Sun. May 19th, 2024

Picture courteous

Written by Ken Carman

This story sucks. After the first paragraph or two you’ll close the book, toss it in the fire or use the pages as toilet paper. Don’t even attempt to feed it to your dog: he’ll bite you, your cat will scratch you. If you force feed it to your gerbil you’ll find him in an advanced state of decay in a matter of mere seconds.

“State of decay?”

Cliche’ alert!

Didn’t bother you?


When I was young I followed my mother and father into their careers: being well known authors. They always seemed so damn haunted and, eventually, I found out why. My first short story was grabbed by a publisher immediately and the anthology of new writers sold millions of copies. Soon I was at book signings, stuffing my wonk into every hot woman who wanted to have my baby: I even had myself fixed after spurning them and rejecting our love child didn’t dissuade them from wanting to have another baby with me… and wanting to love me in a carnal way despite my loathsome behavior. I would tell them after the act how pointless it had all been because I wouldn’t have their baby, they stunk in bed and I was late for another “lay” appointment, but they’d still chase after me.

Yeah, I was a real jerk.

After a while I tired of it all. I longed to be unknown: a construction worker, a postman… hell, I would have sucked out septic tanks with my own mouth if I could make a very private living doing it. I tried that and I still had women trying to get “brown mouth” by kissing me. So I went back to writing, but produced crap: intentionally.

They loved it.

I wrote a story about an empire, a death star, some guy named Luke and even George Lukas thanked me for writing a “better version.” He offered to give me Industrial, Light and Magic, all his money and every woman that he’d ever dated.

And in the end of my version of that saga, that truly did sag, Luke and his father had hot, gay, sex, and Lukas… thanks me?

I was determined.

Next up, “Mary had a Little Lamb.”

No, no clever take on the classic tale, just “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

It went to the top of the children’s book list. It went to the top of the… murder mystery list? Hell, porn fans bought it claiming “had” had multiple means.

It’s a curse, I tell you.

At that point I knew I was fucked, as I passed by other writers far better than I could ever be. They haunted me too, asking what my secret was. Damned if I know. Some wanted to kill me. I lead a secret life: no known address, private cell number… but a couple of times I decided it all wasn’t worth it any more and do other men’s wives. Dangerous men. They would approach me with knife, gun, flame thrower and drop whatever they had… then start kissing my feet. One guy even turned the flame thrower on himself saying, “What was I thinking?”

Another cliche’ alert.

Loved it didn’t you?


I am a God. But Gods get lonely too. Gods have plenty of self loathing. Why do you think the first part of the Bible is filled with God striking out at others? You think he had a few “personal issues?”

Damn. Another cliche’ and you’re STILL reading.

I have tried. I have tried to stop writing. But this demon possesses me. The demon even makes me hit send so my publisher gets it before I even think of hitting delete.

Stop it.

Stop it!

I can tell… you like my story, don’t you. You want to have my baby. You want your wife to have my baby. Put the damn book down. Turn off the computer. PLEASE!!! Have mercy, or I’ll put a gun to my head, eat Draino, take so many laxatives the only shit I will produce will keep pouring out until I wither like the Wicked Witch crying, “I’m shitting! I’m shitting! I’m…”


Oh, good.

I feel better.

Now… what was I writing?


©Copyright 2011
Ken Carman
all rights reserved


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