Elivs of the Pen

Elvis of the Pen

 

As with any aspiring writer, he fed himself on coffee and daydreams, with the as yet untasted dessert of success.  Trips down red carpets and laughter-earning acceptance speeches dogged his train of thought like a playful puppy whose cuteness hadn’t yet become tiresome.  His pen flitted and spun in his hand sometimes reaching the dizzying frenzy of a drummer in a band.

 

The ideas were there, the expression was not beyond him, but his name wasn’t on the best seller list – for now.  As a diversion he flicked through the list of numbers on his cell-phone – and despite the endless scrolling he rapidly came to the conclusion that he didn’t want to talk with anyone.  Oh sure, he wanted to be heard, but heard on his terms and by more than just one person.  The masses should bathe in his wisdom, become hypnotised by his insight, and consider their lives immeasurably improved by the experience – in short, he wanted to be “The Elvis of the pen”.  He smiled at the thought, and wondered if anyone had ever started a story “and this one goes out to all you foxy young ladies out there…”.  He supposed not, or if they had, then they had 2nd, 3rd or 4th streams of income to fall back on.

 

The coffee was going down well, while the world continued on around him – stories on legs, some more interesting than others; experiences of sorrow and joy traversing the world seeking the next high, or at least trying to avoid the current low.  Ideas returned.  It always amazed him how out of shape people seemed to cling to sports labels – he wondered what the brand designers at Nike HQ would think of seeing their swoosh stretched beyond the limits of the fabric it adorned.  Perhaps they had changed their corporate theme to “Just don’t do it” without telling him.

 

Still, who was to deny these people their dreams of athletic glory; any less than his of written trips into the literary top ten – “uh, huh, huh – thank you vhery much.”

 

An idea was forming in his mind, something about 3 20-something males, with aspirations but not rich, (one was British, as it was necessary for the plot).  To counter the boredom the British guy devises a game called “Traffic Light” – an unsuspecting female is chosen at random by two of the three men for the third to say 3 things to her in just ten minutes: one nice, one neutral and one nasty – to match the Green, Amber and Red of a British traffic light.  The 3rd member has no say in who is chosen for him.  It could be a comedy, or it could be a drama – a social commentary on relations in the USA today.

 

Red carpets and acceptance speeches filled his thoughts yet again; but a sneeze followed by a coffee cup smashing on the floor brought him back to the here and now.

The End

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