What I do
I take photos and add text to the images; something about a photo jumps into my noggin and some kind of writing emerges. Like all of my writing, if it doesn't come quickly and spontaneously, it doesn't come at all. Like a disappointing lover.
Cornelius Cockworthy straightened his britches, broke wind wetly and stood to address the assembled several. At the rear of the several sat Sir Oswestry Fudge, a sour-faced curmudgeon who deemed Cockworthy a futile, pus-filled excuse of a man.
As Cockworthy cleared his throat to begin to speak, Templeton Quim, seated to the speaker’s right, began to giggle and fawn and his miniscule manhood squirmed to half-mast. Cornelius shot Quim daggers. Quim liked it when Cockworthy was mean; it excited him to full arousal. A small dribble of excitement leaked into Quim’s sweaty undergarments.
I’ve got wood. Who’s got wood? Have you got wood? Has he got wood? Well if he’s got wood, and I’ve got wood, and they’ve got wood, we’ve all got wood. So, take this message to Sr Frot at the clinic and tell him we’ve got something of a how’s-you-don’t happening. He’ll telephone Lady Hipswing at full speed and she’ll notify the jetset. Now run swift, run even, run plenty and don’t, don’t look back. Even if swans threaten you. Even if bees interrogate you. Even if the sound of hooves clatter and jostle. Even if it’s the spy who loves you. Face forward, knees high, back arched, tongue listless, sweat salty, glands heaving, cheeks glazed, anus proud and mighty. And when the clock strikes four, it’s time. May the cream of Caesar be upon you. Canter!