December 13, 2010
Mr. Dapper’s fiction Twitter was resussitated last week with the start of a new project. Driftworld is a novella to be written 140 characters at a time over the course of 2011.
The story so far…
It all began, as these stories so often do, with a young woman who smelled of vanilla and a man who didn’t know his left from his right.
“Is anyone sitting here?” she said, indicating any one of the empty seats at his table in the ghostly quiet cafeteria.
He began to sweat.
He glanced at her out of the furthermost corner of his eye. Her orange hair reminded him of the haystacks in a Monet he’d seen as a student.
He could feel her smiling as she opened her carton fo milk. The tips of his ears flushed at the sound of the plastic straw parting her lips. He wondered why she hadn’t seated herself then realized she patiently awaited his reply.
He said, “These seats are all taken.”
She sat down.
And as she lowered herself onto the hard, red plastic chair, that was when the scent of vanilla wafted over him like a splash of cream. The pupils of his sage grey eyes dilated like nostrils flaring. He made a concerted effort not to notice her bustline or to breathe.
Having failed in his first goal, failure in the second became inevitable and he began to hyperventilate.
She said, “It’s the bomb isn’t it?”
* * *
Follow Mr. Dapper’s Twitter feed for daily* updates or visit the Driftworld page for weekly compliations.
* Mon-Fri, not including the days it doesn’t happen at all.
July 30, 2010
Mr. Dapper has been neglecting his Twitter lately. Here’s the few tweets from the past couple of weeks.
- She was the sort of girl who constantly demanded presents. He was the sort of fellow who would enter a life of crime to provide them.
- In the end she attributed his overwhelming success to the fact he had abolutely no idea that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
- The heatwave had settled a stillness on the city—too hot & sticky to move. But something else as well. Silence. The buskers were in hiding.
June 8, 2010
» At the end of the bar sat trouble in silk stockings. The tight red dress left little to the imagination. Nor did his three day old stubble.
» I watch her drink most of my coffee unsure how to mention she picked up the wrong cup. And what she needs to do to counteract the poison.
» Hidden by shadows a shade darker than his suit, he regretted what he had to do. But the die had been cast when she took the last cruller.
» Shovel still in one hand, he placed the other on the crying boy’s shoulder. “In the sping, we can dig up the puppy’s bones. Neat, huh?”
Mr. Dapper’s Tweets of Wisdom.
May 25, 2010
Whenever she poured a cup of joe without putting a quarter in the jar, she felt dirty. Some days she’d drink three or four stolen coffees. She didn’t feel the same about not paying for cookies. Especially chocolate chip. Cookies and chocolate, she felt, were basic human rights.
Pens and sundry stationery supplies also fell into this category. A comfortable writing implement was as essential to her as air and water. Taking the value of said items into account, she hit upon paying for coffee with pens and was able to supply herself with guilt-free java.
On a good day she could procure three coffees, four cookies, two quality pens and a full stapler. And it had been a good week.
A very good week.
May 17, 2010
In front of her on the boardroom table, she spread out an array of small personal items as a cat might do with urine to mark its territory. Sunglasses. Phone. Lozenges. Water bottle. 3 pens. 2 notebooks. He half-expected her to produce a framed photo of her kids from her purse.
Once the meeting commenced, she gingerly approached topics but would then silently draw back—like a cat smelling danger on a new sofa. He kept his eyes down and silently chewed his pencil. Occasionally he’d raise hackles by lifting his head to bark his opinions at the room.
When they left the meeting, his muzzle was covered in scratches but he possessed the bone she had turned-up her proud, finicky nose at.
April 23, 2010
1: Massaging the side of her forehead isn’t making her hangover go away. Much like her seven martinis hadn’t made his churlishness go away.
2: As the chocolate melted he heard her say, “You can’t expect life to be a bowl of cherries.” He nodded in agreement. But it didn’t stop him.
3: As a willowy sapling the teak tree never dreamed it would be the boardroom table over which a ban on exotic hardwood imports was debated.
April 9, 2010
Not an extended story this week, just five snapshots.
#1 : Having discovered he’d forgotten his wallet on the kitchen table, he felt eerily naked and unconsciously rubbed his wristwatch for comfort.
#2 : He flipped his collar up and, remembering that time with the puppies, steeled himself for the damp embrace of the cottony white fog.
#3 : The hands were frozen at 12 minutes to 4:00. But, Leon wondered, had it been 3:48 AM or 3:48 PM? And why would one be so cloyingly poignant?
#4 : At times she’d catch a hint of her first girlfriend’s perfume. No, not girlfriend. Crush. As melancholy and doomed as a deer’s musk gland.
#5 : Some days he felt sure he’d die alone, ravaged by dementia, weeping on a bare mattress long after everyone he knew or loved was dead.
March 12, 2010
She saw it as an oily lavender smoke, the scent which crept up into her nostrils like the damp stench of an open wound.
She cracked her eyes momentarily hoping to discern who on the elevator was attempting to disguise their own stench with a floral surrogate.
The old lady with sunken cheeks? Her look suggested a flowery grave. The bicycle courier? Had he mistakenly used his wife’s deodorant spray?
By the fourteenth floor, she could no longer stand the noxious, enveloping cloud. When the doors slid open, she fled as if for her life. After climbing six flights of stairs to her office, she sat down with the ghastly truth—
The offending scent was her new laundry detergent.
March 5, 2010
He could feel the germs collecting inside the hollows of his skull. They were multiplying like the gaggle of teenaged girls to his right. An old man now, he was rueful about the lack of a cure for the common cold. And a cure for teenagers too. Fuck science, he thought.
Fuck religion while you’re at it, he added. Jesus nor Mohamed nor Ganesh had prevented his cold. Not that he’d asked them to. Deadbeats.
It was then he felt the heavy pain he knew must be a heart attack. The girls stopped giggling. One of them called 9-1-1 on her cell phone.
As they waited for the paramedics he asked, weakly, “Why?”
She replied with a blunt, tender sincerity, “It’s what God would want me to do.”
Mr. Dapper’s Tweets of Wisdom
February 26, 2010
Though he was a high-ranking member of a white supremacist gang, he wasn’t convinced in the supremacy of his fair-skinned race. A nigress in his science class was smarter than any of them; the strongest kid in PE was Asian. The weakest, dumbest person he knew was himself.
One of his gang’s pamphlets taught him about genetics and diluting racial bloodlines. This lead him to a conclusion which startled him.
If his offspring were to have any hope of success in life, he’d need to bolster his frail genetic code with a set of superior chromosomes. So he asked the intelligent black girl to the prom.
After an incident in the parking lot, witnessed by no one, he never awoke from the coma.
Character studies, 140 characters at a time, Monday-Friday at Mr. Dapper’s Twitter.