The wreckage lay in the sun. Twisted, charred and burned. Ticking and groaning as it cooled.
In Nevada the choppers scrambled. Men in black racing the locals to the scene.
Perimeter set, the clean up begins.
All of the evidence, both of the small grey bodies, removed.
To Area 51.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
Friday evening.
“But mum, it smells!”
“There’s no phone signal!”
I’ve got to walk all the way over there for the loo?”
“What if it rains?”
“What are we supposed to do now the tent’s up?”
“What do you mean we have to cook our own tea?”
“Can we go to the bar?”
Saturday morning.
“I didn’t get any sleep.”
“It’s too noisy, I was hearing things all night!”
“My sleeping bag is too uncomfortable.”
“My air bed is too soft!”
Where can I plug in my hair straighteners?”
“What are we supposed to be doing now?”
“Why can’t we just go home?”
Saturday afternoon.
“That was awesome!”
“Yeah, who knew how much fun the countryside could be?”
“I didn’t know you could ride a bike Mum!”
“I think the man at the hire shop fancied you Mum!”
“Wait ‘til I post my photos!”
“Let me see the one of the cute lambs again?”
“Can we bar b que for dinner?”
“Can I cook the burgers?”
“I’m going to sleep tonight, I’m tired already!”
Sunday morning.
“I’ve never slept so well.”
“It’s so cool to wake up to the birds singing!”
“Wow mum, bacon sarnies!”
“Cool, I love bacon!”
“Is that the fresh bread we bought yesterday?”
“Fab, I’ve never tasted bread that good before!”
“I can’t be bothered to straighten my hair and do my make up.”
“What can we do today?”
“I don’t want to go home yet!”
Monday morning.
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Me neither, the bed’s too hard.”
“And it’s noisy, I heard cars passing all night.”
“And the smell of exhaust fumes, yeuch!”
“And the duvet kept falling off, I want my sleeping bag.”
“I have to get up sooo early to do my hair and make up. It was much more fun when I didn’t have to bother.”
“And we have to sit in stuffy classrooms all day instead of being outside.”
“I want a tent in the garden.”
“I want to go camping again!”
“Can we, mum, can we? Next weekend maybe?”
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
Police cars pull up, silently, out of sight. Armed police make their way up the hill to the shack. Just as they start to approach it explodes. A murder of crows takes off with a burst of noise.
Hidden, an old man sniggers, then walks to his new secret still.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
“Paul! It is you?”
I turn and walk, speed up. He taps my shoulder.
“Paul, I know it’s you. Where have you been?”
Prison, but that’s not the point.
“Come on Paul, let’s get a drink?”
I turn again.
“Come on mate?” Less certain.
I walk away, dialling.
“Witness Protection. How can we help?”
“I’m blown!” I reply.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
I had friends. They trusted me. But one by one I had to let them go. They told me something I couldn’t tell the rest. Now I have no friends, just lots of secrets. The most important thing I’ve learned in life? That there’s no-one lonelier than a secret keeper.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018
I was hunting through some old music and lyrics from a band I played in some time ago. I wrote this blues lyric for the lead guitar player who suffered badly with hay fever.
The pollen count is high, and I’m feeling very low
Yeah, the pollen count is high, so I’m feeling very low
My head is dull and aching
Wherever I go
I’m loaded up with drugs, but they aren’t even that much fun
Loaded with lots of drugs, not even that much fun
Still, at least they’re cheap and legal,
I got them from my Mum!
I sneeze, wheeze and sniffle, hate my life when I’m like this
Sneezing, wheezing and sniffing, Man I hate when I’m like this
Wish the pollen count would drop
So I can stop this sniff sniff sniff!
The pollen count is high, and it makes me cross
Yeah, the pollen count is high, man this is so crass
A couple of months and I’ll be better
But then it’ll be Christmas
(C) Chris Johnson 2008
The following is a re-post from a closed Blog.
Anyone who has been through formal education into their teens, and definitely anyone who has been through higher education, training in a work environment or any form of leadership training will have undertaken some group work. Often this is dreaded – there’ll be egos to deal with, someone who is quite happy for every one else to work as long as they get a share in the credit and someone who knows best and wants to lead the project, irrespective of what everyone else wants…
But, there are some great works that have come out of collaboration. Think about the great films, TV series and songs that have come out of writing teams. My own experience of co-authoring was very productive, leading to the novella Rose Scar. So, if you choose* to co-author and pool your experience, knowledge and skill.
Based on my own experience here are my ten ‘top tips’ for co-authors:
*Items 1 and 10 effectively only work for voluntary collaborations. If you are working on assignment that requires you to collaborate and/or where the parameters are set for you then I’d suggest that 1 becomes ‘Agree the ground rules before starting’ – whether they be these or something else and 10 becomes ‘Agree in advance who the final decision maker is in case of irreconcilable differences. It is essential that this should be someone outside of the team, and preferably not the direct customer for the output.’
© Chris Johnson 2018
Rodney Franklin was a happy man. Thirty years out of the Marine Corps, he kept to himself except for a Friday night beer in the nearest bar, ran his farm single handed when he could and hired in some help for the jobs he couldn’t manage. When he first bought the farm in ’72 some of the locals laughed that he always hired in help to slaughter his livestock rather than doing it himself, but once he told a few people he’d seen enough death in Vietnam and would see no more, the story got round and people stopped laughing.
He was checking the foundations for a new hog pen when he was disturbed from his work by a voice from the past.
‘Well hello Mr Franklin. How are you today?’
Rodney turned slowly, knowing yet still dreading who he was going to see.
‘Lenny Bertrand. Back again?’
‘Why yes Mr Franklin. I think it’s about time you made me a small gift, don’t you?’
‘I paid you, Lenny. I paid you ten years ago and almost every year since. Why am I still paying you?’
‘Because you really don’t want Sherriff Hunter to know what you did with Mrs Hunter at the barn dance all those years ago, now do you? I’ve kept my end of the bargain. I left town with the money you gave me then, I only come back when I need a top up and no one ever knows I’ve been. Unless you tell them?’
‘I don’t tell nobody nothin’ Lenny. But I don’t see why I should keep paying you year after year for one fumble in my truck. Anyhow, Elaine Hunter’s been dead these last five years.
‘You think the Sherriff cares about that? You think he wants her memory spoiled? I don’t want much Mr Franklin, just enough to see me south and set up for the winter.’
‘Now that’s all you want. But you’ll be back. Again and again. You’re going to keep coming until I die aren’t you?’
‘Or until the Sherriff dies I guess, yes.’
Or until you die The thought popped into Rodney’s head.
‘Wait there. I’ll get your money, you bloodsucker.’ He said, and made to walk towards the farm house. Lenny turned, even he had the decency to give the man he was blackmailing some privacy. That’s why he didn’t see Rodney sneak up behind him and hit him over the back of the head with a shovel. He fell in to the open trench. Rodney looked over, saw the unmoving body and, realising what he’d done, retched up his lunch.
He ran to the house, thinking of different excuses he could give to the Sherriff for finding the dead tramp. He considered throwing the body to the hogs, he knew they would eat almost anything. In the end he decided to simply cover up the body. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it again, so he started up his digger and half filled the trench with hard core to form the foundation of his new hog pen.
*
Rodney’s success continued. For five more years he lived on his farm. His hogs thrived, he made enough money and carried on living his simple life. He drove his truck to the nearest bar one night a week as he had always done, drank a couple of beers and drove home again. If anyone had known him well enough they may have noticed that he had something on his mind most of the time, but everyone had their own worries and anyway no one was that close to him, so no one noticed.
*
But something was playing on Rodney’s mind. He’d read Poe. He could hear Lenny’s heart beat every time he went to the hog pen. He knew that one day he would have to move the body or go mad. Finally the day came. He could stand it no longer. Rodney let loose the hogs and drove his digger through the pen walls. Then he dug. He dug down to where the body should have been and saw nothing. He dug further, and still no body. He got out of the digger and dug with a shovel. Still nothing. Finally he started scraping at the ground with his bare hands. He was on his hands and knees when the trench collapsed in on him. If anyone had been there they would have seen a filthy, crying man shouting over and over again ‘She wasn’t worth this! She wasn’t worth this!’
*
The Sherriff arrived a couple of hours later. Someone had called him after seeing hogs loose on the highway. Sherriff Hunter recognised that they were Rodney’s. He saw the damaged pens and re-opened foundations but could not work out why Rodney would have done that much damage. He assumed some sort of accident or vandalism. Worried, he went looking for Rodney. When he couldn’t find him around the farm he eventually called for some help and dug down in to the reopened trench. That’s where they found his body.
No one in town ever worked out what happened or why. The only man who might have known saw a news report of the mysterious death while nursing a sandwich and coffee in a Salvation Army hostel two towns away. Lenny Bertrand rubbed the scar on the back of his head, hidden by his long greasy hair. Yet again he thanked his lucky stars that the one farmer who tried to kill him was probably the only one on the country too squeamish to check he was dead before leaving him alone in the trench with enough time to climb out and slip away.
(c) Chris Johnson 2019
The following is a repost from a closed blog.
There are various posts that do the rounds on writers’ and artists’ sites and forums which make fun of the idea of working for ‘exposure’. They are often phrased as adverts from the artist asking for tradesmen to work for free or simply pointing out that, in no other industry, is it so common for people to be asked to work free. Largely, I agree. Before I go any further I would say that any cheeky offer, particularly to someone for whom a creative art is their main income, should be treated with the contempt it deserves. But when is an offer cheeky and when is it something that should be considered – even welcome? As a writer I, like all artists, need exposure. So would I be so wrong to dismiss such an offer out of hand?
On reflection there are probably three key things I (and other artists) should consider before turning down such an offer.
1 – How much exposure?
2 – Should I consider doing this as a favour?
3 – Is it a legitimate business to business deal?
How much exposure?
My point here is this. If a magazine with a multi thousand person readership, especially my target audience, offers me the option to publish a story, unpaid, ‘for the exposure’ of course I’m going to take it. Let’s face it, lots of writers provide free content to magazines and blogs etc. when they start out. I accept, there’s probably a cut off point when the cost of production outweighs the savings gained from getting free advertising. And I can’t tell you where that is. For example, I might work free for a start up magazine which is aimed directly at my target audience as it’s worth taking a chance on the sales that could follow. It’s getting free advertising. But I’d be less likely to do so for a random start-up with no indication that my work will get to a relevant target audience, or any audience at all.
Should I consider doing it as a favour?
Human, and business, relationships are never cut and dried. If a friend is starting up an imprint or a magazine or blog I’d be far more tempted to do them a favour than I would a random stranger. Things I do all day every day for a salary I may also do for free for a charity. Likewise, if you have a chance and the opportunity, what’s wrong with giving someone else a start? Who’s to say that the random stranger who is asking for your help now isn’t going to be the next big publisher/agent/whatever. Sometimes it’s worth playing a hunch.
Is it a legitimate business to business deal?
Ok, strictly business to business is a sales transaction, one business selling to another. But there is also the option of fair exchange. Ten hours of my work for ten hours of yours. I write the text for your website, you take my author pictures and no money changes hands. And this loops back to point one. If you are treating your art as a business, then working for exposure is a legitimate business to business transaction if the business you are delivering it to is in the business of giving exposure.
There is probably a fourth option. Do I just want to do it anyway? Most hobby artists effectively give their material away. My Blog is me giving away my work – arguably to build an audience in the hope they will buy my books in the future, but also because I want to share my creativity with the world. So, is giving my work away through another route, ‘for exposure’ any different?
My advice, therefore, is this. By all means decline offers to work ‘for exposure’ if you don’t think the person offering is genuinely able to offer the exposure they appear to be claiming to offer. But don’t decline such an offer without any thought as to the value.
© Chris Johnson 2018
