The Writer

What if your characters fought back?

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Bertram Majolica heard a noise coming from the hall closet and wondered if the cat had got in there. He opened the closet door, to see a man crouching, hunched in the small space below the stairs. 

‘Who are you?’ demanded Bertram. 

‘Um, I'm Peter Jonathan,’ said Peter Jonathan. 

‘I don’t care who you are. What are you doing in my cupboard?’ 

‘I was looking for somewhere to put some kind of monster, or a ghost – I hadn't decided which yet.’

‘What are you on about you raving lunatic? Are you drunk?’ 

‘No. Believe it or not, I created you and this house, and the world outside your door.’

‘You created me? What? Are you some sort of egomaniac? Right, I’m calling the police.’

‘Please don’t, that's much too obvious,’ said Peter Jonathan. ‘Actually, Bertram, I’m a writer. That’s what I do; I create people.’

‘Bertram? My name’s not Bertram, it’s Colin.’

‘No, no, no! Colin won’t do. I need someone with gravitas, brought up in a stately home, and…’

Peter Jonathan thought as he stroked his chin and marvelled at his own prowess in creating thrilling and compelling storylines. ‘I know: After coming to blows with his father, Bertram ran away from home and made his own way in the world, rising up through the stratified air of the upper classes, hob knobbing with nobility, to aristocracy and eventually royalty. His father bankrupted himself trying to compete with his son’s meteoric rise to prominence among the great and the good and eventually had to come to his son cow-towed and begging for money.’

‘What the bloody Nora are you going on about? Are you mad? Coming in here with your fancy stories and asking for money. If you think I’m giving you any money, well it won’t be money, it will be a flesh and bone fist.’

Peter Jonathan was barely aware of Colin’s outbursts, his mind fully absorbed with the amazing twists and turns of his tale. ‘I have a question for you Bertram. After your father is bankrupted and you get ownership of the manor, are you going to throw him out or forgive him and let him live there?’

‘For the last time, I’m not Bertram, and anyway my father died nigh on thirty years ago. Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this, you rambling idiot.’

As Colin reached for the black Bakelite phone, Peter Jonathan reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and snatched out the notebook he used for his writing. ’Now, we’ll see if that phone works, shall we?’ He hastily scribbled a few words, his face beaming with a triumphant grin.

Sparks flew out of the phone as it burst into flames, causing Colin to cry out and fling the phone away. ‘What have you done to my phone?’ shouted Colin, his face red with rage. ‘Right, you’re going to get it now.’

In a flash, he rugby-tackled Peter Jonathan to the ground, sending the notebook flying. They tumbled around on the floor, frantically pulling each other back and forth, their arms flailing and hands grasping. Colin had surprising strength, and with a pang of regret, Peter Jonathan wished he had described Bertram’s imagined puny build earlier in the story.  

With a final lunge of an outstretched arm, Colin snatched up the notebook and ran to the far side of the big, round dinner table.

‘I don’t care what you write,’ said Peter Jonathan. ‘You’re not an actual writer. Only the writer can affect the story.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Colin.

As Peter Jonathan leapt to his feet to stop him, Colin dashed out a single, short sentence.

After the noises from the closet had died down, Colin looked down at the words he had written with the innocent joy of an artist glowing with the first wonders of creation. ‘Mm, not too bad, if I say so myself. Now, that is what I call writing; I didn’t realise it could be so much fun.

The Writer’s Demise

By

Colin

Peter Jonathan froze. He no longer wanted to fight, but instead felt a strong urge to return to the hall closet. He went over to it and took the key out of the keyhole. He opened the door, shuffled himself into the small space, then swung the door shut behind him. For no reason he could think of, he locked it from the inside, then slid the key back out under the door until it was out of reach. 

He crouched there in the cupboard, blissfully unaware of the terror that lurked, hidden in the gloom above his head; the thing that Colin was about to name. Colin had thought long and hard about a fitting send-off for his creator; not something as corny as a formless spirit or a clumsy monster. Now, that would be too obvious. The creature he had selected, would leave no trace. 

Colin giggled. ‘Are you hungry, my pet?’

The flesh-eating ghoul slavered and extended its razor-sharp claws. ‘Yum, yum.’

By Peter  Jonathan

From: United Kingdom

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