At the peak of its popularity, not even the most shameless travel agent would’ve described Barren Island as a thriving cultural hub. Automating the lighthouse at the turn of the millennium finally reduced the population to zero. Thanks to the decommissioning of the lighthouse at the dawn of the twenty twenties, there was no point in me waiting for a maintenance crew to rescue me.
Initially, I’d assumed that the consequences for losing two hundred kilos of the Calabrian mafias marijuana, in a boating accident, would be joining my yacht on the bottom of the ocean, with the aid of concrete boots. Instead, I was left stranded on Barren Island, the assumption being that I would starve to death if I didn’t die of thirst first.
I still cannot identify the fungus that grows in Barren Island’s tiny fertile oases. It is so unfamiliar to me that I’m not even certain that it is some kind of fungus. I couldn’t care less about that now though. I played the equivalent of Russian roulette with almost everything that grows on Barren Island and won. The guano, the rocks and the soil are the only things I haven’t deliberately tasted in my reckless quest for survival.
The highest price I paid for my gung-ho experimentation is a few hours of delirium. The vomiting and the diarrhoea didn’t last long. I made a careful note of what tastes good, what gave me visions of vampire smurfs swimming in the blood of pterodactyl gospel choirs and what left me feeling as mellow as the music of Miles Davis.
The dim-witted thugs, who left me stranded on Barren Island, obviously didn’t do their research. Although there is only one pond on the island that is much deeper than a puddle, staying hydrated proved to be easy. If the ephemeral streams converging on the pond had all dried up simultaneously it would have been a different story. Presumably, it is the water gushing into the pond from those streams that prevents algae from growing. Unlike most of the ponds on the island, the water in the deepest one isn’t guano flavoured either. I don’t know what keeps the birds away from it, but whatever it is it isn’t lethal to humans.
Occasionally, I was able to trap fish in the rock pools I could access without risking being swept into the ocean. Most of them were poisonous toad fish though. I successfully hunted a few birds with stones. But the bulk of my Barren Island diet was always seaweed, edible fungus and bitter tasting leaves.
After being marooned on Barren Island, hundreds of nautical miles from any hint of civilisation, I went from a portly 85kg to an emaciated 70kg. According to my reflection in the pond, my weight eventually stabilised. And my body adapted well to the small amount of food I was able to gather.
It never occurred to me that I would have the opportunity to write my story down, that it would ever be heard by anyone who’s incapable of long-distance telepathy, not until I saw a large yacht gliding across the cruel sea. It was the first vessel I’d seen since being left to die. The below deck portion was the size of a small mansion, but I was still astonished to see it somewhere as isolated as Barren Island. At first, I thought it might not sail within in earshot of me. It wasn’t long before I wondered if the crew had seen me before I saw them though.
I wasn’t certain I had been spotted, so I climbed to the top of the highest of the three hills on the island, removed the tattered remains of my flannelette shirt and waved it around like I was attempting to generate a hurricane. The yacht, with Gulliver emblazoned on its side, continued to glide closer. Eventually, a lifesaving device, connected to a sturdy rope, was flung into the only bay on the miniscule coast. It’s entrance was too small for anything larger than a kayak, so maybe rock pool is a more apt description than bay.
I made my way to the shore as swiftly as I could without risking losing my footing and toppling into the ocean. Cautiously, I waded into the shallow bay, or deep rock pool, and inserted myself in the lifesaving ring. I didn’t have any shoes, and the shells of the oysters clinging to the rocks were razor sharp.
I soon discovered that there weren’t any men onboard Gulliver, and that the all-female crew preferred to swim topless in the swimming pool and jacuzzi built into the bow. Sometimes they swam naked. I hadn’t seen a woman for three months. It was longer since any of them had seen a man.
Never in my life have I been as popular as I was during the journey from Barren Island to Port Louis, the capital of Mauritius. Lucy, the most androgynous member of the crew, shared her clothes with me, and a whole lot more. I can’t say that Joanne, Nicole, Angela, Melissa, Melanie, Megan, or Jane have inhibition in their vocabulary either. I don’t have fantasies anymore, just realities.
Staying in touch with the all-female crew of Gulliver would have been a terrible idea though. What an extraordinary coincidence it was that some of them turned out to be the ex-wives of the thugs who had marooned me on Barren Island. The others were their new fiancées. That adds a whole new dimension to the importance of keeping a low profile doesn’t it. Since being rescued from Barren Island, I have been moving more often than Edward Snowden.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Category: Creative Writing
The Contradiction
You are one of the most self-contradictory phenomenons in the universe; a self-proclaimed proponent of political neutrality, who turns conversations political and then declares them over for being too controversial.
You’re as ironic as that firefighter who loves saving priceless artifacts from being incinerated. The one who set the museum alight. You’re reminiscent of that surf life saver, who saved all those tourists from drowning. I’m talking about the fellow who likes to put the flags in front of whirlpools. That police officer who starts brawls so he can shut down nightclubs for being too violent can’t compete with you. Some say the paramedic who injected the homeless with heroine, so he could save people from overdoses, is more notorious. The former President of the Chastity Society, who starred in Turkey Harem Parts 1-15, to warn people against the dangers of zoophilia, is probably more prominent in the tabloids than you.
You’re not a hypocrite you say? Yes, I know, your denial makes so much sense, just like those liquid free beverages. No, no, no, not the frozen ones. I’m talking about those drinks that make titanium look like jelly. You should get the gold medal for plausible denial. It’s a close contest though. That serial killing pacifist is the favourite in some peoples eyes. And the man who wants to improve safety standards in cliff diving, by removing all that dreadful water, is hard to beat.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
I’m Outta Here
This is the summary of my summary.
In summation, I can’t say it’s summery.
This is no time for Christmas carols Carol.
It’s time to hit you with both barrels Carol.
Come again, you wonder what’s the matter?
Every matter’s soaked in your fecal splatter.
You have distorted all the issues from A to Z
From Mongolia to Anatolia your rep is dead.
Carol, I believe that it’s time you hit pause.
None of your loopy lies are gettin applause.
The dog who said covid killed the dinosaurs
has less nonsense oozing out his paws and pores.
Painting your turds gold has gotten too old.
Where’s a mold big enough to hide your mold?
Which universe has a galaxy with enough LPG
to fuel your ultramarathon gaslighting spree?
LPG: Liquid Petroleum Gas
LPG: Ludicrously Preposterous Garbage
LPG: Lies Propaganda ?
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Don’t
Don’t climb, you might lose your grip. Don’t run, you might fall over. Don’t walk, you could get sore feet. Don’t go swimming. What if there’s a sudden storm? You might get electrocuted. Don’t drink water, it could be polluted, and the same goes for breathing, you reckless fool, anything could be in that air. Don’t talk about politics, or spirituality, or atheism, you might have an argument. Forget discussing history or current affairs, it could turn political. Restrict everything, because the good is never thrown out with the bad. How is your heavily censored writers group faring? Are you enjoying all those profound discussions about the merits of polka dots versus stripes? Be careful, some of those patterns are reminiscent of controversial flags. Next thing you know, there will be duels at ten paces, and you’ll be blowing off each other’s faces. Don’t let people say whatever they like. Things could get out of control. It barely took more than thirty years for a political crusader to act as nasty as Darth Vader. You might have to expel someone else before the end of the decade.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
The Altruistic Billionaire
Alicia Gray was only twenty-three years old, but she had already interviewed dozens of major celebrities. The subject of her next interview, best-selling novelist Jeremy Sorbonne, was renowned for making outrageous statements when people least expected it. Alicia was sure that the time she’d spent working on building sites, before she went to university, would render her immune to his most debauched remarks. She was barely nervous at all, as she rode the lift to Sorbonne’s modest sized unit.
Jeremy Sorbonne owned the penthouse. Its balcony was as broad as a suburban backyard, yet he chose to live on the floor below in a modest sized apartment. Sorbonne had never been one to flaunt his wealth. Unlike most billionaires, he didn’t have servants to answer the door for him. The security personnel in the apartment complex lobby were his only line of defence against overzealous fans and political enemies.
“Come in gorgeous, come in” Sorbonne gestured towards his lounge suite down the hallway. Alicia had heard that he called ugly people gorgeous to be playfully sarcastic, nice people gorgeous to pay homage to their inner light and pretty women gorgeous whether he wished to take them to bed, or he simply felt as cheeky as the palace fool. Sorbonne could act as well as he could write, so he was notoriously difficult to read. Alicia had the feeling that he had no intention of being opaque with her though.
The prize-winning author was dressed in jogging shorts and a singlet. The latest in running shoe technology hugged his feet. Apparently, he’d been working out on his treadmill. Its electricity supply was supplemented by an exercise bike. Some of the weights lining the walls of his spare bedroom gym looked like they might be difficult to roll across the floor, let alone lift. Sorbonne wasn’t bulky, but his physique was as chiselled as a comic book hero’s nonethless.
Unlike some of the celebrities Alicia had conducted hard hitting interviews with for the left leaning Waves Magazine, Sorbonne’s balcony wasn’t big enough to feature a swimming pool. Potted fruit trees lined the glass wall. Above them, was an awe-inspiring view of an azure sea. The loungeroom was his office. His ergonomic desk and chair dominated the centre of the room. An antique upright piano sat where one would expect to find a television cabinet. It all blended well with a bookcase old enough to have belonged to Lord Byron.
“Have a seat darling. You look like you’ve been out in the scorching heat for an eternity. What’s your cure for that, a towering glass of ice water or something sweeter?”
“On hot, steamy afternoons, like this one, soda water with slices of lemon and lime and crushed ice is my favourite drink.”
“You’re lucky I’ve got a slushy blender. Any sugar with that refreshing concoction?”
“No thanks”
“You’re sweet enough already, I’m sure.”
“Is it alright if we get started while you’re making that drink?” Alicia replied, ignoring Sorbonne’s brazen flirting. His phone was ringing, but he didn’t appear to hear it.
“A go-getter aye. Give it to me girl.” Alicia couldn’t help but giggle at the famous author’s unselfconscious, carefree banter. She had heard that he was normally a quiet and introspective man. That may have been so, but he certainly wasn’t shy. Sorbonne took his time slicing the lemon and lime. He looked lost in a wonderful daydream as he poured newly crushed ice from his blender into the mix.
“Before we get to the serious questions, what are you thinking right now?”
“The sight of this drink got me thinking about a swimming pool and you dressed in a floral bikini diving right in.”
“You don’t always have your filter switched on do you Mr Sorbonne?”
“No, not really, I’d much rather talk about your bikini top falling off and getting stuck in the filter of my fantastical swimming pool than switch my filter on. You did ask me what I was thinking, did you not? That can be a risky question girl.”
“Do you normally flirt so openly when being interviewed by young women?”
“Only the ones that can’t help but look at me like they’ve never seen a man before. Normally, I’m the quintessential gentleman, but for you I’m making an exception. How could I not? I’ve never been big on filters. Filters are for people with something to hide babe. By the way, I resent the idea that asking me what I’m thinking isn’t a serious question. All my thoughts are serious, whether we’re talking serious business or serious fun.”
“I’m going to shift to my idea of a serious question now Mr Sorbonne.
“You can call me Jeremy, if you like darling.”
“Jeremy, are you concerned about the link between excessive consumption and environmental degradation? It’s a two-part question. Would you agree that the worst offenders, as far as trashing the environment through excessive consumption is concerned, tend to acquire their wealth through the exploitation of the poor?
“Oh, I know where this is going. I’m not one of those evil billionaires sitting on their private island throne, stroking a prize peacock with priceless stolen jewels cloistered in its cloaca. I don’t make my money from paying malnourished people two dollars an hour to work sixteen-hour days. I’ve checked, all the Sorbonne merchandising is as fair trade as Oxfam. I bet you’ve checked too. I have a friend that underpays and over works his staff. Nobody ever mentions how he lets them have Sunday off once a month. Journalists always want to focus on the negatives. He’s as persecuted as Jesus.”
“Obviously, you’re joking. You are joking, aren’t you? You’re so good at looking deadly serious whether you are or not. One Sunday off per month doesn’t sound like much of a positive.”
“I’m much more generous than that miser. The people who work for me have every Sunday off. To tell the truth, the staff at Sorbonnecorp usually have their entire weekend free. And I’m as generous with my money as I am with their work/life balance. I’m much more philanthropical than Oprah ever will be.”
“That said, I’m not claiming to have taken a vow of poverty. My ocean view is magnificent, and masterpieces decorate my walls, but the dimensions of my home are humble enough. It’s just a three-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms. Admittedly, it wasn’t Davo the tiler that laid that elegant mosaic on the balcony. And that’s not department store carpet either. The carpet I walk is fit for a Pharoah. It’s as lush as a meadow beneath my feet. And my antique furniture is as pleasing to the eye as the sculpture gardens in heaven. It’s as comfortable as beautiful too; rather like you, I think.
Are you hitting on me?
“It’s just a compliment darling, don’t get carried away like a raft in white water. Are you a fan of white water Miss Grey? Do manly rapids get you going? It’s alright, you can answer, it’s strictly a canoeing question” Sorbonne assured her.
“Yes, I like canoeing. Moving on now, why should all these exquisite, extraordinarily expensive things around us be owned by you and you alone while there are people in the world who struggle to find a milk crate to sit on, or a battered second-hand mattrass to lie on?”
“First of all, I’ve bought plenty of mattrasses for the needy in my time and delivered hundreds of them myself. You ask how I justify owning these beautiful things? Most of what you see before you is wonderful art. Whether we’re talking about this lounge sweet, the bookcase or that painting of a molten clock I bought the other day, it’s vitally important to preserve it. How would the craftsman who made my bookcase feel if he learned it was no longer overladen with learning? How would the man who made my loungesuite feel if he found out that nobody sits in it anymore? Wouldn’t that render it as useless as a trail bike collecting dust in someone’s garage? If you disagree, feel free to sit on the floor baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
“You love it. You wish you didn’t, but you do.”
“Your Rolls Royce, isn’t that an unnecessary extravagance?”
“I sold it a month ago and gave the money to my favourite suicide prevention charity. That car appreciated in value just because my saintly arse was in the driver’s seat for a bit. The sedan I drive now isn’t as prestigious as reliable. I’m planning to get a new one as soon as the warranty runs out, but I’ve never had more than one car at a time. I’m not a shopping addict like my friend Elton. Don’t you have two cars darling?” Alicia would have said don’t call me darling, but she didn’t want to get bogged down in an interview etiquette debate.
“I drive two cars Jeremy, but I don’t own two, the one in the carpark beneath this building is owned by the magazine.”
“Does anyone else drive it? Your silence tells me no. Isn’t that like owning two cars?”
“I need my personal vehicle to take my younger sister to dancing lessons and my little brother to football practice etc. I’m not allowed to use the company vehicle for that.”
“Relax baby, I’m just teasing. Shall we continue? You keep being the hard-hitting socialist journalist. I’ll keep being the suave, sophisticated, billionaire author whose hobbies include, philanthropy, generosity and saving the world. Being the guy, whose best-selling novel outsold the entire Harry Potter series, feels a hell of a lot better than owning too many cars or houses. I’m no twenty first century Karl Marx, but I’m not Milton Friedman either.”
“You talk as though this apartment is your only home, but don’t you own literally hundreds of properties?”
“That is sort of true. Technically, I own one hundred and eighty-six properties with a combined value of approximately two point four billion American dollars. I’m not your typical landlord though. Some of the farms, apartments and houses in my property portfolio are lived in almost rent free by struggling writers, painters, musicians, sculptors, dancers, magicians, teachers, nurses and medical students. I never charge the market rate. Some say I’m guilty of being too much of a patron of the arts and not supporting education and healthcare enough. Maybe they’re right, but I do support a few public hospitals, schools and homeless shelters though.”
“Can you recall all of your major assets?”
“From my mansions, to the brand and colour of my spare toothbrushes, I can describe all of my belongings. It’s easier than recalling the details of my shortest book.”
“You would have me believe that you’re far more philanthropical than your lifestyle is extravagant and wasteful, but aren’t you a jetsetter between your various residences? How do you reconcile the burning of so much aviation fuel with your claims of being environmentally responsible?”
“You have an exaggerated idea of my travel schedule Miss Gray. I’m too busy writing to spend much time in planes. Perhaps you are unaware that, unlike some people in my financial position, I don’t have a private jet waiting for me at the nearest airport, with a pilot and a team of mechanics on retainer. I could if I wanted to. I’m one of the few people in the world that could choose to shower themselves in such opulence. Most people will never be burdened by that choice. I have travelled business class, on long haul flights, a few times, but I’ve never travelled first class, not once. I don’t need a hotel room at ten thousand metres to arrive on the tarmac refreshed.”
“Occasionally, I need to duck across the Tasman for book launches. Whenever I go to New Zealand, or somewhere else nearby, I always travel cattle class. It’s unusual to see me in a chauffeur driven limousine too, you’re more likely to find yourself seated next to me on the bus. One needs to speak with regular people to keep a grip on reality, I think.”
“Earlier, you mentioned the importance of wonderful art not going to waste. Wouldn’t the priceless paintings on your walls and your aristocratic furniture etc benefit society more if it was in a museum?”
“Yes, to some extent, but not as much so as you seem to believe. Although I spend eighty plus hours a week writing and researching, for fifty weeks a year, year in and year out, it’s not just me, a few celebrities and other close personal friends of mine that that bask in the wonders of my abode when this introvert puts on his party hat.”
“A lot of people say you’re an introvert, but how true is that?”
“How many extroverts, or ambiverts for that matter, do you know who spend eighty plus hours a week behind a desk writing with their phone on silent?”
“Don’t you have research assistants to help you give your stories their extraordinary realism?”
“Yes, but I don’t blindly accept their conclusions. My assistants don’t exactly do my research for me, it’s more accurate to say that they smooth the path. I still walk it. There are times when it’s important for me to communicate directly with historians, sociologists, anthropologists, ecologists, climatologists and all the other ologists whose academic papers my assistants expertly select and summarise for me.”
“What was I saying before I started going on about research? Oh, that’s right, I was talking about how a lot of people get to see this place. I hang out with some A Plus celebrities, it’s true, but I can guarantee you, that you’ve never heard of most of the creatives that enter my domain. Many of them are currently no names battling to escape the drudgery of meaningless nine to five jobs. I sponsor the brilliant ones. I give books about the creative process to the moderately talented ones. And I play billiards with most of them.”
“Marilyn Bolt from the Great Southern Land Gazette accused you of buying friends and influence in the arts world, do you have anything to say in response to that?”
“Not a lot besides mentioning that I’ve had the misfortune of hearing that guy sing karaoke once. Normally, when a journalist assaults my ears with that kind of caterwauling, I like to say stick to writing, but in the case of that hack a different retort is in order. Marilyn Bolt had a go did he? If I was wealthier than Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos and Mark Zuckerberg combined, I wouldn’t dream of buying that skunk a beer to keep him on side. I shouldn’t insult skunks like that. He’s not a skunk, he’s not even a skunk’s arsehole. I wouldn’t waste dead fly infested dregs on that semi-literate loser. I am supportive of fellow creatives, who I believe deserve my help, but my writing speaks for itself, I don’t need to curry favour with anyone. Talk about a textbook case of projection Marilyn. His boss Sir Richard Mordor can go fuck himself too. Feel free to print that in full.”
“A little while ago, I was telling you about how I like to play billiards with up-and-coming creatives. I didn’t get around to mentioning how I commissioned a talented young carpenter to fashion a lid for my Victorian era billiards table so it can double as a dining table. Look how seamlessly the new blends with the old. Isn’t it wonderful. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to find an entirely original piece like that which predates Edwardian times.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever delved deeply into the history of furniture before, but it sounds fascinating.”
“It is.”
Are you able to play that beautiful upright piano that sits where a television would in a regular home?”
“You think I bought that beautiful instrument just so I don’t have to leave home to listen to Billy Joel and Elton John tinkling the ivories in search of their next recording?
“You make it sound as though they pop over most afternoons. How often do they visit you?”
“These days just a couple of times a year unfortunately. When I lived in London for half the year and New York for the other half, I saw them more often. You wanted to know if I can actually play the piano. I stumble my way through most classical pieces, except for the simplified versions, but I can learn to play pop tunes quicker than the average hack. There’s rhythm in these fingers baby. I don’t get too close to anything with strings attached, but I do alright when it comes to keys and drums. In most realms of my life, I’m good at finding the keys and drumming up support for just about anything. While I’m seated at the piano or the drums, I’m less persuasive. They’re not just there for decoration though Miss Gray.”
“How do you get away with playing the drums in an apartment?”
“I invested a lot of money in sound proofing for the second bedroom, more money than most people are willing to spend on a new car, but don’t tell anyone” Sorbonne said with a conspiratory wink. Once again, Alicia wasn’t sure if the poker faced author was joking or not.
“Earlier, we were discussing air travel. Can we return to that topic now please.”
“You don’t give up do you.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if people avoided air travel, whenever reasonably possible, until fully electric passenger planes are capable of long-haul flights?”
“Fully electric long haul passenger flights aye? They’re nearer to the horizon than laser beams concentrated enough to use as weapons, I suppose. I might still need to be cryogenically frozen like Austin Powers to shorten the wait for them though. Did you know that international man of mystery’s powers of seduction are nothing compared to mine? Have you stumbled upon that fact in your research? You don’t want to know about that though do you, you just want to talk about the responsible use of resources, carry on.”
Alicia couldn’t help but burst into laughter, but she was laughing with her interviewee, not at him like the dominant side of her personality wished to. After she’d finished wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes, she continued the interview.
“Some reviewers say that you have written surprisingly few books, that you’re too much of a perfectionist to write an epic novel every year, year in and year out for decades.”
“You make me sound so old when you say that. You know I’m closer to thirty than forty don’t you? This face is not a mountain range yet, it’s still the Nullarbor Plain. This my darling is the moment where you’re supposed to chime in and say ‘The Nullarbor Plain Jeremy, what do you mean? You’re anything but plain.”
“Shall we return to the topic of your books Mr Sorbonne?”
“As long as we can take the scenic route and hold hands along the way, I’m happy to put aside my good looks and talk about my books.”
“Where are we going exactly?”
“Just to the balcony and back. My GP advises against sitting still for too long. I’m just following his medical advice that’s all. Shall we oxygenate our brains together? Does that sound nerdy enough for you Miss Gray? You are coming with me aren’t you Alicia?” Sorbonne held out his hand as though it was more of a statement than a question.
Alicia gripped Sorbonne’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t a dinner plate mocking, earth moving equipment rivalling mechanism, reminiscent of the hands the heavyweight UFC fighter Alicia once interviewed. Sorbonne’s hands, it seemed, had been designed for a standard sized QWERTY keyboard. They weren’t much bigger than hers, but despite their modest size, they looked just as capable of crushing a stone as cradling a butterfly. Although she didn’t normally hold hands with the subjects of her interviews, Alicia kept reminding herself that there was nothing untoward happening. This situation is no more intimate than a line dancing class, she silently repeated to herself.
As they stood gazing at the ocean, Sorbonne casually interlaced his fingers with hers and caressed her hand soothingly. It felt far too good for her to think about objecting. Thoughts of his hands migrating to her thighs and beyond bubbled to the surface. Banishing them proved to be impossible. Sorbonne’s phone was ringing again, and once again he ignored it. Alicia wondered why he didn’t just switch it off.
“Shall we continue the interview.” Sorbonne finally said.
Alicia was glad that the recording app on her phone was still running. Her concentration was as broken as an egg dropped from the roof of the Empire State Building. She composed herself and asked another question.
“Jeremy, there is no doubt that some of your novels and short story collections have been read and re-read by literally hundreds of millions of people, yet every eighteen months of so tens of millions of readers still find the the money and the time to read your latest masterpiece. There are literally millions of in depth amateur reviews online to prove it. The novella you wrote during the school holidays, when you were only sixteen years old, has been turned into a Broadway musical. Several of your other books have been adapted to the silver screen.”
“Why do I have the feeling that your speech isn’t going to conclude in the fan girl manner it started?”
Suddenly, Alicia badly needed another lemon and lime soda water.
“I’ll get you another drink” Sorbonne promised. How did he know she was thirsty? What gave that away? And how could he be so sure that her next question wasn’t a flattering one, despite the lead up? He was right of course. Alicia was beginning to feel like her mind was as transparent as a glass box. She found it impossible not to stare at Sorbonne’s athletic form while his head was turned. Jeremy Sorbonne wasn’t a noted sportsman, yet he looked like an Olympic middle-distance runner. He pulled out his phone and hastily checked his messages. He replied to one of them. His fingers danced over the electronic keyboard with impossible speed.
Before Alicia could avert her gaze, the cheeky author was looking right at her, responding to her dilated pupils with an impish grin. Thoughts of his lips upon hers and his strong hands taking all sorts of liberties flooded her mind. She had checked in the mirror before she left home to make sure her purple lace bra was invisible beneath her lilac silk blouse, she’d checked several times, but to no avail. Despite her elegant, businesslike outfit she was starting to feel as naked as a burlesque performer in the final moments of their act. For the first time, Alicia stammered as she continued her line of questioning.
“There-there is an extraordinary amount of merchandising associated with your stories, everything from toys to t-shirts to colouring in books to 3D printed garden gnomes.” she said between sips of icy lemon and lime soda water. Alicia continued “you’ve written everything from award winning children’s stories to epic novels more popular than Steven King’s most famous work and more beautifully crafted than Hemmingway’s finest efforts. Do you see yourself as an advocate of fast fashion and the billions of dollars’ worth of other unnecessary peripheral products that your writing has inspired?”
“To be honest, I do think that the merchandising dragon is out of control, but that monster can’t be slain now. It treats spears like splinters. I believe I am influencing it for the better though. I’m not simply letting it run rampant. Having said that, as influential as I am, it’s not like the merchandising dragon is prepared to sit and roll over upon my say so. I won’t say I’m just the writer, but I can’t be the marketing people, the accountants, the entire board and all the investors too. The situation isn’t perfect, but at least I’m not shutting my eyes to it all and letting other people represent my work however they like. There are more than enough third rate book reviewers out there wilfully misrepresenting my work, so I do the best I can to stop merchandisers from doing it too.”
“As important as the accurate representation of your characters is, the focus of my question is the tonnes of plastic etc that goes into manufacturing more toys than the children in wealthier nations could possibly ever need. Unfortunately, the bulk of it ends up in landfill, instead of being passed to the next generation, because there is a new range of toys and ornaments etc coming out every year.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distort your question Miss Gray. I’m a passionate advocate of upcycling and recycling. I’ve invested a considerable amount of money in scaling up the manufacture of biodegradable plastic. Sorbonnecorp is doing better with the transition to environmentally friendly products than most companies that sell affordable toys and ornaments. There is still a long way to go of course. I am among those who are increasing their wealth through excessive consumption, but at least I’m diverting literally billions of dollars of that wealth into worthy causes, including recycling. There is only so much I can do though Miss Gray. I can’t be the puppet master of the millions who are too thoughtless to take their preloved goods to their local opportunity shop instead of putting them in the trash.”
“Moving away from waste management issues now. Do you think it was a mistake to allow so many of your books to be converted into movies?”
“Yes and no. I am not just a fan of the written word. I celebrate all the arts, books, movies, live theatre, the lot.”
“There was one question regarding merchandising that I forgot to put to you earlier. I must warn you, it is rather provocative. Isn’t excessive consumerism a drug of sorts, a psychological drug and aren’t those most responsible for building a culture of consumerism somewhat analogous to dealers of illegal illicit substances?”
“Whoa, that question sure is a little more provocative than the earlier ones darling. You forgot to ask it did you. Are you sure you weren’t just trying to lull me into a false sense of security before firing that one at me? You were trying to set me up for a sucker punch, I bet. I have a question for you Miss Gray. Do you think that everyone who buys a printed copy of that monthly magazine you work for has time to even skim through it? No doubt, some potential readers get their dopamine hit when they first see the cover of Waves Magazines. Then it sits on their coffee table for a while, slowly getting buried beneath the magazines they actually get around to reading, before being flung into the recycling bin, or the trash.”
“Just one more question sir.”
“It’s sir now is it. You don’t know whether to berate me or fellate me.” Alicia was dumbstruck. A heady concoction of outrage and desire left her reeling. She didn’t know whether to storm out in protest or grab one of the velvet cushions from Sorbonne’s lounge sweet and get on her knees.
“Don’t get too worked up darling. I’m still in my interviewee chair. I haven’t exactly tucked you under my arm and carried you to the bedroom or the kitchen bench, at least not yet anyway.” If virtually anyone else had spoken to her like that, Alicia would have immediately stood and briskly headed for the door, but instead she was battling to avoid squirming in excitement.
“What was your question darling? Most of the people who interview me ask me how much tax I pay. Is that it?” It was a predictable question, but not everyone Alicia interviewed was sharp enough to see it coming. She didn’t say anything she just let Sorbonne continue.
“I’m not going to tell you precisely how much tax I pay, but I’m prepared to reveal that it’s always tens of millions of dollars more than Donald Trump has ever paid in one financial year. I’m not into tax avoidance. I love contributing to public roads, hospitals, schools, libraries and sporting complexes etc without cutting ribbons and handing over novelty cheques. Paying enough tax means contributing to society without being dragged away from my word processor. Giving a speech at a charity dinner was cool the first few times times. Usually, I’d rather just pay enough tax and donate online than do all that self promotional bullshit though. Over the past decade, I’ve paid more tax than the amount of revenue that globally renowned magazine you work for has generated. Is the ballpark I’ve sketched for you small enough?”
“Alicia was out of words; all she could think about was Jeremy Sorbonne tucking her petite form under his arm or over his shoulder and carrying her to wherever he wished to undress her. Presumably, he would do so agonisingly slowly. She couldn’t imagine him rushing under any circumstances, not unless he was fighting a fire or tackling a terrorist.”
“Would you like another lemon and lime soda water? You’re trembling, so perhaps you would like a splash of vodka and a little sugar in it this time? You pour, I can’t have you thinking I’m trying to get you drunk. Perhaps it’s a massage and not a beverage that your frazzled nerves are pining after.”
Alicia found herself leaning towards Jeremy Sorbonne without consciously deciding to. His touch felt more expert than that of any massage therapist she could recall. He kneaded the tension from her back as easily as a lesser mortal could’ve squeezed the excess water from a sponge. Then he worked on her scalp, face and arms.
“While I was studying for my doctorate in creative writing and my masters in English literature at Oxford, I worked part time as a massage therapist. I started as the secretary and was trained on the job” Sorbonne explained. “How about I get some massage oil and a towel so I can do this properly? Would, you like to remove your trousers and your blouse so that I can access your legs and stomach? I want you walking out of here feeling like you’ve just returned from the most peaceful meditation retreat in the known universe. Nothing less is good enough for my favourite Waves Magazine journalist” Sorbonne crooned.
His fingers glided from Alicia’s feet to her thighs with the aid of a liberal splash of lavendar oil. He went tantalisingly close to brushing against the edges of her purple lace panties. Sorbonne was just as disciplined in his soothing of Alicia’s pectoral muscles, which ached from too much swimming and driving. What had happened to the man who mentioned wild sex as casually as one might speak of the weather? She waited in vain for him to slide his hands beneath the cups of her brassiere.
Alicia’s heavenly gaze turned to a miserable frown when her interviewee turned massage therapist informed her that it was time for her to get dressed. She was a storm of ambivalence. She hadn’t known it was possible to simultaneously feel so humiliated by the disintegration of her professionalism and so thrilled by her capitulation. How had she succumbed to the wiles of such a rude and arrogant man? How did he manage to talk to her the way he did and leave her silently pleading for more? Why hadn’t he made wild, passionate love to her yet? Sorbonne’s shifting of gears from bombastic Casanova to a genteel massage therapist was the definition of inexplicable. It was all so bewildering.
“Your interview seems unfinished. Feel free to come back tomorrow with more questions. Any time after six in the evening is fine. I’ll have packed away my laptop and my old-fashioned notepads by then.”
Less than twenty-four hours later, Alicia found herself knocking on Jeremy Sorbonne’s door once more. This time, her hair wasn’t tied into a businesslike bun. Neither was she dressed in a lavender silk blouse, tailored navy-blue slacks and sensible office shoes. Part of her still wanted to look like editor in chief material, but the yearning to be ravished by the world’s best-selling author trumped every other consideration. As Churchill might say, Alicia’s black velvet dress was like a good article, short enough to create interest and long enough to cover the subject. Normally, a hint of cleavage was enough to make Alicia feel like a naked woman in a crowded church. That night she wasn’t remotely uncomfortable about her creamy breasts peeking out of her shy floral silk brassiere. Her legs trembled from anticipation as she heard Sorbonne’s footsteps in the hallway.
“You look frightened. Tell me what it is you wish to say. There is no judgment here” Sorbonne soothed as they sat beside each other on his exquisite antique lounge suite.
“I was wondering who was on the throne when your bed was born from a tree in a royal forest.”
“I see, you’re here to continue our discussion about the history of furniture, of course you are. Come, explore history with me in the master bedroom. Maybe, while we’re there, I can teach you to talk like a bad girl. You won’t go to hell for it, I promise. If you overdo it, you might get a good spanking though.”
“Oh God.” Alicia muttered as Sorbonne tucked her under his arm and carried her to his king size bed.
“Never mind God, since when has that prude been dedicated to giving you pleasure? How about we forget that puritanical kill joy for a while” Sorbonne teased as he dumped his student of Earthly delights on to freshly laundered silk sheets. His trail of kisses was more epic than Magellan’s journey.
“Did I say you can take that off yet?” Sorbonne chided playfully as a frustrated Alicia began to slide her black velvet dress over her head. Sorbonne gave her the spanking he’d spoken of earlier, but not for uttering anything he would’ve refrained from writing in an erotic novel. He disciplined Alicia for her impatience. Fear and excitement intermingled as Alicia felt the sting of Sorbonne’s stern hand. Finally, he removed her dress. By the time she lay breathless beside him, he’d introduced her to acts she hadn’t even read about, every one of them more thrilling than the last. As Alicia lay in her favourite writer’s embrace, his phone began to vibrate on the bedside table, but he didn’t answer it.
As they stood on Sorbonne’s balcony, gazing at the sunset glazed Pacific, Alicia had never felt more relaxed and vibrant. They sipped absurdly expensive wine as mindfully as monks.
“You chardonnay socialist, you” the quality craving, best-selling author teased.
“I might have too many interview questions left to get through tonight. I haven’t asked you anything about the characters in your novels, or how you crafted the plots, yet.”
“Don’t worry, we can finalise the interview after breakfast tomorrow” Sorbonne said with a wink. “Oh, and by the way, that call that came through when we were recovering from our bedroom adventures, that was my accountant ringing to let me know that my purchase of Waves Magazine has been finalised. I found out via voice mail, while I was getting our drinks.”
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
Obscurityville
My WordPress stats look like the skyline
of a modest regional centre.
Anything less than New York frustrates.
Enough readers to fill an arena please.
Everyone from Hawaiian shirt wearers
in tricorn hats and neon gumboots,
to spiderman cosplayers scaling skyscapers.
Jeans and t-shirt sorts are welcome too.
I want all the readers. I want them all.
© Rodney Hunter, 2024
The Right Words
The void left by your wife’s death was threatening to consume you. What words could’ve blunted the blades of your misery? In the restaurant of my mind, cliched waitresses sauntered in with apologetic attitudes and platters of platitudes. Certainly nothing worth ordering. Their offerings made communion wafers seem as nourishing as the corpse of Christ in the eyes of a fine young cannibal.
Why did my mind go there? “Silence of the Lambs” was on TV, and The Fine Young Cannibals were on the radio, in the background, singing “She Drives Me Crazy.” If only it were her presence, not her absence, that promised to drive you crazy. What words might’ve helped you? I could have said “I’m sorry for your loss” but that would’ve felt as inadequate as stepping from a chauffeur driven limousine to offer a homeless man a slice of stale bread.
What words could I have uttered that would’ve done more good than a handgun versus hornets? In hindsight, I wish I’d said “you’re a resilient man. I hope your agony fades to a bearable ache surprisingly soon.” Would that have helped? I’m not sure, but I believe it would’ve been better than I’m sorry for your loss, you have my sympathy, everything happens for a reason, or it must have been part of God’s plan.
© Rodney Hunter, 2023
The Storystarter
You probably thought that Drew Barrymore’s character in The Firestarter was dangerous, but that was before you were introduced to The Storystarter.
After the troll ordered his pet tapeworm Tina to bite the ogre’s testicles off, things turned ugly.
The parasite bored through the former president’s skull. The thought of laying her eggs in his brain was a boring one. Someone had already done so. She wondered what kind of mother was willing to raise her children in such a barren landscape.
“It’s an optical illusion created by the microchip the government inserted into your cerebrum,” the flat Earther explained, after I asked him why we always saw the masts of the yachts first. It was the most plausible sounding nonsense I’d heard from him yet. Just last week he was telling me…
“Every intelligent person, who does their own research, knows that the reptilians would never let Earthlings land on the moon, not in 1969, not now and not in 2025 man,” said the man who does his own research.
“Shut up and kiss me darling” the George Costansa lookalike said to Tracy’s pet ostrich. That bold romantic gesture may not end well. The surgical team are still searching frantically for his tongue.
There’s no man in the moon tonight, not unless he’s wearing a mini-skirt and waving pom poms to cheer on the dawn.
The dragon sculpted a tap dancer from flames, and the xylophone its twinkling toes played.
“Is that mayonnaise, pimple pus, or something else splattered all over your ugly face, the man with a death wish asked the hypersensitive, homophobic bikie.
The gentle moonlight turned the giant’s teardrops into glistening billabongs.
The joy ridden hearse crashed into the crematorium.
Feel free to use my list of story starters to trigger your own ideas, that’s what I wrote them for. If you quote or paraphrase my work, make sure you acknowledge the source though.
© Rodney Hunter, 2023
The Abomination
Most people who have seen him naked are too busy dry retching to flee the scene immediately. A.I insists he’s human, but most humans can’t tell at first, and have trouble articulating why they can’t tell. None of his individual features mark him as zoological or extra-terrestrial, it’s something to do with the way they clash that puts his classification under a cloud of confusion.
Some people said he looks like the product of too many testosterone injections and decades of botched cosmetic surgery. Unless undergoing plastic surgery is literally all one has done for fifty years, I fail to see how they could end up looking like that. It is hard to say whether the eerie valley effect relates more to his features or his facial expressions. What bothers me the most is that his tongue looks like it might fall out every time he pokes it out in a disturbingly suggestive manner. The wound in the roots looks gangrenous. Even the stitching is rotting, not dissolving, rotting.
I don’t want to say too much about his genitals. They look a tad more like they belong to another species than his face does. Above all else they look dangerous, not impressive, just dangerous. My wife was more horrified by the comic strip on his chest. For reasons that aren’t apparent to me, it features Hitler and Stalin arguing over who gets to be the drill and who gets to be the oil well. Satan is looking on with a bucket of popcorn. It’s not clear to me whether that’s a series of homophobic slurs or merely symbolic of a power struggle.
I really need to get some fresh air. This sculpture exhibition is wreaking havoc with my mind, especially the robotic section. Me, and my fellow escapees look as relieved as refugees, drifting off to sleep at the airport, in a welcoming country.
© Rodney Hunter, 2023
Alan in Wonderland (2023 Edition)
In Wonderland,
landmarks breed such fascination
gridlock is a cause for celebration.
Billboards are a Bermuda Triangle experience.
Alan in Wonderland,
that Mecca of mayhem’s mayor,
swapped his party lights
for statues baring blue diamond teeth.
Their tongues blare stumbling tunes
about frog goblins billiard bars.
Those amphibians cue opals across moss.
Bird eating spiders repair the pockets
for a hatchling an hour.
It’s blowfly blood and colas all round.
Alan’s garage band evokes hysterics
in warlock fearing religious clerics.
Into honeymooners hot air balloons
his third person person lyrics climb,
accompanied by murdered drum kits
and a shrill demented wind chime.
“They say Alan smashes norms,
that dive bombing hornets perish
in his dandruff storms.
He loathes unoriginal sin.
Glow worms hide in his pyramid sideburns.
Rapunzel worships his chest dreadlocks.
His spinal Mohawk is a werewolf rainbow.
At Allan in Wonderland’s end of town,
Newton’s apple rarely comes down.
The security tower in the wave pool
is a hulking statue of Poseidon.
Mosaic Commandos abseil his abs
to explore the rumour a tile is loose.
Amidst such artistic experimentation
not all psychonauts last the duration.
In this place, rap stars don’t get shot,
and rock stars don’t die of overdoses,
they just embark on mystical journeys
and never return.
© Rodney Hunter, 2013
Psychedelic driver by Jeanne Menjoulet
Paris le marais
flickr.com/photos/jmenj/32831246413
Some rights are reserved, you must acknowledge the author, provide a link to the license, indicate if changes were made and not restrict others from doing anything the license permits. For further information use the link above.
In 2013, I uploaded a recording of Alan in Wonderland on YouTube under the name Dwite the Spright Knight. If you have a listen to that and think that doesn’t sound like “The Psychonaut,” or whatever he called himself in those days, you’re very observant, I didn’t record it, I just wrote it. The mesmerising voice you’re hearing belongs to the wonderful Linette Voller (youtube.com/watch?v=okhK0bjVm74)
The Surreal Art Psychonaut 