The Writing Gene

My father had the writing gene as, I like to think, do I and so does PJ, my daughter, whose writing preferences currently lie in the Comedy Gothic genre. I  recently posted a short entry on Facebook, which she interprets as follows:

“Today started off sunny, if a little on the cool side after the snow that fell on the mountains behind us yesterday.”

PJ writes:
“Sun!” I breathe, and my breath conjures sinister figures in frost upon the glass pane.

This had been a long, strange winter; bright red suns glaring over the brow of the horizon, horrific ice storms and drowning rains claiming the lives of the few innocent peoples of this terrible land. This is the first time for many moons that I have espied the true golden glow of spring atop the mountains to the east.

To the west though the sky is a disturbing mottle of suppurating green, entrail purple and jaundice yellow. In the frozen country that I once called home, a colourful sky was a sign of magic or the gods, but in these strange southron lands I feel this hope to be distant.

My husband turns in his sleep, muttering. He instructs me to disregard the half-tales that I understand from the local women-folk; he tells me that they are savages, with no sensible comprehension for the true world around. I draw little comfort from this as he condemns the peoples of our native land in a similar fashion.

I know him for a witch-king; I have seen his familiar, a huge, ugly black dog with sharp teeth dripping rot, seated beside him too often to believe him human.

He farts loudly, gives a great snort and berates me for my snoring. I glimpse a huge dark shape hovering above the almond trees – and rapidly return to bed and lift the sheets over my head to hide from the evil portents outside. Then quickly change my mind as those under the sheets seem more immediately poisonous.

Yes, well, maybe I will stick to my own, more restrained style.

Looking forward to what she makes of the rest of the post, which went as follows:

Sun has now disappeared and more threatening clouds building up.  I went into our garden and found a pair of black nylon knickers that had blown off my neighbour’s washing line – took them round, but was embarrassed, so only tapped on the door then stuffed them through the letter box.  Told my OH, who laughed his chops off.  ‘What if they weren’t hers after all,’ he said.  She’ll probably throw her husband out!’

No disturbance so far.


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