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|The Writer Awoke before Dawn (standard:humor, 1677 words) [1/2] show all parts|
|Author: Ian Hobson||Updated: May 03 2004||Views/Reads: 2704/1223||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A slanted look inside the mind of a short story writer.|
About the Author Born in 1903, in the tiny hamlet of Hogs-Bonking on the south-west coast of Corset, in England, best-selling author and pig farmer, Ian Hobson, is relatively new to writing, having taken it up only the day before yesterday. His many literary achievements to date include his remarkable 500,000 word epic 'A Day in the Life of a Lettuce', his anthology of single word poems titled 'This is an Anthology of Single Word Poems and That's Why it's Not Very Thick', and 'Mistaken Identity', a heart-rending true story about his father's hysterectomy. His latest novel 'The Day I Killed Mr Smith', is causing a sensation in literary circles, as well as looking likely to reopen the investigation into the death of one Josiah Smith, one-time Mayor of Hogs-Bottom and Crouchdown-in-the-Marshes, who died in suspicious circumstances; his body having been found shot, stabbed, garrotted, and hanging upside-down in his outside toilet. Ian has now moved to Florida, where he lives with his wife and two pigs. He still loves to write but now devotes most of his time to the cataloguing of his rare Antarctic cockroach collection. The Writer Awoke before Dawn ©2003 Ian Hobson He put his boots on. And tied the laces. At school, he was taught that he shouldn't start a sentence with the word ‘And'. But he knew that that was an outdated rule. ‘And in any case,' he reminded himself, ‘rules were made for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.' He pondered the use of the word ‘men', wondering if, in this age of political correctness, he should say ‘wise persons'. He hefted his rucksack and slipped out of the back door... coming down hard on his tailbone and uttering the two vilest expletives in his vocabulary of vile expletives. That was twice in three weeks that that slippery doorstep had caught him out, and his bottom was still sore from the first time. He quickly deleted the expletives - not daring to offend potential readers this early in the story - picked himself up, locked the door, and, adjusting the position of his rucksack, he set off carefully along the garden path, which was also quite slippery in places. The writer - he flattered himself with that description – opened the garden gate and stepped into the road. He was actually a retired postman; not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had been offered a generous ‘package'... No, that sounded ridiculous; a postman being offered a package. He was actually a retired bank clerk. Not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had been offered a generous ‘package'. His main pastimes were gardening, hiking and reading, but recently he had taken to writing short stories, partly for his own amusement, and partly in the hope that he might actually get something published. Out of habit he crossed to the right-hand side of the road, preferring to face the oncoming traffic. Not that there was any this early in the morning. He liked this time of day; just enough light to see by, but no sign of the sun yet, and no one else around. And living in the countryside certainly had its advantages. And he had been very lucky to buy the cottage before property prices had soared. He was about to say ‘And something else' but he thought three ‘Ands' in a row might be pushing it a little. He passed through the gap-stile in the wall and followed the well-worn footpath down towards the stream where he crossed the footbridge. This reminded him of his daughter, as when she was small she had always looked under footbridges to see if there were any trolls. At the head of the valley, the first rays of the sun, but not the sun itself, were visible. Leaving the stream behind, he began to climb towards a distant farm, leaning heavily on his walking stick... Which was more than a little Click here to read the rest of this story (96 more lines)
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