BLOOD ON THE TOOTHBRUSH: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Regular dental check-up? Check.
   Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
   Oh, there was a caution from the dentist that if I spotted blood on the toothbrush I shouldn't worry. Getting into the crannies with floss, or a floss harp, might cause a spot of bleeding for a short time.

*

No blood worth mentioning.

*

Slide forward to a meal. I am not sure which one. Maybe I bit into my cheek without realising. Or a shard of food scraped the lining. Hot sauce blistered an area.

   Who knows.

   The point is this. I felt nothing. Pain is useful. It detects damage. Well, the detector was switched off.

   Slide further forward to another meal. Grab that piece of food with the tongue. Good idea. But wait a bit. What is this? A lump on the inside of my mouth, scarring the right cheek.

   What the fuck?! Instant cancer? That wasn't there earlier. And by that I mean...

   Well. It just wasn't there.

   Okay. So. It is there now. Deal with it. Explore. What does the tongue tell you? The tongue tells me I don't like this lump. No pain. Eerie. Could be anything. Or nothing.

*

I let it go. Either it was a temporary fixture and I could gleefully ignore the tissue issue. Or I'd have to DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

   Morning. At night I'd brushed my teeth with a machine that could probably trim hedges, truth be told. Nothing. Hassle, there was none. But in the morning...

   I sense my audience is ahead of me.

   Waving the hedge-killer around, I clean teeth electrically. And then I see blue toothpaste froth turn rusty. Blood. The dentist mentioned that. But not this much.

   Finally, I feel pain where a lump used to be. The lump exploded on contact with the toothbrush. This delayed-action mine failed to detonate the night before.

   It's a new dawn, a new day, and I'm feeling bad.

*

Afternoon rolls in, and I'm still experiencing mild hurt. But that crisis is over. So I hope. Why write about it? I thought I'd scribble the story down. It isn't a great tale. Moral?

   Be mindful of blood on the toothbrush.

   Really, though, I look at clouds and wonder how Monet would paint them. Then I wonder how I'd write about how Monet would paint them.

   However, it's blood that occupies my thoughts. So how would I handle writing about blood on the toothbrush? Bloodily? Foamily? Frothily? Painlessly?

   Briefly. It's a blog post, not a chapter of a book. I expect no follow-up or sequel. That tale is done.

MONET'S SAMURAI PAINTING.

Mrs Monet posed for this image. In recreating the man in blue, I learned a lot about flattening the drawing. My version of the character is distorted to take account of the elimination of detail.

   That removal of detail is in line with the plot of the story, JAPANESE MONSTERS. Coming to an Amazon near you soon.
   Though Wataru starts as Samurai he soon finds events stripping him of that status, and he wanders Japan much as waves move aimlessly.

VAMPIRES.

Still plugging my work on a weekly basis until I run out of items to plug. Then I should publish JAPANESE MONSTERS. With illustrations. Actually, why not throw in a sample here...



   That image is after Monet. The character depicted is Wataru the Wave-Man. More on him later. For now, here is the weekly plug for a book you can check out on Amazon...

FICTION FACTORY. Welcome to my mini-self-publishing imprint for short stories running around 30,000 words. These stories are not collected or bundled with other tales. If you buy WITCHES, you won’t suffer disappointment in later life by finding WITCHES reheated for a collection called TALES TO IMPRESS PALAEONTOLOGISTS. Be thankful for that small mercy.

VAMPIRES.

Crashing parties used to amuse Vance. He hurled himself into a world of no commitments. When the synthetic blonde offered more of the same, guided by brusque phone texts, he didn’t see the harm in another meaningless fling.

“Rule 1. If I text and you are busy, that’s fine. The rule runs in both directions. No pestering.”

He was okay with that.

“Rule 2. We never attend social functions. I don’t do weddings, though I will crash parties.”

Suited him, just fine.

“Rule 3. No gifts.”

Saved money.

“Five rules. Rule 4. If we see each other with strangers, no questions. No introductions to family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, serial killers…”

Vance had no problem with the fifth rule. He thought his problems began next day.

There, in red lipstick, she’d left a mirror message.

WIPE THIS OFF. STICK TO THE RULES. SEE YOURSELF OUT.

The bar? Reasonable. Didn’t try too hard to be trendy. He knew no one here – not on a Wednesday night. Vance watered at the venue on the odd weekend. Open the door on a world without strings. In.

Scene. The jet minx in front of him shook hailstones from her bobbed coiffure. Melting pellets bounced off his heavy coat. By contrast, she appeared to be wearing a black plastic bag for no protection from the night.

He eyed her tight black jeans. Painted on. Sheathed legs stopped at bare ankles and shiny stab-me black shoes. Hang about…

37,000 words, plus notes.