Whoops… the piece was actually written in three stints. So 1hr writing and 30mins editing. Thank you for the brilliant suggestions… if I were looking to redraft this story in some way to turn it into a “proper” one then these amendments are crucial to me. I wonder whether I should have held back from telling the reviewer about the time constraints… just to see if the piece was viewed as “knocked off” at first glance.
Novel Treatments / 3 – With Preamble Sweet (The Non-Pretentious Crazy Chapter of Magnificence!)
A few weeks passed and I learned how to hate my face a little more. It was simple process, really – you may even care to try it yourself. What to do is, you stand gazing into the mirror of your one-bedroom flat and catalogue each and every item that repulses you about your face. It’s simple. Three weeks after I started this process; one of abnormal self-disgust for a basic feature of one’s body; I began to incorporate it into my daily routine with measured success.
After my first ever bowl of Plasta Pops, I sauntered into the bathroom and closed the door nice and tight; prepared to go face-to-face with my face and perforate further holes in my confidence.
“Right, sour puss. Let’s do this thing. I hate your stupid eyebrows to begin with. Yes, let’s start with them, shall we? They’re too bushy for a woman. Which is what I am. If I was I man, they’d be just the right bushiness, but as far as I’m aware I haven’t changed sex overnight, so they’re too SODDING BUSHY!” I started, working up a good head of steam.
A second passed in which my mind asked me a forthright question. What the Christ are you doing? That was the forthright question. I had no reply. There is no room for rationality in the realm of gratuitous self-abuse. This was the beginning of my gradual descent down the lost superhighway of self-esteem; should such a quality indeed have a road along which one travels. The question bugged me anyway. I just wanted to get on with denigrating the thickness of my eyelashes.
“They’re too thick. They look fake and they make your eyes look beadier than they already are. It looks as though you have these great big scary-ass beady eyes, and you’re gazing lecherously at someone; like a sex offender circling their prey. No, there’s no doubt about it – these are pederast eyelashes. I want to pluck out each and everyone of these warped little mothers. And I shall,” I said, looking for my tweezers.
After a good half an hour, I ran out of stamina and decided to cut myself a break; appeased a touch by the silliness of the whole activity. It wasn’t even 7:35 in the morning and I was already dangerously lacking in enough confidence and motivation to face the day ahead. The only way I wanted to leave the house was blindfolded or gagged, with a cardboard box over my head instead of a plastic bag in case it smothered me, and the coroners saw my face while carting me off to the mortuary. That disgusted sigh I released after waking up, well – that was as good as I was going to feel all day. Something had to be done about it.
The bowl of Plasta Pops was resting in the sink. The instructions on the box recommended that a good two hours should pass before the cream is applied, and that it must be applied in liberal splodges. I decided to phone in late that morning and apply the first spoonful of the cream to my nose and perform some DIY rhinoplasty. The nose was proving the most problematic area of my face, having generated four or five C words at the mirror, so I slapped a good hard plaster-cast around the kink I wanted to straighten out.
In the staff room at lunch, a few teachers spotted the mixture on my nose and offered support and derision in equal doses.
“You’ve got some Coco Pops on your nose,” Laura said.
“It’s Plasta Pops, actually,” I replied, thinking it to be a witty retort at the time.
“You trying that plastic surgery cereal stuff? You ought to be careful with that, you know. I have a friend who had the cellulite sucked out her bum – she ended up in three consecutive comas,” Joan added.
“Right. How does that work then?”
“Oh, she had them one after the other. One for each buttock and the final one for her bum-crack,” she replied, munching down my last piece of Madera.
“Right, so she went into one coma, came out of it and then went straight into another coma?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Joan, have you ever had a thought you’ve let your brain clear first?”
“Touchy this morning, aren’t we? That’ll be the silicon. Makes you go all moody, so I’m told. You ought to be careful – it can blow some girl’s noses up like balloon animals.”
“Right. Thank you for that, Joan.”
By about 2:30PM in the afternoon, Gerald started looking at my nose like it was his mother’s disrobed front bottom. A look of perverse admiration; briefly turning into a look of disgust and incredulity.
“Miss?”
“Oh, what is it Gerald? Do you want to make another joke about my monobrow? Because so far you’ve managed to exceed your limit of cracks on both on my neck, back and forehead. It’s infantile. And you are so you,” I said.
“No, miss… it’s not that.”
“Well, what is it then? Perhaps you’d care to explain to the entire class just exactly what it is you find so important that you have to hold up the lesson with this crucial moment of probative interruption? What is so exciting that demands every boy, girl and child to sit around pay attention to your exciting, crucial and thought-provoking words?”
“Miss…”
“What makes your words so wonderful that we should all give our complete attention to you? Everyone – let’s all turn around and give our unflinching devotion to Gerald here. He has something overwhelmingly important to tell us. So, please everyone, hush down because your going to want to here this, really. Take it away, Gerald.”
“Your nose has dropped out,” he said.
I had trained myself to ignore Gerald as a rule, since his mother worked in Kwik-Fit and his father was a convicted petty burglar – plus he stank of linseed oil and his grades were responsible for the mounting depression among English teachers – but I looked down at the homework I was marking just in case. Sure enough, in between the incorrect answers of “smiley” and “butterfore,” on his homework was a nose-shaped ream of skin and a puddle of blood I noticed to be my former nose.
“Oh, heck in a handcart,” I said, touching the plaster cast where my nose once sat.
“Don’t you ‘hink you should stick it back oan, maybe? How’re ye gonna smell and aw that withoot yer nose?” he asked.
“Just get on with your work, Gerald. I’ll be back in a minute,” I replied, scooping the skin flaps from the desk.
One quick squint into the mirrors of the staff toilets and I noticed the damage to be nowhere near as terrible as I imagined. The brown covering had built a mould over the existing skin and appeared to be settling into the shape I manipulated that very morning. Laura walked in during that ten-minute period of panic, in which I pictured having to stage a fundraiser to generate funds for proper plastic surgery.
“It’s a good look, that. Men love a woman with her nose hanging off, you know. Who needs a good sense of humour when you have a blood-engorged clay mould over your nostrils to wow them with,” she said.
“I’m just experimenting with Plasta Pops. You’re part of the reason I did this in the first place; with your peachy skin and pert red lips and all that crap. You’re the competition,” I said.
“Come on Sam, you don’t have to compete with me. OK, it’s true – all I have to do to attract a man is wake up, go outside and cough, but there’s no reason you should feel intimidated by that. My boyfriend is gorgeous though, and he does make thousands of pounds. So I dunno. Swings and roundabouts. Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Take a compass to your face.”
The mould started to itch and emanate this potent whiff of wheat round about fifth period. I attached a nasogastric tube from my nostrils into my navel in order to redirect the leaking blood into my system. It came free with the cereal, along with a DIY repair kit of a Stanley knife and German facial clamps. The box was strict that under no circumstances should the mould ever be itched, but sat in front of 5D – the one class who shut up and did their work – I caved in and gave it a hearty scratch. As the bell sounded, I could feel the mould beginning to grow blisters. From the tip of my glabella, small pustules coated in yeast popped up and the mould foundation started to sump.
It was fitting then, that the headmaster should choose that moment to poke his prudent Roman nose into my class.
“Hello, Sam. Everything all right?” he asked.
There was only one answer to this, but so many ways in which it could be expressed.
“Bit o’ nose trouble,” was the one I chose.
“Oh dear. What happened? That looks terrible? Are you all right?” he asked. His final question coincided with the first proper sizzle; a moment in which the pustules became volcanic and started to erode the bones in my nose.
“God, what’s happening?” I asked.
God didn’t know. He turned his back on people who purposefully sought to improve themselves through synthetic means such as cereal shot-loaded with wonky silicon and gluten-based chemicals. Nor could he stop the subsequent pain, rather akin to having fifteen skewers through my nose or a continuous outpour of scalding hot coffee siphoned onto that area through a magmatic flue.
I screamed.
I screamed quite a lot.
The headmaster screamed along with me.
I filled the sink full of cold water in the staff bathroom and buried my face inside until it stream-waved red and brown, plaster-popping all the while, and I could start the crying portion of the incident. This lasted a good two and three quarter hours, in which almost every member of staff poked their (undamaged) noses into the room to study the mess and ask if there was anything they could do to help. Laura even looked dazed; ashamed at her vengeful teasing earlier. This provided a small victory for me in some way; in which I took a second of solace before I started crying again.
The wound was bandaged up by the nurse and the headmaster chose to send me home for a week; or the length of time it would take to recover from the shock of having my nose singed off. Somehow I felt it might take more than a week.
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sawmillwoods reviewed Version 2 -
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it’s obviously a pretty straight foward tale. nice to see a bit of levity. i think the thirty min. writing technique is working for you, and i suppose brevity is the soul of wit. i would like to see where this story goes, seems like something that would be nice to have on a long trip with nothing to think about. it’s absurd, but in a good way, like running down 14th street at three in the morning with a stolen garden cart. like your nose falling off and exploding into puss. don’t get too bogged down with advice from the bibliophiles. if i were you i would trust that imagination.
one thing that may help with the techinque- since you’re only writing in thirty min. sessions. what i like to do is leave off in the middle of a sentence or thought, that way it’s a little easier to pick back up where you left off. gg
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Protagoras reviewed Version 2 -
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What to do is, you < i’d recruit a colon here in some way. ‘What you do is this:...’, or ‘You simply do this:...’, just to sidestep the slight discord of the current punctuation (which is not incorrect, but is offbeat IMO)
measured success < not sure what you mean here by ‘measured’, since, if successfull, then that success is by definition quantifiable as success. Maybe ‘measurable’ would be better regardless?
Face-to-face with my face < hilarious!
If i was i man < if i was a man
A second passed in which my mind asked me a forthright question. < slightly forced? How about ‘A second passed. My mind asked a question: what the…?’
I’d also italicise the question, which is underscore either side of what you wish italicised.
along which one travels < in this sentence i’d delete ‘indeed’ and italicise ‘have’ instead. Just smoothens it a fraction? (espeially as the semicolon already propagates the tone without the ‘indeed’)
bum-crack < funny
where my nose once sat < funny
skin flaps < ditto
whiff of wheat < great combo!
Redirect…came free < funny
Fifteen skewers < great sentence
(undamaged) noses < funny
Well, if this truly took 20 minutes, plus 10 minute edit, then I’m very impressed. A lot of peopl put things on here claiming an equally quick write, in the obvious hope of some ‘oh you’re so clever’ pat on the back. None i have read before merits such a pat. But this one does.
It’s genuinely witty, nicely written in an easy-flow-and-devoid-of-mistakes kind of way, and even quite intelligent in places. Very ‘creative’ to use the dreaded word.
If you can produce this in 20 mins, then you’re imagination is a fervent one. Of course, the trick is to now apply that talent somewhere worthwile. I’m assuming this is just an experiment. A fiun 10 minute read, but obviously i wouldn’t read a novel length thing this style.
Impressive given the time frame, and genuinely amusing. Well done.
8.3/10 (given the time restriction)
Booklady285 reviewed Version 2 -
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This was rather imaginative. I found myself alternately amused and horrified by what was happening to Sam. I’m impressed that you managed to get so much done in such a short time frame. I did find myself wondering why Sam didn’t just wait until the weekend when she could have done this at home, and avoided all the smart alec remarks from her co-workers and students. You might want to put something in there about why she is suddenly so impatient to do it right then. Also, starting your day telling yourself everything you hate about yourself is a little messed up. Have Sam acknowledge that it is messed up, and give the reasons she does this horrific little ritual. Overall, I think you’ve done an excellent jpb, and look forward to seing mroe of this. I hope this helps.
DCAllen reviewed Version 1 -
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You are a mighty writer. Of course in the plot of a novel I’m not sure how this character would function as the protagonist. Is she going to get her nose back? I suppose she could go through the story noseless. Perhaps a Simpsons-like format where nothing that happens in a previous episode affects subsequent ones.
“It came free . . .” (love this and the lines that follow)
I know you wrote this in a short time, but here are my proofreading comments anyWHO:
“It was simple process. . .” (“a” missing?)
“each and everyone” (typo)
“2:30PM in the afternoon” (redundant. Is this intentional?)
” . . . on both on . . .” (sounds odd. I’m I reading this wrong?)
“And you are so you. . . ” (typo or intentional?)
I think Gerald’s poor English should start a bit earlier in his dialogue.
Bargo reviewed Version 1 -
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Witty how one can go “face-to-face with my face and perforate further holes in my confidence’. Hasn’t this woman heard of a Beauty Salon?
You refer to an ever growing industry of snip, lift, tuck and suck. Vanity! Facial manipulation is far safer that facial invasion. As you mention there can be dire consequences yet three comas. Well maybe two were induced. So in one way I understand why womens use age reducing creams, wrinkle softeners, toners, the list goes on.
Lauras’ rebuke of Gerald was in itself entertaining as was most of ‘With Sweet Preamble’. Still I wonder where this is all leading? Possibly psychiatric help?
Good read.
tstone reviewed Version 1 -
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“prepared to go face-to-face… further holes in my confidence.”—funny. the piece is carried by lines like these.
“cracks on both on”—lose 2nd ‘on’.
“God didn’t know.”—very dry and wity.
overall, well-written/entertaining. the teacher’s rant before revealing that her nose has fallen off is terrific in its delivery. i’m curious as to how this fits with your other installments.
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