse, well, …consider a novel, a book, the novella, the magnum opus, … they are but a collection of the shorter muse, arranged, linked, and caressed into form. I think I’ll go off now and have another look at my Stranger Philosophies manuscript.