Magoo

Magoo dr 1

Images of the tutor flashed up before his eyes as did the complete script, the dialogue, crafted by himself, his essay span, headlines of the world.

‘Student’s Shock Retort.’

He marveled at his brilliance, elan, his skill; savoured his genius. Even the way the piece was laid - a word a line, like poetry, each point made exactly, exquisite – a quite incredible breakthrough in reproductive technology. No that wasn’t it, must be reprehensive mandatory, rotarian monolosyllybubly? The edges of the page flamed, review facility disappeared. His masterpiece had gone.

‘I haven’t written a thing have I? You dull little sod, you spent an hour dueling from the pillow. What time is it? Good, it is 4.15 am.’

‘Ow, you’re sitting on my head.’

‘What’s it doing there? Go back to sleep. I AM WRITING, shall fetch my typing gown.’

He sat upon the bed, and tapped. Sausage fingers poked the individual keys. Why had he been annoyed?

‘ Probably your fucking ego? You know, if you had just listened? From the front of the class? Instead of thinking? About your self the whole time?’

‘Creative writing tutorial.’

The Australian woman stood at the front of class. The rest of them… ‘the rest of us…’ the middle-aged. disabled, insane, toothless, him - Oscar Wilde. Oscar Wilde, about the only metaphor, this weakling might conjure Still he knew,

‘the Marquis of Salisbury would just have to wait.’

He had walked from classroom to bathroom, looked in the mirror. The frame reflected his curly grease and stubble.

‘Christ, how had she let him leave the front door of the house, looking like this, like, like a dirty janitor.’

He ran his finger under the tap, passed the dryer, the mop bucket and broom and stepped back into class. He was annoyed for being annoyed, this was a most perfectly civilized setting and he listened .

‘Because I put it to you class, that all writing, all writing IS life-writing?’

‘As if I don’t know that,’ he fumed,

‘I agree with you one hundred percent,’ said the first student.

‘oh fuck off moley.’

‘I am inspired by my dreams,’ replied the second.

‘Your dreams? What do you know about your dreams, Buddha?’

‘So class. I want to ask you some questions for your writing. When were you born? Where? Is your character moulded by your environment? Are you shaped by your education, by the landscape?’

‘What ridiculous questions. Of course I was born,’

and he slipped,1979, nervous child, full of hope, rolled Devon hills, a tubby boy. He waited for the ice cream cone, held a pastie and brushed the crumbs of pudding from his lips, he sipped his second milkshake. Yes, that was it, swollen red lips, like freak show, lipstick tattooed almost, devastating. He recalled the plastic surgery he’d considered in adolescence.

‘You are pathetic.’

The tutor passed copies of her draft story for review. Long Dark Shadow…

‘Hew hew hew…long dark shadow. A dark shadow?' What was he? A bright shadow? Quite.

His arm shot in the air.

‘Miss, miss, do you have words, dangerous words? Words that…give you difficulties?’

‘Words? Give me difficulties? I don’t think so?’

‘Is just you’ve written…shadow….four times…in four paragraphs. Haw haw haw, haw haw, haw haw haw haw, haw. I’m sorry.’

‘Shadow? Four times, eh? I did say it was a draft?’

His head skewered left then right, canvassed support, a show from his fellow students. There was none. He could tell, what a shit, dribbled, his own puddle of problem words. Those miscreants, he’d just used one. Where were the rest of them? They plagued every write. He spat the bitches.

‘Firstly, we’ll have no eyes, no drips and no shadows, nor swollen, you’re dangerous characters, motley. Exactly.’

‘Also class. I want to show you some opening paragraphs, and I want you to think about your openings, and these submissions to literary agents. What makes a successful opening?’

Well, well…he’d been jolly proud of himself, made his first ever submission…this week…had deleted three eyes at the last moment and gone cutting edge with the nudity section, inserted three dicks. He regretted this, three dicks too far, they’d imagine an obsessive on their hands.

‘is slush pile for you. green ink,’ said the literary agent’s assistant’s brother’s mother.

And opening paragraph? Well…his was didacted…that was the whole point. People knew nothing!