Inside Madammé Flintchet’s Mind

As with last week’s post, this story “outline” (if you could even call it that) comes from many moons ago. How many moons, I’m not exactly sure. Circa 2010 or 2011, if I had to guess. It’s entirely ridiculous and nonsensical and not at all like the kind of thing I write these days– and I just had to share, for the sake of… posterity, I guess. It’s probably best not to question it. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy.

Madammé Flintchet’s Mind – A Tourist’s Guide 

Ageing spinster [Madammé Flintchet] owns her own home in which her middle-aged brother has a room, rent-free. He’s an aspiring comedian earning little-to-no money and always thinking up mad get-rich-quick schemes that never work out.

Francés (Madammé Flintchet) is a retired horticulture teacher who is often inspired with great ideas that come from nowhere – often while she’s about to drift off or wake up.

(Note to Self: comedic tone.

Alternative character names: Nora or Mildred or Millie)

One night, while giving her creaky headboard a thud to shut it up, [Francés] pauses. What did she just hear? It was just her tummy rumbling. Nothing to worry about. Although, she did internally note that there wasn’t the usual vibration to accompany such a rumble.

She muses about cat assassins while following a stray down the path/alley. [????]

One night, upon leaving her room – to ‘make use of the facilities’ as she puts it – she shot high off her feet, startled by her brother returning from a midnight kitchen raid.

SMACK!

She hadn’t noticed him until the words, “What’s the craic?” echoed in the darkness.

Told from the perspective of a ‘person’ working in her mind, on his tea break.

“Oh, look at the time! Must dash!”

“Suduko alert! All working braincells report for duty!”

“It’s been non-stop in here this morning!” etc.

Again, yes, this is indeed how it ends. I’m as baffled as anyone as to why I haven’t gotten a multi-million-dollar publishing deal yet. It must be those inexplicable cat assassins!

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

Travel Awkwardness

This evening, I’ve been clearing out some paperwork from my home office. So much of what I found was so old, I’d forgotten ever writing it. Alongside my long-abandoned novel, and a partial script for a random radio play, and drafted children’s book, and doodles for a Christian colouring book were six loose pages.

Two of the loose pages outline a story I will share here next week, and the other four (titled ‘Travel Awkwardness’) form what I’m guessing was supposed to become a blog post. Well, today, I’m going to make that blog post a reality, because it’s (in my opinion) so cringingly funny I just have to share. Below, therefore, is a direct transcription.

I travel fairly regularly – not very far most of the time, but usually just enough that I require a small wheeled suitcase. Other than a suitcase, though, I travel alone, and this comes with a few issues that couples or groups would never experience. Like, when sitting in an airport for a few hours – waiting for a flight, obviously – a common thing to do is to read and/or help yourself to a caffeinated beverage. This is fairly standard, regardless of who you’re with (/not with), but the difference is what happens after this period of sitting but before the period of getting up to sit in a big metal bird: one goes to the bathroom.

Going to the bathroom is not as simple as it sounds, for people with other people. But people without other people have to pack up everything and head to the bathroom with it for fear that it will be stolen (by security guards more likely than actual thieves).

People with people (PWP) can leave their caffeinated beverage half drunk, their magazine open on their table, their suitcase and their toddler behind them for a few brief moments alone to freshen up because – joy of joys – they have a minder.* Meanwhile, I’m getting strange looks reflected in my direction from the lucky “look, free hands!” woman standing by the mirror, taking her sweet time to fix her already perfect hair as I try to squeeze both myself and my case round a tiny cubicle door only to find that, now I’m in, the door won’t shut because me/my suitcase are in the way. Needless to say – it takes some manoeuvring.

As the perfect-haired PWP resumes her coffee/magazine/parenthood I am now faced with the problem of releasing myself [from the space] I’ve just spent the last seven minutes trying to get into. Typically, when I do get out, I discover that – due to the plane being “delayed for unforeseen circumstances” – my pre-flight preparation piss was in vain, as I’ve suddenly got two more hours to kill and will therefore no doubt have to complete the process two more times (a side-effect of all those time-killing caffeinated beverages).

Just recently, I was in Dublin – on my own, of course – and an odd thing happened:

Snoring in toilet.

Unknowledgeable fart.

(Yes, that’s really how it ends.

*There’s an asterisk here in my original notes, but no corresponding footnote. Absolutely no idea what I had been planning to clarify or elaborate on at the end. I was so very good at this!)

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

The Chocolate Scullery (Flash Fiction)

During the September meeting for Belfast Writers’ Group (which has finally got back together after its long hiatus!), we did a writing exercise in which we wrote something based on three prompts: the name a room, a luxurious material, and something that rots. Pictured above are the options I was handed, and below is what I made of them. Heads up, it’s about to get weird.

Dark chocolate wasn’t the material you often found rooms made out of, but this room – a scullery on the side of a cliff – was no ordinary room. It had three walls, half a roof, and only one other room attached to it: a kitchen.

Inside the scullery was a large dining table, also made out of dark chocolate. On it were three matching candlesticks made out of white chocolate, and a centrepiece of lard.

Having only three walls, there was no need for any windows, but it had six anyway. It was soon discovered after the room was built that if you didn’t keep air flowing inside, it would melt. Enclosure didn’t help with the dead body smell, either.

The source of the dead body smell was, as can be expected, a body. That was dead. It belonged to the owner of the adjoining rooms, a man in his fifteen-hundreds who didn’t like you to point out the smell or oddities of his dwelling, thank you very much.

All in all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

Some people (for, yes, there were frequent visitors) thought the fact that he was lactose intolerant was the weirdest thing but, nope, they were wrong too.

One day – a very hot day, in which half of the kitchen (which was made out of Philadelphia cream cheese) – fell into the sea and the dead body (let’s call him Jim) decided he’d had enough, and melted the chocolate scullery to the ground/rock face.

It got stuck, which made Jim even angrier, and the skulls didn’t like it much either.

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

Writing Through the Night

It’s 6.27am. I haven’t slept yet and, at this point, it’s unlikely that I will sleep before I head out to my last creative writing class for the [academic] year. I’m considering walking into the city centre instead of taking a bus. It’s the kind of mood I’m in.

One of the reasons I’m still up, aside from being an insomniac/nocturnal and having a criminally early class, is that I was writing a short story that’s been playing on my mind/heart for a while. It’s inspired by a conversation that happened in my aforementioned writing class. And it’s a story that, I think, could be developed further. It’s one that I’m tempted to turn into a short stage play. One that I’m considering having sequels to. I don’t know yet, and that’s okay. It’s not the point of the blog post.

I just wanted to say that, in times like these when I don’t have the time or energy to write much, writing is still what I come back to. It’s still what I love.

Perhaps it’s cliche, but I feel like there are so many stories in me. I want to write them all. And not even in the way of overworking myself that I’ve previously written about. I just mean that I am certain that telling stories – whether by poems, or plays, or novels – is what I want to devote my life to, ultimately. (Well, that and love, but that’s a different blog post.)

It is one of my sincerest goals to be considered prolific – to get as much down on paper in my lifetime as humanly possible. I don’t know if I’ve said that before or not, but it’s 6.38am and that’s what I’m thinking about.

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

My Name…

If you’ve known me since before university (when I made the change from Elaine to Ellie) or have seen that I have two different names listed on Facebook, you may be confused about what to call me. Here’s a breakdown:

Ellie Rose McKee – my pen name.

Elaine McKee – my birth name (note: no official middle name)

Lady Elaine McKee – what my legal name became after one of my best friends bought me a token title.

Lady Elaine Herron – updated legal name to reflect my new surname. Which is to say… I GOT MARRIED!!  🙂   😎  😆

I am, of course, deeply excited about this development and can’t wait to update all my official documents. But, all that said: please call me Ellie.

This has been a public service announcement 🙂

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

The Need for a PA

I’ve been stressed these past two days. Very stressed, actually, and it doesn’t help that I’m not feeling well. (When am I ever feeling well? I ask myself.) There’s a lot of unexpected paperwork needing done, and right now I feel like all of my energy is tied up in trying to be a human person. (No doubt other sufferers of depression will understand that one.) So I often think to myself how great it would be, to have a personal assistant. Except that’s not the real daydream. What I would really like? To be appointed as my own PA, which I guess I already am, but to have someone else live the life bits of life for me. I’ll do the book-keeping and business emails if someone else can keep the eating, sleeping, and social engagements going in a regular pattern. Deal?

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20

Words

Typography Design - wordsSometimes my head gets a little crowded, and I purge the excess words upon a page. And sometimes those words resonate with others, and that’s the start of something beautiful.

That’s what writing is about: connecting.

Sometimes you need to do it just to connect with yourself, and that’s cool, too, when it works.

Words are just pretty awesome, really.

fb-share-icon0
Tweet 581
fb-share-icon20