#10

so, my housemate's ex-girlfriend came to visit last night.

she was running early and my housemate was running late, so we ended up hanging out on our own for an hour and a half, watching Back to the Future and having a really intelligent conversation about product placement in Hollywood.

fast forward to now, and my housemate's current girlfriend is sitting on the couch, talking about how funny Will Ferrell is and shouting quotes at the television while watching Step Brothers.

fuck my life.

#9

editing.

for some writers, it's the bane of their existence. they dream up plots, they create characters, they produce copy; but when it comes to proof-reading and fixing their continuity errors, they'd rather leave the general editing to somebody else.

I've never understood the logic in that, though.

call me a pedantic douche (you wouldn't be the first), but if you slave away at the keyboard and put hours and hours of effort into your writing, wouldn't you at least try to give it a once-over and make sure that it's as polished as it can possibly be?

I mean, Jesus, is it really that hard to click this button...



...and walk through a couple of pre-ordained steps?

I mean, come on. really?

anyway, as you've probably gathered from my introductory rant, I'm pretty much the self-editing writer from hell. I don't just write a sentence, I rewrite it. then I rewrite it again. and again.

why?

because I'm a perfectionist.

I know that might seem funny, since this blog is pretty much devoid of capital letters, but I'm a complete Nazi when it comes to my writing. hell, I'm the sort of person who worries about how many syllables there are in each sentence. if a big, clumsy word interrupts a paragraph's flow, it gets deleted. I even keep a thesaurus near my laptop, just in case I want to substitute a two-syllable synonym for a three-syllable word.

and you know why? because that's the type of person I am.

but in all seriousness, I don't understand how people can put stuff out in the public forum when it's riddled with spelling mistakes and continuity errors. I mean, come on. who'd want to actually put their name to that?

anyway, moving on...

I'm currently in the middle of editing Chapter One of The Middle. actually, I should correct that. I'm currently in the middle of re-writing Chapter One of The Middle.

why?

because it just wasn't very good.

I mean, there were some really nice ideas in there, and there are some even nicer ones developing in future chapters, but the whole thing just reads like the hastily-assembled side-project that it actually was.

(note: when I say 'side-project', I mean 'chucked together in two days after my originals of The Things You Fear The Most were held hostage by a faulty laptop battery')

so anyway, after realising that my previous work suffered from lack of direction and verbiage, I've decided to go back and re-write the whole thing. that means canning my previous introduction, tidying up some errant dialogue, sharpening the overall focus, and adding some depth to the all-important back story.

I've also decided to aim for a darker tone, researching the symptoms of clinical depression so I can incorporate them into the story. after all, if my main character has spent the past couple of weeks sleeping twelve hours a day, chances are he's going to be at least somewhat depressed.

it might help the story resonate with people who've shared similar experiences, as well. I'm not really in the business of changing lives, but if a reader emails me and says yes, you portrayed very realistically, then I've probably done my job as an author.

I also think it's important to get the initial 'depression scenes' right, as they need to be juxtaposed against (SPOILER ALERT) moments of happiness (*GASP* "there's moments of happiness?!?!") later in the story.

I also don't want to fall into the trap of other inexperienced authors, using 'physical injury' as a plot advice and then living happily ever after once their character has left hospital. if your major plot event doesn't have lingering repercussions, what's the point of even having it in there?

and that brings me to my final point...

I'm really interested in exploring the mental aspects of physical injury. like, really really interested. if you have a big car accident, how do you feel when you jump back behind that wheel for the first time? if you break your leg on the football field, how do you feel the first time you plant that foot and go to pass the ball?

it's said that the mental scars can remain long after the physical ones heal, so how long does the mental healing process take? what are the significant milestones along the way? what sort of person are you when you walk out the other side?

if I can touch on all of that in my story, it might just turn out alright.

anyway, just thought I'd give you all a quick update. now I'm off to do another quick read-through and continue with my rewrite.

or, should I say, rewrites.

peace.

PS: "There is no such thing as good writing, only good re-writing." – Louis D. Brandeis.

#8

so, I went clothes shopping yesterday.

I know, you were probably expecting something much more exciting after a five-week absence, but that's what I'm going to lead off with.

I went clothes shopping and bought lots of new clothes. new socks, new underpants, new t-shirts, new shorts, new business shirts, a couple of new dress shirts... oh, and a free carry bag thing for spending over $100 at one of the stores.

overall, it was a rather productive day.

yes, I just referred to clothes shopping as 'productive'.

I know I should be getting excited and talking about labels and the general wonders of clothes shopping, but as you will come to realise throughout the duration of your stay, I'm pretty much the World's Worst Gay when it comes to image and fashion.

I mean, I like to look good, and I'd like to think that I know how to dress myself, but the whole experience of clothes shopping just shits me to tears. I mean, come on, I'm not going to spend $500 on a pair of jeans just so some coke-snorting sales assistant can tell me 'oh, that look is so now'. if I wanted a vapid twenty-something girl's approval, I'd drink imported beer and remix Calvin Harris songs.

anyway, enough of that.

you've probably noticed that I'm on a bit of a writing hiatus at the moment. haven't got writer's block or anything, just needed to get away for a few days and sort out some work issues. all good now, though. having said that, I'm going to switch focus for a little while, and work on something that's a bit more upbeat. as much as I love the direction of A Shot of Clarity, the story is quite intense, and I don't want to be coming home from a stressful job and spending my free time trying to create a stressful environment for my characters.

so, I've taken the chance to read through some of my other work-in-progress stuff, and I'm going to try and get some writing done on one of my 'happier' stories. I'm currently leaning toward The Middle. I haven't actually posted the first chapter on this blog yet, but I'm crafting it as a sort-of 'family portrait', documenting a couple's divorce through the eyes of their teenage son. the story also has a coming-of-age element, as the protagonist recovers from a serious sports injury and begins to reassess his direction in life. I've also thrown a bit of a mystery sub-plot in there, but you'll have to wait to see what that's about.

anyway, I've got approximately 10,000 words already written, so I might put some serious energy into that story and see how much I can get written before Christmas. I'd promise you some posting dates, but we all know useless I am when it comes to meeting self-imposed deadlines.

just sit tight and trust that I'm working on something good!

modesty never was one of my strong points...

peace.

#7

so, I'm not dead.

I thought I should clarify that, since part two of A Shot of Clarity still hasn't managed to surface. it's not that I'm lazy or disorganised or anything... ok, so maybe I am. but still, I think it's worth mentioning that I'm currently laid up in bed with an ear infection, and that I really don't have the energy to do much of anything at the moment. even if I did have the energy to move around the house, I'd probably topple over from dodgy balance.

I should also mention that the 'Fall' (read: Autumn) TV season has started up again in the US, and I'm totally immersed in new episodes of ABC's Castle, NBC's The Office and NBC's Parenthood.

it's probably a bit cliched that a wannabe-mystery writer like myself is drawn to a show like Castle, but the show is just so amazingly well-written and well-acted that it's fast becoming my favourite show ever. did I mention the chemistry between Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic? wow. just wow. I'm as cynical as anyone about TV's use of the will-they-or-won't-they plot device (read: Ross and Rachel, Bones and Booth, Dawson and Joey), but the chemistry between Castle and Beckett is just so utterly amazing that I'm happy to be strung along every week for at least another couple of seasons.

I should also make special mention of the amazing third season finale, and the ridiculously good job that the writers have done in drawing us into the ongoing Who killed Beckett's mother? mystery. some shows do a great job of setting up the initial premise, but either drag the reveal out for wayyyyyyyyyy too long (read: How I Met Your Mother), or deliver an utterly retarded conclusion (read: Lost). in Castle's case though, the show's underpinning mystery has been handled with such a deft touch that it's almost hard to believe we've been following the story for over three seasons without a conclusion. between the expert drip-feeding of information, the complexity of the mystery's twists and the constant allusions to a bigger conspiracy, the whole thing has me literally on the edge of my seat every time I watch.

if I can reach even half of that level when I finally get around to re-posting The Things You Fear The Most, I'll be doing a damn fine job.

I should also make mention of James Spader's performance in The Office's season premiere, and how utterly amazing he is as a character actor. as a Boston Legal fan from way back, the prospect of welcoming James Spader (and his monologues) back into my TV routine is one that appeals to me on the most basic of televisual levels.


anyway, less TV, more writing. all going well, I'll hopefully get some more work done over the next 24 hours, and get part two of A Shot of Clarity out some time later this week. I've managed to work through most of the tone-related issues that I mentioned in my last blog, so it's now just a matter of turning those dot points into actual sentences and giving the whole thing a good once-over.


finally, I thought I'd include a snippet of an email that I received today, from one of the parents on my Under-14 basketball team. (did I mention that I coach junior basketball? maybe that's another blog for another time). this email was in response to an award that I gave her son at our club's annual trophy night on Friday, and on a day like today, when I'm feeling rather sick and sorry for myself, it was just the tonic I needed:

Hi Matt,

Sorry it has taken me so long to get this to you. We’ve had a very busy weekend.

...

I was secretly hoping that Harry may receive the coach’s encouragement award ... I certainly didn’t expect Harry to get anything else because of the calibre of the other players in the team.

It’s really hard to put into words just how thrilled we were that Harry received the MVP runner up award.. I don’t think you realise what something like this means to a boy like Harry. To see his reaction on stage, he didn’t stop talking on the ride home in the car and then when he got home he rang his grandparents to tell them, (something he never does) just because he was just so proud of it. It just means so much to him and to us. Thank you.

Thanks again for being their coach and for doing such a great job and for all your efforts.

I guess my couple of hours a week really does make a difference...

Peace.

#6

so, I thought it might be time for a new blog.

I'm not sure what it's going to be about yet, so just hang in there and we'll figure it out as we go.

to set the scene, I'm currently sitting on the couch in my pajamas, watching my housemate (Dan) play Gran Turismo 5 on the PS3. this would be both fast and exciting, except he's racing a Mazda 2 against a field made up of Peugeot 207s, Daihatsu Sirions and Honda Jazzes. as things stand, it's more like just above the speed limit and exciting.

another hindrance to my excitement is the fact that Gran Turismo 5 takes a million light years to load just about every screen. it's feels like 1999 and WWF SmackDown 2 all over again. at least Gran Turismo 5 doesn't have photos of Val Venis and Crash Holly as part of its interstitials, I suppose.

now Dan's undertaking a NASCAR lesson at Jeff Gordon's Driving School. without wanting to be cynical, I don't imagine that 'turn the steering wheel right' is part of its curriculum.

anyway, enough about my housemate's racing car bed fantasies.

actually, I lie, he's just started racing 1960s Volkswagen Kombi vans around the famed Top Gear test track. I feel like this is noteworthy.

anyway, since today was my rostered day off from work, I've spent a large portion of the day constructing Part Two of A Shot of Clarity. needless to say, it's been a rather slow and difficult process. hours and hours and hours of work, for only 645 words total. they're 645 good words, though. I'd just prefer that they were great words.

to turn them into 'great' words, I think I'll need to improve the overall tonal consistency. I've got one particular character who is supposed to be a bit of a disciplinarian, yet I found myself drifting into more of a 'sarcastic' territory as I continued to write the scene. this wasn't my original intention for the character, so I'll have to go back and tidy it up after I've completed the writing of this blog.

I'm also having a bit of trouble with the inner monologue for one of my characters, which is quite frustrating. without wanting to give too much away, the character is Jake's girlfriend (Sophie), and her voice is particularly important for this portion of the story. the one-dimensionality of female characters has always been a weak point in my writing, so hopefully I can work through it fairly quickly and make Part Two at least readable. then I'll get Parts Three and Four out in fairly short order and get into the really good stuff,

needless to say, Parts Five to Seven are where all the action is at.

anyway, that's all I have to say.

keep an eye out for Part Two of A Shot of Clarity, hopefully in the next 48 hours. if you don't see it by the end of the week, you can safely assume that I'm dead.

or, you know, dying.

Peace

#5 - 25th birthday edition

so, today is my 25th birthday.

today is also 'R U OK?' Day.

these two facts would be mutually exclusive, except one of my friends inboxed everyone on my Facebook account and told them to ask me 'R U OK?' instead of wishing me a happy birthday.

so now I have 95 wall posts (and counting), all asking if I'm ok.

I also had the following interaction with my mother this morning:



it was somewhat amusing.

anyway, on the writing front, I can happily say that I sat down and plotted A Shot of Clarity in its entirety last night. frame-by-frame, scene-by-scene. there'll be seven parts to the story (plus Prologue and Epilogue), and they should all be written in pretty quick order.

in terms of its marketability... I'm not sure. I have this dream of completing a longer story and seriously workshopping it within the local writing community, but I feel that the final product will be a weird, in-between length. 10-15k sorta range. too long to be a short story, not long enough to be a novella.

I'll figure it out, though.

after all, if it's really, really good, who's going to care about its length?

I feel like there's a that's what she said joke in that somewhere.

maybe another time.

Peace

#4

so, I'm expanding my horizons.

after two years of hosting my work pretty much exclusively on gayauthors.org, I've decided to start expanding my horizons and pursuing a wider, non-gay audience.

why?

because, well, my writing just isn't all that gay.

I mean, sure, I'm a gay man, and I like to explore gay themes in my stories, but I've come to realise that most of my work just isn't gay enough for the gay literature market. there's not enough lusting, not enough fashion, not enough hot, sweaty sex.

and you know what?

that's ok.

I mean, sure, it's difficult to accept that I'm just not all that popular with my target gay audience, but opening my work up to a wider audience will allow me to connect with a wider range of people, and maybe bring some joy to a section of the community that I could never have reached by sticking to the homogenous (homo-genous, geddit?) environment that is gayauthors.org.

so anyway, I've uploaded The Boy Next Door to fictionpress.com, and I'll see how it all goes.

I also cracked out the notepad at work today, and wrote three full pages of notes about the upcoming chapters of A Shot of Clarity, including dialogue from the final scene. the words were flowing really easily today, and the ideas were coming to me basically fully-formed, so hopefully that's a sign of things to come.

in terms of posting dates, I'm hoping to get Part Two out no later than the end of September. I'm fully aware that not much happened in the recently-posted Part One, so I'm going to try and get a move on and get into the really meaty part of the story.

once I've done that, hopefully the readers will start to flow.

anyway, it's 11.24pm, and Miss Universe is on the tv in the background, so I should probably call it a night.

Peace

#3

so, slowly but surely, I'm putting this little website together.

in the past hour, I've uploaded two chapters of A Shot of Clarity, added a list of 'Stuff I've Edited', put together a 'Coming Soon' page, formatted the text for The Boy Next Door, and taught myself basic HTML (thank you, google).

now all I have to do is start producing more content.

to give you an idea of what I'm working on, here is a list of the projects that are currently in a state of half-completion:


The Things You Fear The Most

It all started with a potato. Just a mundane, non-descript potato.

Where it went next would take Will Hathaway on the ride of his life.

Genre: Murder-Mystery.
Length: Novel length.
E.T.A: October/November 2011


All That You Can't Leave Behind

Rhys doesn't love Charlie. Charlie doesn't love Rhys.

So why are they having such a hard time letting go?

Genre: Relationship/Romance.
Length: Short Story.
E.T.A: Christmas 2011


The Middle

His was the name on the tip of every college recruiter's tongue. But when an injury robs Jordan of his entire senior season, he's forced to examine who he is outside of the game he loves...

...and whether it's the person he wants to become.

Genre: Coming of Age.
Length: Novel length.
E.T.A: 2012 and beyond.



I might also put together a list of story recommendations for my sidebar, since you all value my literary opinion so highly.

anyway, time for bed.

Peace

A Shot of Clarity - Part 1

A Shot of Clarity - Part One
by pluginmatty

There’s a golden child in every family, the shining sun around which all of the smaller and lesser planets orbit. They're usually talented, charming, attractive, athletic; sometimes they're even intelligent, and all-too-often aware of their God-given advantage as they wrap their none-the-wiser parents around their little finger and establish a life-long pattern of supremacy.

In this particular family, the golden child was a boy named Jake Monroe.

Tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed and smooth-skinned, he looks like a model from one of those Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues that people keep folded up and stashed away under their mattress.

Probably smells like a Lynx advertisement, as well.

“Rise and shine,” his mother calls, poking her head through the bedroom door and rousing him from slumber. Even though he's the first to leave, he's always the last of his siblings to be woken.

Not that he needs the beauty sleep, anyway.

"I'm up," he sleepily grumbles, rolling over and scratching himself on the stomach as he pushes himself out of bed and makes his way toward the en-suite bathroom. No shared bathrooms in the Monroe household.

Stopping in front of the wall-mounted mirror, he takes a moment to examine his own reflection, admiring the regal image that stares back at him. Bulging pectorals, well-proportioned arms, a dusting of well-maintained chest hair. He's probably never carried an ounce of puppy fat in his life.

Certainly never had a zit.

And as he continues to admire his dreamy reflection, all he can see is a promising future.

"Looking good," he says to himself, turning on the taps and adjusting the water temperature as he begins to climb into the shower. Once inside, he washes his hair, loofahs his back, uses his shower-proof razor. Then, once he's finished, he towels himself dry, slipping on a pair of workout shorts and a muscle shirt before striding toward the kitchen and readying himself for the pancakes that his mother probably cooks him every morning.

"Hi honey," she says when he arrives, smiling as she sips on another diet shake. She probably asks him about his upcoming day, smiling as if the answers are pleasing, nodding as if they're an indication of his true intentions. And then, when he's done, she dutifully collects his plate from the breakfast bar, rinsing it off and stacking the dishwasher, wishing she had the unbelievable genetics that allow her son to eat whatever he wants without consequence.

Returning to the bedroom, he does a quick check of his hair in the mirror, selecting a trendy ensemble to match the letterman jacket hanging in his closet. Then, leaving the clothes laid across his unmade bed, he begins his routine morning workout, counting the push-ups and crunches under his breath as he continues to work toward his image-based goals.

"Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen..."

"Don't be late, honey!" His mother's voice drifts down the hall, barely registering in his mind as he continues to work toward the goal.

"Sixty-two... sixty-three... sixty-four..."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks about the practice his coach has scheduled for the afternoon, and the sizeable dent it's put in his after-school plans.

"Eighty-four... eighty-five... eighty-six..."

Another part of his mind gives passing thought to the History test that he hasn't studied for, an issue he doesn't plan to rectify before his second period class.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred."

And just like that, his workout is complete.

Climbing back to his feet, he freshens himself up and hastily dons the outfit laid across his bed, doing another check in the mirror before grabbing his car keys and backpack and making a beeline toward the front door.

"Don't be late, honey!" his mother calls again, a somewhat redundant gesture as he appears and does a final check of his hair. Then, in a leftover remnant from a time when her children actually listened, "Have a good day at school!"

"Bye, mom," he says as a reflex, pulling the front door closed as he makes his way down the path and across the manicured lawn. Pushing a button to open the garage door, he spies a latest-model European roadster, a gift from his dad and the shining chariot that symbolises his everyday ride to school. Pushing another button to unlock the car door, he pulls on the handle and slides across the leather upholstery, making himself comfortable in the driver's seat before pushing yet another button to fire the engine.

How long you been asleep at the wheel?
Out of control, gathering up speed...

The sound system pumps out the latest next-big-thing band, playing a tune that will no doubt become popular three months down the track. He barely registers the lead singer's words though, as he reverses out of the garage and into the driveway proper. Taking a perfectly straight path toward the opened front gate, he uses his rear-view mirror for little more than vanity purposes, putting the car into first gear and laying another two strips of rubber upon the otherwise-spotless suburban tarmac.

Take another turn on the merry-go-round.
Your numbers all come up,
Now you're king of the town...

Taking the shortest possible route to school, he pulls into the crowded student parking lot, parking the car in his unofficially-assigned parking space. Then, after checking his hair in the mirror one last time, he opens the whisper-quiet car door and steps out into the suddenly-brighter morning sunshine.

“Hey man!” he says to his probable best friend, holding his hand out for a casual fist bump. The friend is most likely a wide receiver, or someone of equal importance.

"Hey Jake!" another voice calls, trying to sound casual in the presence of its hero. They've probably been waiting in the same spot for the past 15 minutes.

"Hey..." Jake calls back, with a wave that would look awkward on anyone else. If he knows who the person is, he's giving off no indication. "How's it goin'?"

"Good, thanks!" And just like that, somebody's had their day made.

"Hey, baby," comes a syrupy voice from somewhere behind him, eliciting a more positive reaction as he turns toward its source. Sweeping his girlfriend into a hug, he plants a quick kiss on her lips, making her the instant envy of all girls within a 20-metre radius.

"Heyyyyyy Soph," he whispers into her hair, dropping an octave from the rich, smooth, baritone that his classmates would usually hear. "I missed you, baby."

"I missed you, too," she murmurs back, wrapping her arms around his neck as he initiates another lengthier, more passionate kiss. Through a combination of busy parents, empty houses, clever deception and teenage hormones, they've had a lot of chances to practice, lately.

"Are you guys coming?" an impatient voice eventually interrupts, coughing in a none-too-subtle manner. At some point, the first bell has sounded for Homeroom.

"In a sec," Jake tells his friend, leaning in for one last kiss. "I actually need to stop at the bathroom on the way."

"Gee, thanks," Sophie giggles, an expression of mock disgust on her face as she swats him playfully on the arm. "I really, really needed to know that."

"My pleasure," Jake says, worming his way out of it with a disarming grin. "Mikey's right, though. We should probably get moving."

"Don't call me Mikey," Jake's best friend grumbles, giving his other arm a much-less-playful thump. "Not even my Grandma gets to call me that."

"Whatever," Jake says, still grinning. "I think you secretly like it, anyways."

"Just like you secretly like it in the ass?" Mikey says, ignoring the look of genuine disgust that now decorates Jake's girlfriend's face.

"Oh, you're so gonna pay for that," Jake says, making a jab step in Mike's direction and laughing as he scurries six feet backwards.

"Can we go now?" Sophie asks, still pouting a bit after Mike's 'in the ass' comment.

"Sure thing," Jake says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as they all start to move toward the main school building. After about 100-feet of silent walking, he turns to his girlfriend and says, "I'll see you in a bit, ok?"

"Ok," she responds, still a bit pouty, even now. Then, with a quick parting kiss, he runs off in the direction of the nearest toilet block.

Upon arrival, he finds the door locked.

"Hmm, that's weird," he mumbles to himself, trying the door handle more vigorously without success, the physical exertion only increasing his need for bladder relief. "Toilets are usually open by now."

Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he jogs off in the opposite direction, wondering if there's some sort of problem with the janitorial staff.

There, of course, isn't.

He's not to know that, though.

But it’s probably nothing to worry about.

A Shot of Clarity - Prologue

A Shot of Clarity – Prologue
by pluginmatty

It’s not supposed to end like this.

There's supposed to be flowers, pretty dresses, pretty girls, sparkling rainbows, sweet sweet chocolates, glorious sunshine…

Instead, there’s black.

Endless, depressing black.

Black.

Behind him is a wall, glowing white. Scrawled across it is graffiti, permanent ink. He'd squint and look closer, but the words are barely legible, the product of a stoner in between bong hits.

This boy's not a stoner, though.

He avoids drugs like the plague.

Cutting his eyes to the left, he sees a porcelain bowl; sparkling white. Beside it stretches a handrail; glittering silver. And if he ever looks up, he'll see a eggshell ceiling...

He doesn't look up, though.

He looks straight ahead.

All he sees is black.

Black.

The surroundings are white and his hair is black.

Shocking, startling, frightening. Black. It's the first thing you're going to notice. There's a vast white sea, a bright-lit oblivion, and then there is pitch black. Head-turning black. Impossible-not-to-notice. Black.

His parents didn't notice, though.

He'd bought the home kit thirty-seven days ago, and they still hadn't bothered to notice. There were his two older brothers to fawn over, his one younger sister to adore. He was their third-eldest child, the only fair-haired one in the bunch... and they STILL hadn't taken any fucking notice.

His classmates had noticed, though.

What are you doing, you stupid fag?

Making a statement, Captain Emo?

Want a black eye to match, cocksucker?

White.

Now all he sees is white.

His hair is black, and his knuckles are white. His face is whiter again, but his eyes are still black. Black and blue and yellowing in parts, but still...

Black.

His pillowcase is red.

It sits atop his bed in the basement, providing support as he lies awake at the midnight hour. Tossing, turning, stressing; he's barely slept a wink in weeks. His mind never rests. He’ll soon be finding his rest, though.

In Peace.

Catching sight of a porcelain bowl, he sees a flash of his toilet at home. The sparkling bowl down which he flushes his pills. A swirling tide, a hidden secret.

Take your happy pills, he's occasionally reminded. Take your happy pills and be happy.

He hasn't tasted happiness in months.

The counselling hasn't worked, either. He'd been signed up seven days after coming out of the closet, but all he'd talked about in the past three weeks was the bitter weather and the way some ink blotches look like butterflies.

Such pretty things, butterflies.

Pink wings. Yellow wings. Blue wings…

Black.

A black coat, a white hand, a flash of silver...

Black.

Another flash of silver.

Black.

A flash of shiny, metallic silver.

It's like his own metallic safety blanket, kept hidden safely inside his blood-red pillowcase.

The safety switch is black.

He keeps it switched on, twenty-four seven. He tucks it deep inside his pillowcase, away from anybody’s reach, engaging the safety switch and keeping everybody safe.

Happy, even.

But not anymore.

Taking a deep breath and flashing a white-toothed smile, he feels the weight in his palm and lifts his gaze to look in the mirror.

Black.

Dropping the gaze to his palm again, he sees a shaft of silver light.

Silver.

It’s the colour of second place, the colour of second-best. The reward for the first of the losers.

He's not a loser anymore, though.

And with a single fluid movement, he decides he’s going to prove it. Taking the gun in both hands, he switches the safety mechanism to 'off', and begins to contemplate his next move.

Now nobody's safe.

The Boy Next Door - Story Notes

so, as promised in part #2, I'm going to use this blog as a bit of window to my creative (I use this term loosely) world, attempting to deliver a bit of analysis and insight into each of my previously-written stories.

then, of course, if I ever get off my arse and begin writing regularly again, I'll be able to deliver a bit of insight into particular stories/chapters as I'm in the process of writing them?

sounds great, right?

well, I'll let you be the judge of that.

anyway, where do I even start with The Boy Next Door?


The Boy Next Door was a one-shot short story, published on gayauthors.org in early September 2009. based around a real-life personal trauma, it was the story of an old lady and her next-door neighbour, charting the significant moments of a boy's childhood through his interactions with the old lady.

in terms of inspiration, it was very much based around the relationship between myself and my adopted grandmother, with the story's climactic scene occuring in real-life approximately 72 hours before I started writing. in a way, I think the entire story was an emotional release stemming from that incident.

in terms of plot, it's probably 90% based in fiction, with most of the real-world inspiration relating to Connor's character attributes and not the plot itself. I think it's fair to say that Connor is loosely based on myself.


Some interesting facts about The Boy Next Door:

- unlike my previous attempts at writing fiction to that point, The Boy Next Door was put together in chronological order, with scenes being literally written in the order that they appeared on the page.

- The Boy Next Door symbolised the first time that I'd ever included a small child in any of my stories. being the youngest of two kids, I don't have any experience with younger siblings to draw inspiration from, but I was really happy with how 'young Connor's character came across. ironically, I actually think the scenes with 'young Connor' are the strongest of the entire story.

- The Boy Next Door was written very quickly, with the entire 7,800 words coming together in a little under 18 hours. if you take out meal breaks, sleep, etc, the actual writing time is probably something like 8-10 hours. to give you a comparison, I can spend anything up to 50 hours writing and refining a chapter of The Things You Fear The Most.

- The Boy Next Door is the first story of mine that I ever allowed my mother to read, and most likely the last. it wasn't that her reaction was negative, it was just... she didn't really have a reaction, at all. maybe she didn't even read it. either way, after I handed her a paper copy, she never spoke of it again.


on a final note, I thought I'd include this passage from a forum post that I wrote at the time of the story, explaining the simplicity of the writing process:

"None of it was intentional. I basically sat down at the start of the story, and decided to just write. Whatever came out, I promised myself that I'd post it. Happy, sad, depressing, whatever. I think that's a large part of the story's success, actually. There's none of the bells and whistles I usually impart, none of my 'here, look at this flashy trick!' style, it's just... words. Lots and lots of words. No mish-mash of POVs, no 'I've edited this to within an inch of its life' structure, just... words.

Organic, almost."


as you'll find out further into this blog, the writing process would never again be that simple.

Peace

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door
by pluginmatty


They met on a quiet Saturday morning in February.

She’d been sweeping the porch, re-potting a plant, doing the usual housework when a little boy in dirty sneakers appeared at the bottom of the front steps.

“Hello, young man,” she greeted, leaning down to his height as he turned 360 without any need or cue. “May I ask your name?”

“I’m Connor!” he confidently told her, giving his biggest and brightest smile as she settled on one knee and secured the straw hat that had suddenly caught in the breeze. “Connor, Connor, Connor!”

“That’s a lovely name,” she said, watching as he spun again. “And can you spell it for me, Connor?”

“C-O-N-N-O-R!” he shouted, dragging out the last ‘R’ like a pirate as he engaged in an impromptu sword fight with one of the shadows on the porch. “CONNOR!”

“Well done!” she smiled, brushing a speck of dirt off one of his rosy cheeks as he continued to engage in battle. “And how old are you, Connor?”

“I’m six!” he told her, vanquishing his imaginary foe before holding up three fingers on his left hand and four fingers on his right. “One, two, three, four, five, six!” He meekly tucked away his right thumb. “Six!”

“Very good!” she told him, emphasising her encouragement with an emphatic nod of the head. “You’re very smart.”

“Aha!” he told her, smiling even brighter. “My teacher gave me three gold stars!”

“Oh my!” she congratulated, watching as he continued to hold up three fingers on his left hand. “That was very nice of her.” The boy nodded, his smile bigger still.

“And do you like your teacher?” she continued, watching the nod turn into a vigorous shake. “Why not?”

“She put me in the naughty chair,” he said, the smile turning into a frown. “I don’t like the naughty chair.”

“Well that’s no good,” she told him, rubbing his arm as the frown completely overtook his features. “You’ll have to make sure that you’re a good boy and you won’t get put in the naughty chair, then.”

He looked up at her, hopeful. “Really?”

“Oh, I think so,” she told him, using the same tone that had soothed her own grandchildren all those years ago. “If you’re a good boy, you won’t have to go to the naughty chair ever again.”

“Yay!” he exclaimed, turning a full 360 again as his smile returned even brighter than before. “I don’t like the naughty chair.”

“Well if you’re a good boy—“

“CONNOR?!”

The shrill voice penetrated the idyllic scene. “CONNOR, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

She couldn’t see the source of the ruckus, but the older lady still smiled the wryest of smiles as the little boy ducked behind her and buried his little frame in the back of her gardening shirt.

“CONNOR?!”

“He’s over here,” the older lady called, watching the woman emerge through the front gate as she tried her best to regain composure. Needless to say, she had a look that could only belong to a six-year-old’s mother.

“Oh, thank god,” the woman stated, seeing the older lady on the porch as relief became evident in her features. “I thought he’d wandered off or starting playing in the boxes again.”

“No, no, he’s safe and sound,” the older lady said, holding out a hand as she introduced herself to the new next-door neighbour. “I have a feeling he might be very close by, actually…”

“Thank you,” the woman smiled, extending a dusty hand as she offered a smile almost as bright as the little boy’s. “I’m Diana, by the way.”

“Evelyn,” the older lady offered, taking the dusty hand in her wrinkled own. “Evelyn Hum—“

“BOO!” Suddenly Connor jumped from his hiding spot.

“CONNOR!” Diana shouted, letting go of Evelyn’s hand as she snatched the sleeve of her son’s pullover. “What have I told you about running off on your own?”

“Don’t do it,” the little boy responded, cowering slightly at his mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, mummy.”

The frazzled-looking lady sighed, releasing her grip on Connor’s sleeve as she began to wipe the dusty prints off his blue Ninja Turtles outfit. “Well I suppose I’ll let you get away with it this once.”

“Yay!” the little boy exclaimed, taking that as his cue to run back toward the front gate.

“Connor, get back here!” Diana shook her head with a smile as the little boy ran back in the direction he’d come from. “He’ll be back.”

“He’s a little handful, isn’t he?” Evelyn laughed, in a tone that could only be interpreted as been there, done that. “I remember what my boys were like at the same age.”

“I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy, some days,” Diana laughed, shaking her head again as the sounds of Connor’s shouting echoed from the other side of the fence. “But I love him to bits, nonetheless.”

“Oh, of course,” Evelyn concurred, offering Diana a sympathetic smile. “How could you not love an adorable little face like that?”

“The picture of innocence,” Diana said, laughing as the shouts continued to drift across the front yard. “And I assure you, he gets it from his father.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Evelyn told her, joining in as they shared the kind of chuckle that could only come at a man’s expense. “Don’t they always?”

“Ohhhhhhh yes,” Diana agreed, wiping her dusty palms on the legs of her jeans as she prepared to rejoin the removalist fray. “Anyway, I’d better get back over there before Connor manages to break something. Or someone.”

“Good luck!” Evelyn offered, extending a wrinkled hand again as Diana took it and offered one last smile. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

“Thank you,” Diana smiled. “It was lovely meeting you, Mrs—“

“Humphries. Evelyn Humphries.”

“It was a pleasure, Mrs. Humphries.”

“Please, call me Evelyn.”

* * * * *

She made the best shortbread biscuits on the block; that’s what facilitated their second meeting two Saturdays later.

Wandering through the same front gate that had captured his fascination just fourteen days before, little Connor found himself staring at the rack of biscuits cooling on the front porch, wondering if he’d earn another hour in the naughty corner if he took one…

“Hello, young Connor,” the older lady greeted, opening the screen door as the smells of baking wafted from the kitchen. “How are you today, young man?”

“I’m good,” Connor told her, eyes darting between her friendly face and the biscuits. “My mummy told me to be a good boy and not to talk to you today.”

“Why ever would she do that?” Evelyn asked, amused that Connor had landed on her front porch anyway. “Have you been a naughty boy again, Connor?”

“No!” the little boy protested, the devilish smile giving the game away before it could even begin. “I’m a good boy, always.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” Evelyn told him, watching as his eyes darted between her apron and the biscuits on the rack again. “Since you’ve been such a good boy for your mummy and daddy, how would you like a freshly-baked shortbread biscuit?”

”Yes, please!” Connor told her, a huge smile breaking out as he moved quickly toward the steaming rack. “Could I please have two?”

“Well, since you’ve been such a good boy…” Evelyn smiled, selecting the two biggest biscuits off the rack and placing them in little Connor’s hands. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Connor told her, wrapping a hug around her upper thighs as he almost dropped both. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“My pleasure,” Evelyn told him, watching as he took a first tentative bite of the offering in his left hand. “Do you like my shortbread biscuits?”

”Mmmhmm,” Connor mumbled, around a mouthful of sugar and cream. “They’re yummy!”

“Well, if you’re a good boy, I might even let you take a few home,” Evelyn told him, her non-committal words betraying the fact that she’d made up her mind long ago. “Would you like that?”

“Aha!” Connor nodded vigorously, stray crumbs flying across the porch everywhere. “Yes, please!”

“Ok,” she told him, watching as even more crumbs fell from his hand. “If you’re a good boy for the next 5 minutes, I’ll put some in a bag and let you take them home to your mummy.”

“Yay!” the little boy responded, doing a twirl not unlike the one she’d seen two weeks ago. “Biscuits are yummy!”

“Ok, well if you stay still for a few minutes, I’ll go get a bag for you to put all these biscuits in.”

“Yay!”

She went into the kitchen, taking a moment to fill a bag with a handful of chocolates before returning to the porch with the contents concealed.

When she arrived back, Connor was chasing a ball from one end of the porch to the other.

“Oh, I see you’ve found Buddy’s old ball!” Buddy was her old pet Labrador.

“Who’s Buddy?” the little boy asked, stopping briefly in his pursuit.

“Buddy used to be my puppy dog,” she told him, setting the bag down next to the biscuit rack as she recalled the faithful pet who’d been a household fixture for almost 20 years. “He’s gone to a special place now.”

“Disneyland?” Connor asked, resuming his little game as Evelyn watched in wonder.

“No, not Disneyland,” she told him, shaking her head at his pure innocence. “Buddy’s gone to heaven.”

“Can I go to heaven?” Connor asked, still chasing the ball.

“Not for a long time, yet,” Evelyn said, laughing softly at the child’s blissful ignorance.

“But what if I’m a good boy?”

“Well, if you’re a good boy, you’ll be allowed to go to heaven one day.”

“Yay!” Connor said, flopping on the porch as the ball trickled down the steps. “I’m pooped.”

“You should go home and get some rest then, before your mummy starts to wonder where you are.” Evelyn paused to take all of the biscuits off the rack, before placing them neatly atop the hidden bounty of chocolate. “You take these home to your mummy, ok?”

“Ok!”

“And what do you say, Connor?”

“Thank you, Ma’am!”

“No, thank you,” Evelyn smiled, waving goodbye as the little boy began to bound back down the garden path.

“And please, call me Mrs. H.”

* * * * *

“Where are all your grandkids?” Connor asked one day, while they were enjoying a cold lemonade on her front porch. “I never see any other boys playing at your house.”

“My little boys are all grown up now,” Mrs. H told him, shaking her head as she allowed herself a wistful moment. “They’ve moved away, moved on. They don’t need a grandma like me anymore.”

“I need a grandma like you,” Connor told her, capturing the moment with a maturity well beyond his nine years. “I wish my real grandma was like you.”

“Oh, you’re such a sweet boy,” Evelyn told him; brushing away a discreet tear. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll be my real grandson, I’ll be your real grandma. Deal?”

“Deal,” Connor told her, sealing it with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

* * * * *

He was kicking a ball around her front yard when she finally asked the question that had been bugging her for weeks.

“Connor, why don’t you play soccer with all the other boys?”

“My dad won’t let me,” Connor told her, a frown overtaking his features. “He says I’d get hurt by all the bigger boys.”

“And what do you think about that, Connor?”

“I just want to play,” Connor told her, balancing the ball on one foot before flicking it onto the other. “I don’t care if the other boys are bigger, I just want to play.”

“Ok, well if I have a quiet word to your dad, do you think you could go out on the soccer field and do your grandma proud?”

“Yes!”

“Good. I’ll talk to you dad tomorrow, then. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They sealed it with a handshake.

* * * * *

“I made the team! I made the team!”

It was a chilly afternoon four years later when Connor came bustling through the front door, still wearing the red socks and silky shorts from where he’d just finished trying out for his high school’s senior team. At 13, he was by far their youngest player, but his skills and attitude had impressed all of the coaches gathered to watch the fifty-or-so boys in the team tryout. And despite the immense level of surprise he’d felt when they’d announced his name in the squad, it was nothing compared to his surprise when Mrs. H emerged from the spare bedroom carrying a brand new Liverpool jersey and a card that said ‘Congratulations!’

If Connor was lacking anything in self-confidence, it was more than made up for by the faith that Mrs. H had in him.

“Thank you, Mrs. H!”

“Oh it’s nothing,” she said, not bothering to tell him that she’d bought the card and his gift on the day he’d told her he was trying out. “You should be very proud of yourself, Connor.”

And while she’d never really know the significance, Connor took special pride in pulling on the red shirt with the Liverpool FC emblem that afternoon. Giving her a kiss on the cheek and making his way back down the front steps, the four words emblazoned on the left breast had never been more appropriate…

“Thanks again, Mrs. H!”

“No, thank you, Connor.”

You’ll never walk alone.

* * * * *

She’d acquired a walking stick by the time Connor’s eighteenth summer rolled around.

From the comfortable chair positioned on her front porch, Evelyn had watched the bright-eyed boy next door grow into a handsome young man, complete with a six-foot frame and a golden mop of hair. And while he’d withdrawn somewhat in recent years, she could still see the same Connor who’d arrived on her doorstep in a blur of energy and terror all those years ago. The shoulders might have been broader, and the ‘silly music’ might have gotten louder, but in her heart he was still the little boy she’d adopted on the spot. And while their afternoon chats had slowly dwindled into a smile and wave when he came home from school, she still took immense pride in watching the boy she’d called her ‘grandson’ grow into the fine young man he was becoming.

But as the days wore on that summer, the boy next door’s smile began to seem more and more forced. And the accompanying wave became began to look more and more tired. She’d at first put it down to the pressures of adolescence, but as the smile dimmed into a full-blown frown, she could tell that something deeper was troubling Connor.

Finally, one Thursday afternoon, she intervened.

“Connor…” she’d called, watching as he waved goodbye to the dark-haired boy who’d dropped him off. He looked over, giving a smile no less forced than the three that had preceded it, before tossing his backpack on the front doorstep and vaulting the side fence that separated the two yards.

“Um, hi.”

“Hello, Connor,” she greeted, giving the boy a slightly watery smile as he stepped onto the porch and scratched at the stubble on his right cheek. “Would you like to come in for some afternoon tea?”

“Um yeah, I guess,” he said, his voice decidedly deeper than the last time she’d heard it. “How have you been, Mrs. H?”

“I’ve been good,” she told him, rising from her seat as she slowly moved toward the front door, taking a small step backward as Connor moved to hold it open. “But how have you been, Connor?”

“Um yeah, good,” Connor told her, looking slightly uneasy as she slowly made her way up the two front steps. “You sure you don’t want me to help you up, Mrs. H?”

“Oh, no,” she told him, waving him away with her free hand. “Don’t worry yourself with an old duck like me.”

But despite the innocent nature of her words, something about Mrs. H’s dismissal really struck a chord with Connor. Here was his next-door neighbour – a lady who now needed him more than ever – and he’d allowed her to be relegated to background scenery. The pressures of soccer and secondary studies had been taking their toll on all of Connor’s recent relationships, but as he tried to remember the last time he’d actually sat down and had a conversation with Mrs. H, he realised that he’d completely neglected the one person in his life who’d given him everything and asked nothing in return.

“Umm… Mrs. H?”

“Yes, dear?” Evelyn asked, placing a hand against the doorframe as she turned around and regarded the blond-haired boy standing behind her.

“You don’t… hate me, do you?”

“Oh gosh, no. Why on earth would I hate you, Connor?”

“Because I haven’t been very good to you lately,” he mumbled, lingering in the hallway as she steadily moved into the kitchen and toward the pantry door. “Have I?”

“Oh Connor,” she told him, shaking her head in a sympathetic gesture as he finally followed her into the dimly lit kitchen. “You’ve got more important things to worry about than a silly old bat like me.”

“No,” Connor protested, pulling a seat out from the kitchen table before taking one of his own. “I’ve let you down.”

She could protest and assure him all she liked, but Connor knew the truth in his heart. It was the harsh truth that he’d spent the past handful of months avoiding. The fact was, there had been many recent occasions where Connor simply couldn’t go over to the house next door, for fear that things could never be the way they used to be again.

“You haven’t let me down, Connor,” Mrs. H told him, placing a half-empty pack of store-bought biscuits on the table in front of him. “You’re finding your way in the world, becoming a man. You’ve got more important things to worry about than what I’m doing with myself.”

And it was true, at least in her mind. It may have been almost fifty years ago now, but she could still clearly remember the pressures faced by her own two boys as they completed their secondary studies and made their way as young adults. Her words didn’t appear to ease Connor’s mind, however.

“You haven’t let me down,” she repeated, watching as he extracted the first biscuit from the packet.

“But I always promised—“

“Sometimes we make promises we can’t keep, Connor. It’s part of being human.”

“But I’ve let you down.” Nothing that could penetrate the haze of self-pity.

“You haven’t let me down, Connor,” she repeated again, placing a wrinkled hand over one of his.

“But—“

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Connor.”

She watched as his expression changed. Oddly enough, it was that throwaway line that penetrated the haze.

“No,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he grabbed another biscuit with his free hand. “That’s what I have parents for,”

“Oh, Connor...”

“You’ve probably heard how much they hate me at the moment,” he continued, staring down at the table, his shame plainly evident.

“Yes, I’ve heard the fights you three have been having,” Evelyn told him, squeezing his hand lightly. “But your parents don’t hate you, Connor.”

“You’ve heard them, the way they carry on. They hate me.”

“Your parents don’t hate you,” Evelyn repeated, her hand still unmoved from its original position. “They just want what’s best for you, Connor.”

“What’s best for them,” Connor corrected, removing his hand from Evelyn’s grasp. “Trust me, they hate me.”

“They don’t hate you, Connor. Hate is such a strong word. Nobody hates you.”

“No, no, everyone hates me at the moment,” Connor told her, shaking his head slightly. “My teammates, my friends, my teachers…”

“Oh Connor, you’re not failing at school, are you?”

“Um, no.” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “My grades aren’t exactly what they used to be, though.”

“Oh, Connor,” she consoled, shaking her head as he removed another biscuit from the packet. “Don’t let your talents go to waste.”

He gave her a weak smile before standing to grab a cup of water from the sink.

“What about your soccer? How’s that going?”

“I’m about to get dropped from the team,” Connor admitted, the pink tinge on his cheeks blossoming into full-bloom red.

“But why? You’ve always been so good, so committed.”

“The coach thinks I’m lazy, says that I need to ‘get my head in the game,’” Connor told her, shutting the tap off as he returned to the table.

“And do you?” Mrs. H asked, knowing that Connor would give her an honest answer either way.

“I don’t know,” Connor admitted, taking yet another biscuit. “Maybe.”

“And what about your friends? You said your friends hate you as well?”

“None of my friends are talking to me at the moment.”

”Why not? You’ve always been such a popular boy.”

“Um… I’d rather not go into it.”

“Well, what about that boy who dropped you off this afternoon? Isn’t he your friend?”

“Sean?”

“A dark-haired boy, nice-looking sort.”

“Sean,” Connor confirmed, nodding as he allowed himself a brief smile. The smile retreated as quick as it arrived, however. “Sean’s, um…”

Connor again reached for his water.

“Yes, he’s…” Evelyn prompted, when he didn’t continue.

“He’s, um…” She didn’t say any more, choosing instead to wait for Connor to find the right words.

“Sean’s my boyfriend,” he suddenly blurted, turning bright red as he took a massive gulp from the cup in his hand.

“Oh.” Her face remained expressionless for an endless moment, before softening into the Mrs. H that Connor had always known. “Is that why you’re fighting with your parents, Connor?”

The boy nodded.

“And is that why your friends aren’t speaking to you?”

He nodded again.

“Oh, Connor…” She took hold of his hand again. This time, he didn’t resist. “Why didn’t you just tell me? I could have helped you.”

“I… couldn’t.”

“Oh, Connor.” The grip tightened. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

“I have Sean,” he mumbled, staring down at his hands as he blinked away a few stray tears.

“Oh Connor.” She squeezed his hand again. “You haven’t been beating yourself up all this time, have you?”

His response was short on words, but the lingering silence spoke volumes.

“You can’t beat yourself up over something like that, Connor.”

“Trust me, I’ve got people who are more than happy to do that for me.” He retracted his hand, the bitter tone overtaking his body language.

“Oh, Connor…”

“I just want to be left alone,” he told her, taking hold of the half-empty glass. “I just want to be… happy.”

“Oh, Connor,” she repeated, reaching for his hand again as he took another mouthful of water. “I want that for you, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

“But—“

“And trust me when I say this, that’s all your parents want for you, as well.”

“But they—“

“Don’t push away the people who love you,” she told him, trying to impart some of her wisdom on the wayward boy. “But whatever they try to tell you, you make sure to do whatever makes you happy.”

She released his hand with a final squeeze, noting with pleasure that most of the tension had drained from his body.

“Now, I assume that your parents know about everything?”

Connor nodded.

“Ok, well if they have any problems with it, you just send them over to old Mrs. H, okay?”

He nodded slowly, giving her a half-smile as he took the final biscuit from the plastic wrapper.

“And you make sure that if you have any more problems, you come to me, ok?”

“Ok,” he told her, mumbling around the last mouthful of shortbread cream. “Thank you, Mrs. H.”

“No, Connor, thank you.”

They didn’t say anything for a little while after that.

Frankly, there was nothing more that needed saying.

* * * * *

Eight Saturdays later, Connor was sitting on Mrs. H’s front porch, a pile of textbooks scattered around as he began to study for his school exams.

It was a quiet afternoon, the kind of day where you might think that you’re the only soul on earth. And while Mrs. H’s front porch had always been quiet and peaceful, it was almost like a sanctuary on this particular Saturday. You couldn’t hear a sound from the streets below, let alone feel even the slightest hint of breeze. And despite the constant rustling of papers and a fluent string of curses, Mrs. H had somehow managed to go to sleep in the old chair directly opposite where Connor was sitting.

Wise, old Mrs. H. She always knew the right words to make Connor feel better. The words became more complex as he matured over time, but as he watched her sleep and recalled their conversation not twenty minutes ago, he could sense that some things would never change when it came to Mrs. H. She still wore the same straw hat that had shielded her skin from the sun all those years ago, and despite all the Saturdays they’d spent together on this very porch, she still used the same sorts of conversation starters when things go too quiet for her chatty liking.

From what do you want to be when you grow up, Connor?, to what do you want to do after high school?, the questions had evolved as Connor progressed through his schooling.

Then finally, today…

What universities have you applied to? What are you going to study?

He’d never been able to give a concrete answer until now. He’d applied to a wide variety of universities across the state, but a common theme had emerged nonetheless. Law school. He was determined to go to law school. His parents weren’t terribly happy about it, but as he sat back and thought more and more, the words of Mrs. H just a handful of weeks ago were the words that kept cropping up in his mind…

Whatever makes you happy, Connor.

And law school was what made him happy.

It wasn’t the soccer career his dad had come to want, or the engineering degree his mum had suggested from the moment he’d learnt to count to ten. And it wasn’t the drama institute his boyfriend had been accepted to, either. But it was what made Connor happy.

At the end of the day, that’s all that mattered.

And he had Mrs. H to thank for it.

* * * * *

“I got in! I got in!”

The words rang out over the idyllic scene, overcoming the clatter of the postman’s motorbike as Connor vaulted the side fence and rushed toward the lady on the porch with an acceptance letter in his hand.

“I got in!”

“Congratulations, Connor,” she smiled, leaning forward in her chair as she gave a gentle kiss to his left cheek. “I told you that you could do it.”

“Thank you,” he told her, before the energy overcame him again. “I GOT IN!!!”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his child-like joy, making the declaration to anyone who’d listen. “I got in! I got in!”

“Congratulations,” she offered again, noting the name of the state’s finest university embossed on the acceptance letterhead. “Would you like to come inside and celebrate?”

“Oh I’m sorry, Mrs. H,” Connor told her, settling down again as his face showed genuine regret. “I told Sean that I’d meet him in the city.”

“Oh that’s fine,” Evelyn smiled, settling back into her comfortable chair. “You go and have fun for both of us, ok?”

“Ok,” he grinned, losing himself in the own moment again as he failed to notice the slight fall of the older lady’s features. “I’ll see you soon, ok?”

“Ok,” she told him, watching as he skipped back down the garden path. But if her mood was down just a handful of moments before, her smile soon returned full-bloom at the sound of the young man’s joyous whoop.

“YES, I GOT IN!!!”

* * * * *

Three months later, Connor moved.

The university of his choice was over an hour’s drive away, and after a long, hard discussion across multiple Saturday afternoons; he’d decided that it was time to move out of home. Renting an off-campus apartment with his boyfriend, Connor soon fell into the routine of required reading, assignment deadlines, and boring lectures; but none of those demands stopped him from making his afternoon tea appointment every Tuesday at 3pm.

“Good afternoon, Connor,” Mrs. H greeted, noting that it was exactly 3pm as she watched him lug in a handful of grocery bags. “Thank you for getting those for me.”

“No probs, Mrs. H,” he assured her, setting the bags down on the counter as he mopped sweat off his brow. “Anything you need, just ask.”

“Well, now that you mention it…” she started, holding out her left hand and motioning for Connor to come forward. “You could take this for me.”

She pressed a $20 note into his palm.

“And Connor? Please call me Evelyn.”

“Oh, Mrs. H,” he scolded, ignoring her request and shaking his head as he placed the money back into her palm. “You know I won’t take your money.”

“We’re not having this argument again, Connor,” she told him, pressing the note more firmly into his palm. “You’ll take the money, and you’ll buy something nice for you and your boyfriend.”

“Ok, you win,” he sighed, taking the money again as he turned and walked back into the kitchen area. Pretending to search through the grocery bags on the bench, he waited for the exact moment that Evelyn turned away, before discreetly placing the $20 in the spare change jar on top of the fridge.

“Did you remember the Earl Grey tea?” she called, watching as Connor poked his head around the door of the fridge.

“Yep,” he told her, nodding. “Kettle’s boiling now, Mrs. H.”

“And what about the other?” she asked, watching as he reached up onto the bench and grabbed a packet of shortbread creams.

“These?” Connor teased, shaking the packet a little as his grin got even wider. “As if I’d forget your shortbread.”

“Just double-checking,” she winked, before turning attention back to the afternoon soaps. “You know I like to be careful about these things.”

“Have some faith,” he told her, faking a pout as he slotted the fresh milk into the fridge. “You never show faith in me, anymore.”

“Now, now,” she scolded, not looking away from The Bold and the Beautiful on the telly. “What have I told you about sarcasm, Connor?”

“Lowest form of humour,” he mumbled, putting the last of the groceries in the cupboard before picking his keys up off the counter and moving back toward the front door. “Back in a sec.”

When he reappeared, it was with an armful of textbooks and every highlighter colour in the rainbow.

“What are all those for?” Mrs. H asked, watching as he set the pile down on the loungeroom’s coffee table.

“Study,” he told her calmly, organising the books into two piles before turning attention back to the lady in the armchair. “First exam is in two days.”

“Oh Connor,” she scolded, watching as he selected the first book off the top of the larger pile. “You should be at home or at the library, not sitting here with an old fuddy-duddy like me.”

“Library’s too noisy,” he told her, later realizing how ridiculous his lie sounded. “Too much talking.”

“And what about home?”

“Too many distractions,” Connor said, opening the book to where his bookmark had kept the page. “Television, xbox, computer…”

He trailed off.

“And?” Mrs. H asked, knowing Connor well enough to know when something had gone unsaid. She gave him her full attention.

“Well, Sean’s home from school on Tuesdays and we sometimes…” The boy went bright red. “Um… yeah.”

“Oh.” It was Evelyn’s turn to be embarrassed. “Thank you for telling me that, Connor.”

“I think I’ll go check on the kettle,” he said, oh-so-subtly changing the subject as he got up and disappeared into the kitchen. “White and one?”

“Please,” Evelyn told him, turning attention back to the television. “How is Sean going, anyway?”

“Yeah, good,” Connor told her, taking two cups out of the overhead cabinet. “He said to say hello.”

“Send him my regards,”

“Will do,” he said, poking his head around the corner as he reached into the fridge. “Full-cream or skim?”

“Skim,” she told him, watching as he retreated again. “And Connor?”

“Yeah?” He poked his head back around.

“For the last time, call me Evelyn.”

He flashed his trademark grin before returning to the sink.

“Sure thing, Mrs. H.”

* * * * *

It was a humid Saturday in December.

The gown was too big, the cap was too small, but the title next to his name could not have fit him more perfectly.

First Class Honours, Connor Hurley.

He was in the top handful of students and had the whole world at his feet. But as he walked through the auditorium and received congratulations from his classmates, family and friends, he couldn’t help thinking about the one person that he hadn’t been able to share this with. Mrs. H. She was sitting at home, still recovering from a recent fall, and had only been able to send a card in lieu of her presence. Waiting until after the ceremony to hand it to him, Connor’s parents watched as he opened the envelope, listening as he read its contents aloud:

To Connor,

The best grandson I could ever ask for.

Love Mrs. H.

He smiled at the cursive handwriting, before spotting the post-script at the bottom.

P.S: Look closer, you might find a nice surprise.

Giving his parents a curious look, he turned the card over in both directions, trying to decipher the hidden meaning. Finally, he checked the torn envelope, discovering that it contained a smaller, second envelope. He opened the second envelope.

It contained a cheque for $4120.00.

“What?!” His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Your spare change deposits didn’t go unnoticed,” Diana said, kissing him on the cheek before offering the same gesture to Sean. “I want you both to spend it on something nice, ok?”

Blinking back tears, he pulled out his cell and called to thank and scold Mrs. H for the ridiculously generous gift. After a ten-minute conversation of mostly of thank you’s and it’s nothing’s, the conversation ended with the same words that had ended so many of their conversations before it:

“Thank you, Mrs. H. Thank you so much.”

“No, Connor, thank you.”

* * * * *

The following Monday, Connor began his new job at a city law firm. The hours were long, the intensity was high, and the Tuesday 3pm appointment soon became every second Saturday afternoon. Then it became every third. Then every fifth.

Until finally, a cold Saturday in August.

She was propped up in her usual armchair, the one that had somehow migrated from the front porch to a position in front of the TV, and she’d been dozing on and off as an old black and white movie played on the screen in front of her.

“What are we watching today, Mrs. H?” Connor had asked, bustling through the door with his usual armful of groceries.

“Oh, hello Connor,” she’d greeted, sitting a little straighter as he leaned down to kiss her leathery cheek. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m good,” Connor told her, depositing the groceries on the counter before returning to the front of the TV. “So what are we watching?”

“I’m not really sure, dear,” she told him, staring blankly at the black and white images before sighing and turning back to him. “I think it might be a movie of some sort.”

“Oh ok,” Connor said, trying to hide his concern as he noted the dust that had accumulated on and around the television unit. “Maybe we can find something more interesting for you, Mrs. H.”

He picked up the remote, noting that it too was covered with dust and crumbs.

“How about this?” he asked her, switching the set to a game of English soccer. “You still like watching soccer, don’t you?”

“Yes, dear,” she’d told him, although she was staring more past the TV than at it. “Soccer is fine.”

“Ok,” Connor had told her, reaching behind her to straighten the cushions before moving into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. H?”

“Yes, dear,” she said, still staring blankly at the set in front of her. “That would be lovely.”

“White and one?” he asked, poking his head around the corner as she failed to acknowledge his second question. “Mrs. H?”

“Sorry, dear?” She turned slowly in the armchair. “You’re writing what?”

“White and one?” he repeated, the concern on his face migrating into his tone. “How would you like your tea?”

“Oh yes, white and one,” she told him, turning her attention back in the direction of the soccer. “Just one sugar, please.”

Connor quickly made two cups and returned to the loungeroom.

“So how have you been, Mrs. H?” he asked upon his return, grabbing her attention again as he set her cup of tea in front of her. “Been keeping busy?”

“Oh yes, dear,” she told him, offering a weak smile as she took a sip of the hot beverage. “And how is school going?”

“I don’t go to school anymore, Mrs. H.” Connor’s earlier concern increased two-fold. “I’m working at a law firm now, remember?”

“Oh yes, dear,” she told him, taking another sip. “And how’s that going?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” he told her, straightening one of her cushions again before switching the conversation back onto her. “So what have you been up to these past few weeks?”

“Oh you know, this and that,” she told him, spilling a little of her tea on the newspaper underneath. On closer inspection, Connor found it was dated two months prior. “Keeping to myself.”

“Have mum and dad been dropping in?” he asked, knowing they made a point of visiting every other day.

“No, I haven’t seen your mum and dad for a quite a while,” she told him, after a moment’s consideration. “How have they been, Connor?”

“Um yeah, they’ve been good,” Connor told her distractedly, setting his own cup down before rising from the chair beside her. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

“Of course not, dear,” she told him, turning her head back toward the soccer game as he grabbed his cell and stepped outside. Hitting speed dial #1, he waited three rings before hearing the voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey babe.”

“Sean, I need you to come over, now.”

“Why, is something wrong?”

“Just come now, please.”

“Connor, what’s wrong?”

“Just come over.”

“Connor, please tell me.”

“It’s Mrs. H,” he finally told him, blinking back tears as he paced back and forth across the front lawn. “She’s… I dunno… she’s…”

“Alright, I’m coming now, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Don’t move, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Ok.”

And with that, Connor sat down on the front steps and waited.

There were no more Saturdays after that.

#2

so, what is it, 18 months after entry #1?

I really am a lazy son of a bitch when it comes to my writing.

actually, that's unfair, I shouldn't really bring my mother into this. she's a lovely woman, and I'm a lovely boy.

anyway, since I'm trying to become more serious about this silly little story-telling habit, I thought it was time that I fired up my old blog again and created a central location for all of my lovely fans (yes, 'fans', as in plural) to come and enjoy my half-assed work.

sometimes, I'll even offer a bit of insight into the machinations behind a particular story, chapter, paragraph, or word.

and who knows, it might even inspire me to get a bit more serious about the writing thing...

a boy can dream, right?

Peace