Thanks.
Humor/Satire / Cuthbert Pepys’ Diaries
1st January (Lord’s Day)
This morning I awoke and received a correspondence from the doctor, informing me I had contracted ‘Miltonitis.’ Doctor Falmouth, the kindly humanist who delivered our first child and subsequently diagnosed my first wife as dead, informed me of the symptoms at length and I headed downstairs for breakfast in a most crestfallen mood. It seems, alas, that my fate has been marked out by the letter, and over the next twelve days I am to die of natural causes through a process of being bored slowly to death. Such is the nature of this Miltonitis, which is a most heinous disease of the brain identified through hallucinations and rapid paralysis. I informed our maid Emily of the news, and she offered her consolations while serving my hops and grain. My second wife shed a brief tear for me after lunch, and I offered her some reassurance that once I was gone, she would inherit our small cottage and my assortment of quill pens. This appeased her sorrow for but a fleeting second, until I was forced to offer a gentle hug around the shoulders for further appeasement. I spent the remainder of the day in deep contemplation of my forthcoming mortality, and set about fixing the wonky latrine door.
2nd January
Decide to visit the garret of the Axe Yard to inform brother Samuel of my condition. Offer Emily three shillings to remain at the house attending to her duties, and reimburse her the two guineas due for the sexual favours performed in the cellar, of which my wife remains unaware. As we make it past the gate, we discover one of the rats dead from myxomatosis and set about a quick cull of the pack. My wife volunteers due to my condition and in her hysteria, accidentally shoots dead the two children next door. We lay the corpses out beside the rhubarb patch and leave a note of apology pinned to their hog Randolph. I make clear the difference between ‘child’ and ‘rabbit’ once more to my wife, whom cannot hide the embarrassment in her lineaments; her first two proper murders in cold blood for three weeks. A storm begins to descend as soon as we set out again, so we head back into the cottage and postpone the journey.
3rd January
Our neighbours return back home to discover both the note and the bodies of their children. Their firstborn, I believe, is a bastard from Mr Thucksby the tailor, and a certain relief seems prevalent in their body language. Some sorrow is expressed around their daughter, nonetheless, although I feel none whatsoever since I have no time for the children of others. My wife explains both my condition and the myxomatosis outbreak, and the neighbours show remarkable understanding and sympathy for my plight. They ask if there is anything they can do to help and I protest, struck by such an overpowering ire that I scream out in protest: “Go forth and join your children!” Their offers patronise and offend me so greatly that I head out into the orchard to hang myself, fighting my wife and neighbours away until they render me unconscious.
4th January
Having lost a full day, I decide to use my time more prudently and draw up a list of all that must be done before my passing. The most important task to hand was that of the vegetable garden, which still required tidying up, and on top of this, we had to make sure that the soil remained fertile over the winter to ensure fruitful growth in the subsequent seasons. Emily assists me with the list, suggesting that I should also write my memoirs in addition to these diaries. Word arrives from Terence, our tinker mailman, that my brother himself has started to compose his own diaries, and my blood boils to such an extent that I attempt suicide again, only to find Emily has confiscated all of the rope and truncated all of the vines on my trees in the orchard. My wife also suggests that I leave her a second child before I depart or before I get too ill to conduct coitus properly and I tell her I shall give it some thought. I find myself frustrated that my brother and I should begin our diaries upon the same day, and that his shall be of greater interest than mine to all those who read them because of his academic merit. Set to work on my memoirs immediately to keep my mind free from such cancerous thoughts.
5th January
Find myself unable to leave my bed this morning after I contemplate the inevitable portions of hops and grain for breakfast and how tedious they are. Emily volunteers to serve it on her head in a state of erotic undress if it will help, which marginally excites me but I decline nevertheless. I fear my condition becoming much more severe as I find myself unable to begin my memoirs or indeed leave my bed at all. My wife implores with me that I must inform my brother, but I tell her that death bores me, and her face is causing with me the saddest ennui I have ever felt. A gravest expression forms on her countenance, as she fears as much as I that my condition has taken hold, and places a table cloth over head to quell my suffering. We spend the day rearranging the furniture around the house, and the changes make me less hopeless.
6th January
Begin my memoirs on the roof of the cottage while the neighbours very kindly dance below in the garden, keeping the scene fresh from familiarity to stop me from falling into another languid slump. I appreciate their kindness, but their faces are so familiar I have to ask that they drape an assortment of fabrics over their heads as they dance and that some of them remove their clothes. Begin the first page of my memoirs and am struck by the realisation that almost nothing of the slightest interest has occurred in my life since my birth. I wonder if this is just another ramification of my condition, but then I realise that it is indeed true, as I have progressed through school involving myself in very little activity and entered my professional career with a satisfied quietude. To assuage the panic, I begin to fabricate and invent stories of war, adventure and mystery with myself as the hero, completing two or three short pieces of prose work which deviate pleasingly from my real life. I also write my will, deciding to leave all my possessions to several paupers I passed once en route to Christminster; just to break the norm. My wife, while juggling four guinea pigs and plucking on a lyre with her toes, suggests we head off to see my brother just to take me away from the familiarity of the house. I reluctantly concur.
7th January
We set out in the morning upon our horses Francis and Thorsby, whom I requested Emily paint in a kaleidoscope of colours beforehand. As we progress through the countryside, my neighbours re-enact some scenes from the Battle of Bannockburn in the distance for me, which bore me rigid as they resemble the images of warfare I am familiar with. My eyes begin to bleed as the doldrums of the journey visit me with severity, and some neighbours chase my wife and myself through the countryside in mock-pursuit, blasting muskets behind us and war-whooping like vulgarians. As we approach my brother’s abode, I spot two unicorns in a field of frankincense and myrrh, booting Baby Jesus back and forth with their engorged feet, farting the third book of Paradise Lost in Latin from their behinds. This proves a mild distraction, and I arrive at the house of my brother in good spirits. He is out when we get there, and we find a nearby ditch in which to sleep in for the night. Several blades of grass complement me on my resilience and courage and their twittering bores me all evening.
8th January
Samuel drags me from the ditch and invites me into his home. He is most upset at the news of my imminent death and offers kindly to fund my burial and service. I decline his offer, and the conversation turns swiftly to his diaries. At the very mention of these, I suddenly experience several sharp migraines and an overwhelming sickness in my gullet. For a moment, I fear my terribly my death is finally at hand, until Samuel shows me some pictures of Black Death victims, which greatly mitigates the pain. He then informs me of the forthcoming diaries he wishes to write, and we exchange amused glances that we should both choose the start of this year to commence our diaries. Samuel suggests that we go and taunt the local peasants for the afternoon to keep my mind distracted and I agree, growing tired of the wizards and fairies dancing around his wife, currently dying of smallpox. His neighbours lend us a trebuchet, from which we throw several vagrants and mendicants out into the ocean. The boredom becomes harder to escape as the day progresses, and even as one large luminescent dolphin comes splashing from the sea and flies off into the sky, I remain thoroughly languorous.
9th January
With little time left, I bid adieu to my brother for the last time and neglect to inform him of the large wart under his eye which he has been unable to see since his mirrors were stolen and his wife lost her sight. I say goodbye to the lions, zebras and octopi he has in his trousers and hope the wart is some sort of cancer. We jump into the Jaguar which has suddenly appeared outside for us and head off to Devon to see my father. My wife, during our my time with my brother, had a talk with some lovely scientists who agreed to recreate the Big Bang on a smaller scale across several fields. The sight of these academics leaping around and blowing shit up makes me feel mildly relieved, but their actions are no similar to those of wild animals, and the eruptions similar to those of the war recreations. I blank out and go into a coma and wake up feeling most ill indeed.
10th January
Little energy remains within me today. From the clouds outside, three giant eggs self-crack themselves over the enormous butter mountains while the archangels Gabriel, Raphael and Azrael perform an a cappella rendition of Greensleeves. At which point, the sky starts raining ice-creams, and one-hundred Jesus Christs pour from the sky in beauteous spectres of celestial light, imparting to me the very essence of existence. I groan at the sheer tedium of the whole affair and shut the blinds. My wife demands that we procreate so that I leave her with the child she requested, and I permit her the use of my organ while my nose begins to bleed excessively. Our maid Emily also departs, and my wife begs of me to stop gnawing at the hem of her dress as she makes for the door in tears. Later, a horse dies. I forget which one. My hands grow weak writing these diaries, and my brain feels like soup, so I stop.
11th January
Death has almost seized me now, and I spend the day bleeding and crying while my bones wither into chalk.
12th January
Later on today, I pass away. If not, then please see tomorrow’s entry.
End
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ruthbenj reviewed Version 1 -
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The writer has a dark humour which at times becomes somewhat lighter. He has a talent for saying things that will shock people in the same way as he comments on the mundane, showing his boredom with both.
His cynicism ‘shines through’ sometimes more brightly than others.
I think this poem is brilliant and should be published. (He might make some enemies though)
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onlywish reviewed Version 1 -
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Truly an interesting piece of writing. I was impressed by the look and style. The writing although good, seemed a bit forced. You are trying to hard to be humorous. With this subject matter most of the humor is found in the tragedy. With out embellishment.
With your talent this will be a wonderful story.
VeeLee reviewed Version 1 -
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Does one have to actually be reading Milton in order to die of Miltonitis? :-) “Doctor Falmouth, the kindly humanist who delivered our first child and subsequently diagnosed my first wife as dead”--hilarious. There are many wonderful turns of phrase in this, and though I haven’t actually read the diaries of Samuel, this piece gives me a sense of them and delivers the satire at the same time. Nicely done. You should take another pass at this to clean up some of the language--some ill chosen and misplaced words “their actions are no similar to those of wild animals” (I think you mean “no different than”) and “He is out when we get there, and we find a nearby ditch in which to sleep in for the night” stuff like that. You should also keep the language consistent--the uses of “farting” and “shit” are funny, but they take the reader out of the world of the diaries.
graheric reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow! That was moving. Man I haven’t read anything that indepth in a while. I think you are moving, humorous and pour your heart into your writing. I absolutely look forward to reading more of your work. You grabbed my attention in the very beginning and held on to it to the end. Keep up the good work my friend.
RoadHousePress reviewed Version 1 -
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The whole time I was reading this I was mentally applauding your talent. What a joy it was to read this. Refreshing. Ok, not supposed to gush. But how can I not? Let me find the right words here: your style of writing in this piece is strong in the literary sense and the satire is perfect. The ending was a bit abrupt and I would think you would research that the legalities are in order and then go full throttle into this … I see a full length book here. The diary entries should be spread out further for such a venture, but a minor adjustment. I could just read this all day. I don’t say this about many pieces.
pinestategal reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this piece and found myself laughing as I was reading. You have a gift for writing this genre. The piece flows well and is quite easy to read even with the “old english” style of it. I am not much for critizing grammar (not my strong suit) but i did notice one error…my terribly … I think should be “my terrible”. Good Luck and Keep Writing
Jimmel104 reviewed Version 1 -
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I left a little room in my rankings and writing just so you would have an incentive to try a little harder.
Not sure why, I just hate telling some one that it is perfect! So I won’t.
The problem that creates for me is that I can no longer assign an adjective or an adverb to your work, depending on how I maight say it.
In any event, this is some funny shit and you sir or ma’am since I didn’t check first have on perverse imagination. I love it!
The piece is ,(you can fill in the blank because I don’t use “perfect”).
producerelf reviewed Version 1 -
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Thiss very funny. I like the juxtaposistion of the serious witht the humorous and lighthearted. Wel done on that- it’s spot on. The story and tone of iritiation when finding al lthe rope gone in terific, as is the shooting of the children. Also, the vocabulary it very rich, futhering the delightful tone of this humorous work. Clever ending.
GothicRayne reviewed Version 1 -
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I liked this a lot, it had a certain something to it that made me want to read it more than once, just ot be entirely certain i misssed nothing. I believe this was very well written.
”12th January
Later on today, I pass away. If not, then please see tomorrow’s entry.” Enjoyed this line very much, just the humorous tie in on death, ‘Hey if I die I die if not read tommorows entry.’ Like he really couldn’t care less either way.
stephanloy reviewed Version 1 -
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I’m dumbfounded, and now i have to find everything else you have written. This is exceedingly well done, and I’m not entering hyperbole there. You’ve captured the genre and the voice of this sort of literature, so much so that odd phrasing strikes me more as period language than as any sort of mistake. There was a point at which you said that “their actions are no similar to those of wild animals”. Is that period speak? I would have written “no different from”. There are some typos to watch. When they visited the brother, they found a ditch “in which to sleep in”. I’d drop the “in” after sleep or drop the “to which”. Under january 8th, you write “I fear my terribly my death” where I think you mean “I fear my death” or “I fear my death terribly”. You also mention “the wizards and fairies dancing around his wife, currently dying of smallpox”. I’m not sure here which is dying, the wife or the hallucinations. If the wife, add a “who is” before currently to clear that up. If the fairies, add “and” in the same place. Under 7 january, you mention the unicorns farting from their behind, but there probably isn’t any other place to fart from, so that would be redundant.
Those are all little things. The piece is dominated by clever use of voice, a wry, biting wit, and wonderful and unexpected turns of phrase. I chortled at many points, especially the way you handled the murdered children, and I laughed out loud (and felt a little guilty from it) at the last line.
Two more criticisms. It may be a good idea to make the tenses more uniform throughout. Much of the piece is written in present tense, but some past tense creeps in there, too. But, again, this may just be an aspect of the voice. I noticed it, but was not really bothered. Second, consider eliminating the few uses of foul language. That might widen your prospects for publication. Again, i offer the suggestion almost timidly. After all, you wouldn’t want to remove the farting unicorns or the references to sex, so what’s the word “shit”?
Anyway, I am very impressed. Thanks for the opportunity to read your work.
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