Smashwords Writing Duel Read online

The two then talked for a while as Trevor delved into her past. He even took a notepad out of his pocket and began scribbling down little bits of information she told him. It was not something he particularly needed to do but he figured it would thicken the vale of lies which he hid behind making it look as though he was genuinely taking notes for the school paper.

  First she talked of her childhood. She told him how she had been a bit of a rebel as a child, always getting into trouble and ending up in detention, much to her parent’s embarrassment. How she was never considered intelligent or gifted, always daydreaming in class when not causing trouble.

  At this point Trevor had to bite his lip to stop himself laughing. What she was saying was exactly how he imagined Jack Van Mason. He could not stop himself sneering a little though as she went on to talk of her constant low grades at school. And as she gave him a curious look he forced the sneer back downwards once more and put on his compassionate face.

  She said how at the age of fifteen she had started drinking in pubs and had met her first love, a man called Freddy Dawson who was three years older than her. Her parents hated him she told Trevor with a smile while remembering Freddy.

  At the time he was a drama student, always roaring about on his motorbike or charging into some working men’s club, ordering a barmen to pour him a pint of there finest ale in the most dramatic way possible.

  “As you can imagine the local yokels hated him as well”, she said. “He was always over the top and a bit weird. But I guess at the time I thought he was magnificent, bringing a touch of colour and craziness into my unsettled dull life.

  I went with him for two years and was very happy. He was the one who encouraged me to write, telling me to turn my daydreaming into words. I told him at the time I was not clever enough to write (at this point Trevor had to bit his lip and stop himself saying that she was right) but he kept on at me in his usual flamboyant and charming way. I remember he once sat me down and told me that we all have a tiny inner voice inside, and that if ignored then bad things would happen. That tiny inner voice would get louder and louder and eventually break out and become a scream.”

  She then gave a smile before shaking her head. “Those words always stuck with me. I suppose now when I think back it was just Freddy being over elaborate, but I suppose after his…well lets just say once I found myself on my own, the writer within broke out.

  You see, after a year of being together I moved out of my parents and in with Freddy, it was only a little one bedroom flat but we managed. We were young and reckless, enjoying life and I thought we would be together for the rest of it.

  Of course life has it’s ways of changing things, this being when I fell pregnant. I remember panicking thinking I’m only seventeen, with no job and no prospects. The money Freddy made from his grant at college was virtually none existent and I was claiming dole which was very little as well. Mum and dad washed there hands on me. I still remember dad telling me that I’d made my bed and now had to lie in it.

  It took me some time to tell Freddy, I thought he’d be furious but Freddy being Freddy took the news completely differently to what I’d imagined. He was so happy. Told me that this was the best thing to ever happen to him and to make ends meet he’d go out and get a part time job. Then, six weeks after I broke the news to him he hit me with his own bombshell, proposing to me, and so we planned on getting married after our child was born. It never happened though.

  I was four months gone when we took our regular shopping trip to pick up some groceries on Freddy’s bike. I’ll always remember that day, it was the middle of November and there was a light covering of snow everywhere. I was on the back of the bike when Freddy lost control of it, skidding on a dark piece of ice and smashing into a tree.

  I was fortunate as I fell off the back, landing on the cold road, though my leg got mangled beneath me. I remember clutching my stomach, thinking only of our child before I looked over at Freddy.

  He was curled in a fetal position around the tree. The bike was crushed in various places and black smoke poured from out of it. I shouted over to him but he did not move. And then I noticed the blood beneath him”.

  At this point Linda sat silently for a while looking down at the floor.

  “Our child was born five months later, a girl, who I called Imogen after Freddy’s mum.” She then picked up a picture and handed it to Trevor. It was of her daughter, who was now in her late teens. Trevor noted the resemblance to her and also to a picture of a young man that had been next to it.

  “She’s seventeen now. Just started Art College in Durham. She’s very talented, much like her father. I know he would have been very proud of her.” For a few moments the two sat in silence.

  “So how long have you been married then”, said Trevor breaking the silence that was becoming a little awkward for him.

  “What…Oh me and Danny. Well we’ve been married now four years. His a good man, works full-time at Murry’s Foods. They make ready meals in a big factory just outside of Spennymoor. He absolutely hates it, but it’s the only steady work going that provides a decent wage.

  As for me I work part time as a care assistant, mainly visiting old people in there homes and helping out in any way that I can. It’s only thirty hours a week I do and the pay is lousy, but it helps with the bills.”

  “So tell me about your stories”, said Trevor getting a little impatient. He had after all only come here to discover what made the idiot he’d known as Jack Van Mason tick.

  “There’s one story I particularly remember called “The Unhappy Hippo Hunter” about the bounty hunting hippopotamus with depression that struck me as a rather strange idea. How did you come up with an idea like that?”

  Linda gave a laugh and then told him of two lads called Jonny and Mick she once met in a pub in Bishop Auckland who used to set a weekly writing challenge. The challenge would involve anyone who fancied taking part to think up four random things. These four things though had to involve four categories, one of these had to be the genre of the story, another an object within it, an emotion, and lastly anything you wanted.

  Once everyone involved had written down there four things onto a piece of paper then these would be drawn at random. Though only one from each, so you would have perhaps a genre, an emotion, an object and the anything you want from all different people or have two, three, or even all four of your categories come out. Though the chances of having all four of your categories come out was highly improbable.

  Besides the idea behind it was to write a story within a week involving the four randomly chosen categories, meet up the next week with the other writers (who would hopefully have written something) and exchange stories. It was always interesting to see what other people had wrote, and compare it with your own scribblings, the results were always surprising as everyone interpreted the categories into a short story.

  Trevor found the idea terrible, and imagined the two she talked of as being somewhat lacking in brain cells. However, not wanting to voice his opinion he instead said, “What a great idea. The two you talk of, they sound like they were very clever”.

  “Clever”, she said. “No I would not describe Jonny and Mick as clever. In fact if I had to sum them up I would probably describe them as….hmmm, what’s the word…erm…I know. I would describe them as arseholes. Yes that’s the best way to describe them. Complete and utter arseholes.

  Anyway, The reason that that story got written was because the four categories that came up where “sci-fi, depression, a large African mammal, and the anything you want category that got picked was actually my own which was that the story had to involve a bounty hunter.”

  Trevor made some notes as the door of the living room in which they sat burst open and the man he now knew to be called Danny, and to be Linda’s husband said: “Everything all right dear? Just felt a little thirsty, thought I’d grab a can or two.”

  Trevor noticed that Danny gave Linda a look as if to say “say the word pet and I’ll k
ick this southern joker way back down into the deep south”, but Linda just smiled and told him everything was just fine and the two where having a lovely old chit-chat.

  Once he left the room (though not before giving Trevor a look as if to say “You try any funny stuff friend and the only thing you’ll be teaching to your students will be soprano lessons”) Trevor continued the conversation.

  “One thing that strikes me about your stories is there does seem a few small mistakes, mainly the odd spelling mistake, though far and few between.”

  She shrugged her shoulders saying: “It’s of little importance at the moment. Most of my stuff is free and the rest fairly cheap. And it’s all still readable; the few mistakes don’t really detract too much from the actual story.”

  “Yes, but I’ve noticed a few reviewers mentioning it at times”, Trevor spat out with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

  At this she laughed, shaking her head saying: “I can think of only the one guy who rabbits on about it. His called Trevor something or other, but his the only one. He doesn’t really get amateur writing, I think he thinks everyone should be word perfect. Know what I mean, erm…Barry…It was Barry wasn’t it.”

  For a split second Trevor froze and just smiled at Linda. He gave a gulp. Had she just simply been remembering his name or had she sussed out the truth. “No”, he thought. “No way could she know who I am. I’ve been too clever for her by half. No way could she have realised that it’s her very own nemesis who’s sat before her.” And so reassuring himself, Trevor said: “Yes Barry, that’s me.”

  She smiled back at him, and for a split second he thought her eyes narrowed as if searching for any tell-tale body language that would reveal a chink in his disguise.

  “But surely as a writer you try to attain to be as good as a professional.”

  “Of course”, she said. “But what else can I do but write. I suppose if I ever did get the interest I would look for an editor. Like I told you before I do not think my writing is that bad, and I’m certainly not going to stop because some idiot thinks I should just because he’s got a better grasp of the English language than me.

  If you don’t believe me, try reading some of his stuff. The guys got the imagination of a moose.”

  This last part stung Trevor and he had to grit his teeth to stop himself from giving the reply he would have liked to have. Instead he said: “But all the great writers, all the geniuses that got into print they all…”

  “You don’t mind if I smoke”, she said, interrupting him.

  Trevor hated people smoking around him. But he wanted her to be as relaxed as possible, so replied it was fine for her to light up.

  “Besides”, he thought to himself. “If she wants to put one of those cancer sticks in her mouth and suck her way towards deaths door. Then all the better.”

  “Editors have been around a long time”, she said. “For all we know Shakespeare might have been a terrible writer. Perhaps he even couldn’t write. Had someone else do the writing for him. After all the original story-tellers used word of mouth to spin their yarns, with not a quill, pen or typewriter in sight. I mean we all agree Shakespeare was a genius, but only a genius storyteller and poet.”

  “He invented thousands of words and phrases”, said Trevor angrily.

  “Exactly. Anyone else could do the same. Perhaps not as well,