Inspiration is a timid sprite whose presence is sometimes absent for months at a time. As this month’s prompt has scared the muse away, I considered trying free-flow writing. I’ve tried this method in the past and usually deliver terrible puns, create borderline offensive caricatures or rip off other people’s novels. So I thought I’d have a stab at automatic writing.
In case you’re not aware, automatic writing – also known as psychography – is a method whereby the practitioner channels the spirit world to guide their writing implement. The practitioner has no conscious input on the work and grants full control to the otherworldly author.
The veracity of psychography is as debatable as the existence of ghosts. Personally, I’ve never seen a spectral apparition. But then, I have also never seen an octopus in real life and I’m told they exist.
Without further ado, let this month’s writing commence.
What form of witchery be this?
It ain’t witchery, Gertrude. It’s only a laptop.
But see, Scott – yonder laptop be aglow with infernal illumination.
No, that’s just the screen.
A screen, say you? Alight with the devil’s fire, I’d wager.
It’s electricity. You see that cable there? It leads to the power source in the wall.
Power source? Aghast, then tis not witchery but sorcery!
Why talk?
Hello Oof. What brings you here?
Oof hear talk. See light. Fire?
Greetings, ancestor of my ancestor. No, tis not your elusive fire but something more mystical indeed. Tis what the modern man do call ‘hell entry city’.
El-ectri-city, Gertrude. And you can’t say ‘modern man’ anymore. You have to use ‘modern person’.
A thousand apologies, my dear Scott. Tis arduous to retain these newfangled concepts, particularly in this fragile female brain of mine.
Woman smart.
Well said, Oof.
Woman cook.
I thought you didn’t have fire.
Woman make fire. Man touch fire. Man go ouch. Woman no let man near fire. Woman smart.
You see, Gertrude. Thousands of years before your time, society appreciated the worth of womankind. What went wrong along the way?
‘Twas the fault of Eve. Succumbed to the serpent, did she, and cast the female down before the mightier sex.
You’re telling me Adam and Eve came after stone age man? Stone age people, I mean.
Heresy! Adam was the first creation. From his loins did spring the peoples of the earth.
So where do Oof and his people fit into the Bible?
The good book teaches us that Adam’s kin included the Jews and Greeks, the Romans and Samaritans, the Scythians and Cushites. Nowhere in the holy scriptures of Our Lord are there stone age ma- people.
Well, how do you explain Oof?
He exists not, but is merely a figment of an overactive imagination.
But you’ve been talking to him.
Aye. Verily, tis a good imagination.
Oof not alive?
Not anymore, mate. But you haven’t been alive for about ten thousand years, so I wouldn’t start worrying about it now.
Pardonnez-moi, puis-je vous interrompre?
Ye gods, who is this devil speaking in tongues?
Come on, Thierry. You know the others don’t understand unless you speak English.
Oui, oui. I forget you are all merde. Pardon my French.
Alas, you are mistaken, fine Terry, for the end of my life was not brought about by the heinous act of murder.
He didn’t say murder, Gertrude. He used the French word for… well, I won’t repeat it in front of a lady.
Why, the sheer gall of the ignorant Gaul.
Yes well, let’s try and avoid an international crisis. What did you want Thierry?
Merci, Scott. I wish to tell the tale of my life, to let the injustice be known. It is nothing short of a… how do you say? Prize for the rear of the feline?
Prize for the…? What?
Not a prize, non. Mais a… a trophy, oui. A trophy for the cat’s behind, his ass.
A cat’s ass trophy? Do you mean a catastrophe?
Oui, this is what I mean. My sister’s child, she is starving and close to death. Though I am not to afford to buy her pain, I am able to obtain some from a nearby open window. And for this, I am shackled for dix-neuf ans.
You were imprisoned for nineteen years for stealing some bread?
Oui, this is what I say. A cat’s bum trophy.
And you expect me to believe it’s only a coincidence that this story sounds an awful lot like the plot to Les Mis?
Pah! Les Misérables! I tell monsieur Hugo the facts and he embellish wildly.
Perhaps the author did use artistic licence, but he has told your story to the world nonetheless.
Tis true so, Terry. I have witnessed the players telling of your deeds and your struggles. A fine gentleman you endeavoured to be, so pious and magnanimous. And such a lovely singing voice.
Mais monsieur Hugo leave out the most important fact.
And what is that, Thierry?
La grande truth.
Oof want know.
The secret of vie which is only revealed upon our mort.
Pray tell, master Terry.
C’est simply: one should never believe anything a writer writes.
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