Why We Flunked English

The Herman Saga

My calico cat, Rhea, loves my old computer monitor. I might have changed it to a more modern flatscreen by now, but then she wouldn't have it to warm her tummy. It must be just the right temperature up there. The only problem is, sometimes she hangs her long tail down over the screen, and if I want to proofread what I've written, I have to push it aside with the back of my hand, then back the other way to continue. It puts me in the mind of having to push the rushes aside as I pass through an extensive swamp, or vines and underbrush as I trudge on safari through a jungle. The safari scenario fits better. I always know a big cat is up ahead.

Today, our character stands silently in amazement and looks, no no, stares, with widened eyes into an azure sky. An overcast sky. Streaked with clouds, alright, an azure sky streaked with clouds, lit, no, illuminated, seemingly from within. Wait.

"Willya make up yer fuckin' mind?"

That wasn't the character. He can't even speak yet; well, he could. I just haven't given him anything to say. He's still amazed, and for the moment, speechless.

"And what's so amazing that he's gotta stare?"

Dammit, Herman!

Herman's my inner writer, and he's always screwing with my mind. I'm trying to get this thing set up and I want it to be right. So buzz off, willya?

"Oooh, 'buzz'! Why don't you just come out and say the way we really feel?"

Because that's you and not me, dickwad."

"Ooooh, 'dickwad'!"

Fuck off, Herman.

"There ya go. Proceed." Herman tilts his head as he stares at my computer screen, his cocky Tyler Durden smirk topped with his ridiculous scratched "dude" sunglasses. Why can't you at least sit on a chair they way they were meant to be sat on? Any time I'm trying to write, you have to sit on it backward and hang your hairy, folded arms over the back.

"Because Sis says we're 'rough around the edges', so we gotta look the part."

That's you, asshole. Not me.

"Oh, now it's 'asshole'. Am I detecting a sexual pattern to these advancing epithets?"

This is bullshit. Give me a chance, here.

"Get the poor dude into motion. There's no story at all, without some action."

Alright, alright. So he's staring with wide-eyed amazement. Into an azure sky, streaked with clouds. They appear to be illuminated from within.

"So what's he seein'?"

Holy crap, Herman! He's reflecting!

"Light gets reflected. He must be recalling something."

And how exactly does 'amazement' come from that?

"He's amazed he can remember. Because he's too fuckin' old to remember, but he just did. So he's amazed."

Herman!

"Okay! Oh-kay. Lighten up."

I'm on pause. I'm still on pause. Alright, are you gonna give me a chance?

"Let's go over the plot, here. Has he got a weapon?"

No...you're doing it again. You're still doing it.

"Has he got beer?"

Screw it. I'm going to bed."

"You can't go to bed, there's a story in here, waiting to come out."

Then you write it.

"By myself?"

By yourself.

"Finally! I get some serious input!"

It's all your input, now. Have a blast.

Suddenly, the entire area around my keyboard changes. Stains from spilled beer and soda rise to the top of the surrounding carpet, the ambient light dims and the air stinks of rancid tobacco smoke. The keyboard turns from black to a dull gray. The ashes that haven't made it beneath the keys as yet, indicate why. And, Rhea hops down from atop the big old monitor. There's someplace better to sleep.

The character notices Herman sitting down to type, and he looks into an azure sky, dumbstruck with abject fear and a really, really serious sense of foreboding. I'm actually going to bed, but Herman calls out after me.

"Y'know, you probably shouldn't drink when you wanna write. You should leave all of that to me."

And since we're the same guy, how exactly is that gonna work?

"Spare me the details. Buy some decent booze for a change. No more cheap shit."

Herman began.
"It was a dark, and stormy fuckin' night..."

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