I don't want to jinx myself, or spread those negative vibes but the realist in me says that I'm so very, very far behind that I'm doomed.
The positive, shiny man living within my bosom reassures me that the whole event is an exercise geared toward starting your engine. Am I right?
Anyway, this extract hasn't been fully proof read, edited or structured so it's more of a lazy update to a blog project I might abandon at any moment!
What a treat, eh?
‘Roarrrrrrrrghhhhmmmmmmmmsfff,’ Stan Serep made a sound like a noisy lion eating toffee. He had had a tooth ache for a week and he was desperate for relief. Random sound and an argumentative demeanor was the twofold cure he’d prescribed for himself, for this day. He tried new things every day. It was better than following the advice of the local doc. The doctor in his village did not study teeth. He’d studied something like ‘Plant poultices, natural light and their interrelation’. His diploma cited it as evidence for competence in treating human ailments. The doctor had, when told by Stan of his explosive toothache, given him a poultice to apply at noon when the sun was highest and at night when the moon was brightest. The poultice, which if Stan was being honest tasted of seaweed and not much else, had so far helped very little. Even if Stan wasn’t as careful with the application times as he was told to be. He just didn’t see the point. Stan didn’t see the point in much these days apart from ‘berry.
He was sitting in his kitchen attempting to gum down some porridge without the gruel touching his gums or teeth. He was swallowing it fast and it was hot. It was likely he was scalding his eating passages quite thoroughly but as long as his tooth wouldn’t suffer the sticky, soft, excruciating substance he could deal with internal burns later.
His wife was watching him. Wide eyed and curious. You’d think she’d never seen a man with a toothache eat porridge so noisily before. At the best of times his wife, who cooked, cleaned and tended to his rare sexual whims was a necessary evil. Like soap. You might need it and, to be sure it proved useful at times but for the most part it was something you needed because everyone else used it and other people would ‘smell something fishy’ if you avoided it. The dependence was limiting and cloying. Stan wasn’t a bright man though and he hadn’t thought of an alternative.
He took his tooth pain and his inability to think of creative solutions to problems out on her. “Why in berry’s name do you keep looking at me when I’m in pain and trying to eat this muck you cooked for me? It’s like a two pronged attack on my dignity woman!”
Sybil ignored his attempt to start a lovely, distractive fight. “Why don’t you talk to the tree in the garden?”
He’d mentioned his pain to his wife when it was just an itty bitty thing, something novel he could complain about. She’d suggested ablution to the spirits. His wife, bless her, had a staunch belief in the Shamans of old. This could be attributed to the time she’d begged a tree in their back garden for financial help and won the district lottery the very next day. She swore the tree had whispered back to her and thanked her for the spicy ghoulash she’d brought to smear over it’s branches.
Sometimes Stan worried about Sybil Serep. Everyone knew the Shaman were either made up entirely or exaggerated showmen from ages past. They were in either case impractical solutions for his toothache.
“But why talk to the middle man?!” Stan exclaimed with caustic emphais, “I can just ask the spoon here - everyone knows the spoon is the direct source of shamanistic energy. The tree is just the seed that grew from a seed and together they make a ton of spoons.”
He stooped low over the table and eyed his porridge crusted spoon, “Hello spoon,” he lowered his voice in mock-reverence for this deified piece of cutlery, “I don’t suppose you could cure my toothache could you O’ Mighty Spoon. I will forever be in your debt and will wash you in the liquid milked from holy cows and unspoiled virginal teats.”
His wife screwed up her race, “You should try. It worked for me. Being a smartypants about it won’t help you in any way shape or form. I’m going to wash up.”
Stan put his head in his arms on top of the table and blotted out all light. Hidden in his arm-cave he could pretend his wife had risen to his bait and they were blissfully arguing up a storm. He tried it for a spell, using a lower voice than normal for himself and a high pitched sing-song voice for his wife, “Stan how dare you mock the lord spoon almighty. I’ll do what I want woman. You’ll do what’s expected of you - how long have you been off work now? How can a man harvest ‘berry when his tooth aches so? How can a woman respect her husband when he won’t provide for her. Bitch. Bastard. Berryspiller. Tree flirter!”
He raised his head in a wobble necked arc to stare at his wife’s behind as she tidied up. Damn women. Damn them and their shapely behinds. “Maybe I will see a shaman. Then it won’t work and then what will you do?”
“But darling it will work.”
He groaned.
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