Okay folks, the final installment of my practise run. A little rough around the edges but I’m quite pleased with it. The point was to write something spontaneously, without all the months of planning that I usually put into a novel. Quite an experience, and I think I learned why I tend to plan stuff in so much detail: procrastination mainly, but also I need a plan so I have an ending. I’m not sure the Early Springer’s Book Club has an end; I think it might have just… stopped. What do you think?
Derek thought he was on a conveyor, one that was moving in the opposite direction to his feet. He was walking as fast as he could, and the school gates steadfastly refused to get any closer. His legs felt like lead, his eyelids drooped no matter how hard he tried to keep the open.
Eight times, he thought to himself. Eight times in one night. He yawned and his eyes watered. He had cramps, in both hands, and his Problem was quite sore.
‘My friend, you really need to lay off it for a couple of days.’
Tony Harrington-Speed fell in step beside him. ‘No what day it is today, Smithy old mate?’
Derek said that he had no idea.
‘Friday, sport; payday.’
‘“Spastic eyeballs”…’ Miss Dunbavin shook her head. ‘That is so unlike you.’
Derek carefully examined the graffiti etched into his desk. Rudi woz ere ’82.
‘I know Sophie can be a bit… forthright sometimes, but to see you round on her like that… What got into you?’
If your reading this your not listening to the teacher! He noticed the mistakes and wished he had a penknife so he could fix them. Miss Dunbavin walked around and perched herself on the desk in front. As she sat her blouse rustled and her pencil-thin skirt creaked under the strain. This wasn’t detention, it was torture. Derek dipped his nose closer to the desk and read feverishly on: Wot? No prospects? True in so many ways…
‘Are you even listening to me, Derek?’
She slipped one ankle behind the other. Her tights stretched thinly over her legs and Derek noticed she has a scar on her left kneecap, an imperfection that made her seem more human, more… accessible.
‘I’m listening, Miss. She started it.’ He still couldn’t look up. His Problem stirred and he was very afraid that if allowed his eyes to journey to her face, they’d stop and set up camp somewhere near her breasts. ‘She’s always picking on me! Everyone’s always picking on me!’ Continue reading “The Early Springer’s Book Club (Part 5)”