A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Five

Pricilla Courtess

You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t even believe it myself. A man licked his bowl. Licked it! The soup is piss water, and he licked it clean. Imagine, this place refused my darling Fifi when the people themselves are mongrels. My hair is falling out. My. Hair. Is. Falling. Out. Don’t even get me started on my eyelashes. The one I have anyway.

If it weren’t for dear Simon, well, I don’t know. He’s as loopy as they come that one, but bless the lamb. I mean, the guy takes half an hour putting his stuff in the right place, by my, oh my, he is a star.

Which reminds me, I called that no good Patrick Star. I gave the scum a good old piece of my mind, I told him, I said ‘You, you are the scum on my shoes. The most useless piece of crap I ever did see.’ I said a good deal more, believe me.

Anyway, I hung up but I started thinking. I thought to myself, thirty years I’ve been doing this. Thirty years and all that I have to show is a free bowl of soup in a morning. I mean, look at me, Pricilla Courtess, no make-up on and sat in a homeless shelter. Well, I pulled out my sketches and took a good hard look and I thought, who was I kidding? Even I don’t wear my designs.

Well, I started sobbing to Simon something fierce. I could have just settled down, popped out a few kids like normal women? No. Pricilla Courtess had to give herself a dodgy hip pleasing the men who were gonna make her dreams. Pricilla Courtess had to have Botox, and fucking Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Pricilla Courtess isn’t even my real name, can you believe that? Thirty years I’ve kept that charade going.

 I would kill for a Pall Mall now, you know? Literally, anyone of the mongrels in here, even for just one drag. Oh, and a lighter that works for once in my damned life. I think of my poor little angel pie, in some damn dog ‘home’ like she hasn’t got anyone who loves her.  It makes my hair start falling out all over again. Can you imagine the humiliation?

Anyway, even dear Simon couldn’t put up with my tears, the poor fruit-loop. He walked right on out of the shelter, clutching his bird book. Honestly, he treats that thing like it’s more precious than my pearls, flattens every page out before bed and everything.

Now, you will not believe what happened when he got back, you simply won’t. He’s got a face like a slapped arse bless him, twiddling his thumbs like he’s just lost a leg or something. Anyway, he turns round and you know what he says? He says, ‘I got you a job’, well I cut him off straight away with this big old shriek and started flapping my damn hands around like some cuckoo bird. And believe me, that wasn’t even the best part. He turns round and says, ‘You’re going to be a designer for Monica Green.’ Well, my jaw damn near dropped though the floor. How stupid was I? I’d just nearly given up, nearly convinced myself I was no good. Laughable isn’t it?

Well, Simons got this big grin on his face and says something about, ‘We can leave today’. Anyway, I’m already busy packing up my designs, passing him my free soup and shouting ‘What we? I’ve got to go!’ and running out the door. Can you believe it, Pricilla Courtess is gonna be a star. 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Four

Simon Dempsy

My back ached a bit when I woke up this morning. Nothing much to complain about though really. Quick rub with the palms and it eased out a bit. Like my wife had always said, no use making mountains out of molehills. I shaved my face as usual. Combed my hair into a centre parting, making sure the centre was as perfectly central as achievable. I cleaned the underneath of each nail. I neatly tied my laces.

They gave out chicken soup for breakfast this morning, I prefer the pea. My wife used to make the sweetest pea soup, you’d have loved it.  I gave the man next to me my bread roll. He’s only been here for a couple of days; still treating each meal like it’s his last. I took my time with my meal though, hadn’t finished my first spoon before he was licking his bowl. His beard dipped into the dregs.

I’ve got a few things under my cot. My wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird is laid parallel to Baxter’s collar, my old dog. Five centimetres away from Baxter’s collar is my tooth brush. Three possessions isn’t much for a man in his fifties, I know, but they’re more than enough for me. I had done well to hide my wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird from the bailiffs.

Living in a homeless shelter isn’t as bad as what it is made to sound. After my wife passed I missed the comfort of meals being cooked for me. They’re even as pleased as she was when I help tidy away the days mess.

They push me to socialise like she did too. I started talking to a woman who had just found herself here a week ago. Her false eye lashes were slightly askew and a streak of thick foundation was missing from each cheek where her tears had fallen. I asked her what she had been crying about. She held a dogs collar in her hands too, smaller than Baxter’s underneath my bed and she pointed to the sign on the wall, ‘NO DOGS’.

I spent the day with her after that. She cried a lot. I asked her about her dog, she showed me a photo. She told me about her failed dreams and cried some more. I listened. I treated her to a look at my wife’s book. I read two chapters to her until she fell asleep on my cot. Her hair had fallen over her face, some caught on her eyelashes. I tucked it behind her ear, careful not to catch her ‘diamond’ earrings, mind you.

I took extra care preparing myself for the new day; I even clipped and cleaned my nails twice. Today I gave Pricilla my bread roll. Later, she took my hand in hers and led me to her cot. She pulled out sheets of paper from under her bed. Her designs. I had to concentrate on my facial expression so I wouldn’t grimace. My wife taught me to be polite. In all honesty, her drawings were outmatched by even ten year olds. I could understand why she was here. Her face held such pride, such a smile. I wanted to see that smile every day.

I told her, ‘Would you excuse me? I need to make a phone call.’

Shaky hands while you’re trying to dial are horrible, you know? I hadn’t entered this number in a long time. Her voice sounded the same as always. How she used it to speak to me was different. I said, ‘Hello?’ and my words stuck. She said, ‘What do you want Simon?’ as bluntly as that. I told her I’d heard she’d changed her name back to Green. She sniggered at me. My chest clenched and I said, ‘Now, Monica, your mother taught you to be polite.’ Again she sniggered. It feels pretty awful you know, having your own daughter disrespect you like that.

I had had enough, I said, ‘Now, I need you to do something. I have a friend, she draws clothes. I want you to employ her.’ I had felt very assertive, until she laughed. Her reply had my stomach round my ankles, ‘One condition. I want mother’s To Kill a Mocking Bird.’ 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Three

Lesley Gate

I got into the money business years go. Not without a lot of elbow grease though, mind you. You see, I didn’t start out life in the best of ways. I lived in a mare of a flat; I could piss, eat and sleep all in the same room. There’s was always something different falling apart and I was always begging someone for this, that and more. I always had a plant though, mind you, even if I didn’t have much else. The young man who lived above me was always saying, ‘Tough world out there sweet cheeks, deal with it’. I’d say, ‘World would be a lot nicer if there was a bit of decency in folk.’

You know, I used go round the towns restaurants, saying I had a dog that liked scraps. For the life of me I’ve never been able to stand dogs. Always pissing on the grass and digging up plants. Where was I though? Ah yes, it took more years than I care to say to get to today, got my name, Lesley Gate, above the door and everything. I saved up every penny then started lending them out to folk after I’d learnt a thing or two about high interest rates. After a while I even hired the young man, Jack, from upstairs to get me what was owed. Then he started saying how all’s that’s needed is a bit of decency.

Patrick Star, now there’s a man who needs to learn decency. Even Jack hasn’t managed to get back what that man owes me. He drives around in his flashy car, knowing full well my money got it. That scallywag’s enough to make my skin crawl. He’s a sign of a new breed that man. Everyone’s desperate these days, they take and take, yet no one wants to pay me back. Well, let me tell you, I know how to look after my money.

Anyway, Star sent in this woman today, caked in more make up than a common hooker, pearls as fake as her eyelashes. She was ranting and raving, just as greedy as the rest. She was throwing all these bits of paper at me, like I gave two tuppence worth. Let me tell you, I riled her up something fierce. I kept shuffling around the office, giving my plants a drink, while she’s trying to follow, talking up a storm something fierce. I tapped on my hearing aid just to nark her.

By then, she’d turned on the water works, so, I told her what I say to most folk these days. I said, ‘Honey, that better be water for my plants, because tears don’t work on me no more. Everyone’s got bills, there’s a homeless shelter down the street, and they’ve all got the same sob story there. It’s a tough world out there sweet cheeks, deal with it.’ 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Two

Patrick Star

So, I’m banging this chick right. She’s got a smoking body, you know the type. Massive tits, nips puckered up to fuck, ass to go with it. Not too much an hour either. She’s pounding hard, screaming out my name. She knows I’m a star.

I showed her the life style. Flash apartment, fancy drinks, and fast car. You’d think that’d be enough for her right? Wrong my friend. They always want more. Soon as I shoot my load she’s off, spurting out her dream in life. Same as a million others, she wants to be a model. More specifically, she wants me to make her a model. I give her ass a quick spank goodbye and tell her I’ll ring some contacts.

Ha. The last time I had contacts was, ah, well, either way: I’m not gonna be calling her again. I bet I know what you’re thinking, pretty good life he’s got there, right? Well, cards on the table time mate. As good as I’ve got it; things aren’t all as smooth as hooker’s tits.

You spin them this line, yeah I’ll call, then before you know it, they’re hounding you. Why haven’t you called? Did you speak to anyone? Am I gonna be a model? Fashion designer? Actress? The next thing, you call Pauline ‘Penny’ and Sandra ‘Sapphire’, shit just hits the fan. 

You know, I’ve even been slapped round the face a few times. Ungrateful bitches. This one time, my girlfriend walked in on me and this bangin’ chick. She had this look, I was so shit scared my balls shot right up inside me, I didn’t think they were ever coming back down, you know?

I mean, the money helps. I’ve got this shit tonne of stuff lying around, so what if it comes with a few slaps? Look at my car, man. That baby purrs better than any woman.

I did get things right this one time though. You heard of Monica Green? Course you have, hottest designer out there. I made her. She’d come home wearing some of the stuff she’d made and I’d just think, damn, she looks good. Anyway, we went out for like three years, I finally make her name a star and BAM: she dropped me like a sack of shit.

Now, I’ve got this old bitch, Pricilla, ringing me day and night, ‘I wanna be the next Monica Green, make me a star, make me a star’. She’s in her fucking fifties; you think she’d know she’s past it. She carries round this little rat of a dog like she’s the fucking Queen of Hearts. It’s sickening how much the little rat loves her though. She called me up last night, crying about her bills. Well, Patrick Star doesn’t give two shits unless she’s got two bangin’ tits. I told her to swim with the Loan Sharks.

A Month In Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part One

Pricilla Courtess

Oh, you just would not believe the day me and my fluffy little angel pie have had. It started off with the usual; I just couldn’t find my carton of Pall Malls anywhere, always getting away from me those things. As soon as I find them, I’m searching round, ‘Lighter, lighter, where’s the lighter?’ but of course the damn thing's not working. I had to traipse all the way down stairs and ask the young man there to be a darling. I said, sweet as sugar, ‘Be a lamb for me and light me up?’ so of course he did.

 Right, so, back upstairs, I’m sat with Fifi, my favourite wittle puppy wuppy, trying to put my make up on. I’ve got all my powder and lipstick on, a stunning shade of red, brings out the uh, seductress in me, you know? Anyway, just as I go to put my eyelashes on, I realise there’s no glue left. I can’t put on my lashes with no sticky. So that gets me thinking, this just won’t do. Well, same as I said to my little Fifi, ‘Pricilla Courtess cannot and will not leave this flat without a full face.’ If I want to be my best, I have to look my best, right? See, you understand.

Anyway, after that, me and Fifi started noticing more. There was no vol-au-vents, no more Pall Malls, even out of all of my angel pie’s Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Well, bright as a button I pushed the thought to one side. I started drawing up some more designs, you know, living the dream? Well, designs as good as mine just don’t draw themselves. I’d just finished this fabulous feather boa design, ombre tones, glitter and everything, when my tummy started to rumble, just like my little Fifi’s.

Well, I looked through all the cupboards, you know what poured out? Dust. Dust and bills. They’re all shouting ‘Final Notice’ and ‘Last Chance to Pay’ at me. Well, I was almost tearing my hair out, the nerve of them! It’s obvious I’m too busy with my designs; I can’t deprive the world of fashion to pay bills. Even Fifi was all in a ditz. So, I think to myself, I know who’s fault this is and I ring that no good Patrick Star. Star my peachy ass. The man’s been getting more and more useless by the day, you know? He yacks and yacks, ‘People don’t like your designs’, ‘They’re fifty years too late’. Damn fool can’t admit he just doesn’t know how to sell me.

So, anyway, I call him with the usual. ‘Patrick? Oh, Patrick darling, any good news? Who wants to buy my work today?’ And you know what he tells me? No one’s interested, that my designs aren’t being picked up. Well, I thought he’d lost his marbles and got me all mixed up with someone else. You know, one of his women of the night. He tells me he knows its Pricilla. The damn cheek of it.

So, anyway, he assures me next week’s the week, he’s got loads of meetings lined up. I told him, I said, ‘That’s all well and good darling, but I need cash now, I need to feed my little angel pie, Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh doesn’t grow on trees you know.’ You won’t believe it, but the swine tells me to go to the pawn shop and sell my pearls. You see these pearls? Got them from my Mama. She used to tell me they’re as real as my beauty, like I needed telling. Well, I started getting all in a fluster, I mean, I just can’t sell them, they’re as real as my beauty, you see?

I started thinking again though; I need more Botox, paper, that damn Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Before I know it, I’m stood in this grotty little pawn shop, clutching my Mama’s pearls, thinking of the thousands I’ll get. Damn near broke my heart.

Now, you will not believe this. The scum in the shop had the nerve to tell me the pearls aren’t real. He says they’re fakes. Well, I laughed in his face and told him to fuck himself. You know my pearls are as real as my beauty.

So, you see no Val-au-vents and no Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh for Fifi today.

Revival in the form of RVIVR- an album review

When four-piece punk rock band Letterman controversially split in 2007, fans were left dejected and angsty as ever. Yet, the band’s two singers, Phil Douglas and Matt Canino moving on to other crusty, progressive pop-punk ensembles were enough to lick the wounds of the bitter. Douglas joined New York’s Iron Chic, while Canino teamed up with female vocalist Erica Freas to form RVIVR, an activist quartet.

RVIVR debuted with the simply titled, LP, in 2010. With Canino’s DIY ethics and a knack for writing tiptop melodies mixed with raw vocals and infectious choruses, LP definitely had an irrefutable charm, despite being a little rough around the edges.  Now, 3 years later, RVIVR has stormed the scene with The Beauty Between, a tighter, 14 track album with more focus and delightful imperfections that characterise the genre.

Similarly to LP, The Beauty Between wastes no time building a sweltering pace after an initial instrumental opener which successfully sets the tone. In “LMD”, Canino and Freas alternate their howls in a well-balanced duality which is rarely seen in pop-punk these days, especially when mixed with their sheer authenticity. Freas is by far the more talented singer with her gritty charm and despite not being a particularly talented vocalist Canino’s broken wails offer some balance, quelling calls for him to take a step back from lead as a backing vocalist.

After Freas gets her own track with “Spider Song”, which also features on her solo album Belly, Canino takes centre stage with “Old Dogs”, a slightly slower sentiment to their murkier counterpart Iron Chic, which does well in breaking up the album. Things pick up pace again with “Wrong way/One Way” and “Big Lie” where RVIVR are arguably at their finest. The tempo is battered forward and vocals are passed seamlessly back and forth and are upheld with outstanding song construction and musicianship, with “Big Lie” even fitting in a sax solo amongst the mania.

The second half of the album is less ferocious yet maintains quality, with guitar lines weaving in and out of one another, as evidenced in “Ocean Song” and “Paper Thin”. The songs are so well written that RVIVR can afford to take it down a notch, with stunning lines demonstrating their activist ways without sounding too preachy. 

There’s not much at fault with this record, and complaints are minor. Freas is underutilized, with Canino’s struggles exposed when he tries to sing alone and the album itself does feel a little top heavy, with the better tracks dominating the first half, but overall The Beauty Between is an earnest, energetic and gritty example of what true pop-punk should be, with the potential to be 2013’s highlight within its genre.