Cover Crisis - A lesson learned in market research and advice for graphic designers.

Ok, so you're probably thinking 'who does this girl think she is'. I admit I'm pretty much a nobody. I have no published books or other literary credentials but I do have a brain and I have assisted in designing a book cover that is about to go on the market (it's a sci-fi/ fantasy called Kindred by Bradley C. Bridgens). I'm also a book purchaser, but you knew that.

Whilst doing some market research on the amazon.com website for my first WIP Aura, I had to laugh at some of the ridiculous covers that are out there.

So here I was, sipping my Red Thai Curry Cup-o-Noodle soup, perusing Amazon when I clicked on the vampire books. I almost killed my laptop when the page loaded, spraying soup over my keyboard. Call me crazy, call me a grandma, but don't you think some of the covers are... well... tacky?
Female faces, carved male torsos, jaws, necks, jaws latched onto necks, woman dressed in PVC... same, same, same, same, same. As if the predicable and *ahem* lame poses aren't enough to stop me groaning, some poor author could well be paying the price for said covers. I'd die if that were my book. I'm not going to go dropping names because I haven't personally read any of these books (even though I'm sure they're written better than they are designed) but I'm beginning to wonder what is going through graphic designers' heads these days. Yes, that's right, I'm ranting about the graphic designers!
Seriously people, what were you thinking? If I scroll down the page all I see are the descriptions aforementioned and 70% of the time I can't
a) read the title of the book, or
b)tell where the title ends and the author's name begins, or vice versa.
I'm not sure if this is a tactic to get me to look at the cover longer than the average 4 seconds of if you're angry at your boss and trying to foil sales in a bid to piss them off either way your tactics are as lame as the cover.
Here are the problems I'm experiencing with some covers, and this is on literature on a whole, not just vampire fiction.

• The cover text is too similar a colour to the rest of the book. I frown at the book to try make out the text. Any frown is bad when looking at a cover. The picture is then your only hope to get my hands on it. I might read the blurb, but probably not.
• The cover is way too busy, littered with quotes, tag lines or other junk. This one earns a screwed nose unless the title or image underneath all the words looks somewhat decent enough to pick up. Put this on the inside cover (hardback) or on the back of the book and I will pick the book up without screwing my nose. Promise.
• Too many effects have been added to the text i.e., shadows, blood effects, pictures in the font. Sometimes the font selection alone is a bad choice. If I can't read it in a glance, you've lost my interest. See bullet above.
• The cover is waaaaay too sexy/corny and I don't want to be seen lifting something like that from the shelf because it's simply just too freaking humiliating. I'll happily blush buying a nudie mag for a laugh at the picture, and you know, I even think the girl on the cover will be less scantily clad. I don't want an embarrassing cover lurking on my personal bookshelf.
• The title doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the picture on the front and I'm left confused. Next book.
• Then there are the books that have the most boring cover and I just know straight away it's been pumped out by an author (or even ghost writer) on a time limit or been designed by an extremely unimaginative graphic designer. It's probably just me, but I can't bring myself to read these books. The cover is boring so I naturally assume the story is. Blame your graphic designer because I didn't buy the potentially bestselling book.

These are attributes I will notice and possibly buy based on a good blurb and an attractive cover.

• The title is effective. It needs to be thought provoking, dramatic, funny, even just a curious sounding word or a word I don't understand the meaning of will grab me. If I don't buy the book that day, I'll at least go home and Google the title's definition because I can't get it out of my head. Then I'll go back and buy it. If you're real lucky I might even just grab a dictionary from the reference section and look it up immediately before buying the novel. Heck, I might even buy the dictionary too.
• The picture tells a thousand words so make it relevant. A thousand words are about a chapter long, perhaps a half. If I like the picture, I'll like your story.
• The design is simple. None of this super-mega-uber-imposed nonsense you see plastered all over a paperback. I see the title, I see the author, and I see the picture. If the picture is a full spread image the colours can't be busy. If you're going for a solid colour, red means passion/anger/lust, blue is peaceful and mysterious, black is dark and thrilling, white is sincere and gentle. Remember what your mother told you, less is best.
• The image is actually relevant or cleverly contradictory. It's captured my attention because it's clicked and hit home or I think to myself, ooOoOOo, what is that about *grab*.
• The blurb is a knockout. If the author has some kind of idea what the cover could look like (or will if the author is designing it themselves) they need to make sure the blurb is as captivating as the cover. There is nothing worse than scouting through the walls of cruddy covers (with possibly saleable blurbs, but I wouldn't know, I didn't read it because the cover sucked) only to turn the book over, read two lines and go "nuh". I put it back on the shelf and frustratingly keep searching. If the blurb is awesome I go to the counter and buy the book. Then I go home and read it straight away. And hopefully, I'll finish it within the following three days. Then tell my friends... you get the gist.

I know some of these books sell, and some sell well, but if a best seller has an average cover imagine the sales if it had a knockout cover. Just some food for thought because when you think about it, people really do judge a book by its cover. Make it count.

LH xox

WIP-Equinox

Since finishing Aura my brain has been filled with nothing but ideas so after much protest from my husband, the sequel, Equinox is well underway. So far 22 chapters are in first draft with an expectancy of about 40 chapters in total. I know that sounds huge but the chapters are short as they alternate between the view points of Grace and Evan, getting my readers excited about hearing what Evan has to say.
Equinox follows the trials and tribulations of Grace and Evan's new life together as they battle to keep their new family safe from something they never perceived to exist. What that is, I can't tell you just yet, but let's just say we haven't heard the last from our old friend Thomas.
Focusing on family values and continuing with Aura's primary theme of unconditional love, Equinox is sure to have you valuing the sanctity of family and praying that your family doesn't have secrets quite like these!

LHxo

Grace's opening chapter on Wordle

And now Grace has her turn. Looks like there's only
one thing on her mind! I can't blame her.

Evan's opening chapter on Wordle

Just for a bit of fun... These are the most commonly used
words in chapter one of the sequel to Aura, Equinox,
written in the male protagonist's point of view.

MS Word FAIL #2

As if post number one was disgraceful enough, Microsoft HR need to start firing their staff... starting with Yoda.
(And yes, I'm aware the sentence didn't make sense in the first place. I was editing after all.)

MS Word FAIL #1

I read Nathan Bransford's insightful blog post this morning Can I Get a "Ruling": Quotation Marks for Emphasis which expresses the annoyance (and occasionally, hilarity) of the improper use of quotation marks.
But that's not the best bit.

Maybe I should just post the pic and let you figure out what had me in giggles just hours after reading his post.

So...

Well hello!!

Yes, I know, I know... it's belated but I'm still figuring out this whole blogosphere. Don't tell anyone but I actually borrowed 'Blogging for Dummies' at the library today lol.

As you may know I'm currently writing a book called 'Aura' (read 'About Me' for a blurb if you didn't know). Today I think I pooped myself - and enjoyed it!!

I'm currently on a mission to hack down the manuscript from 121 500 words to... well anything below that really. I'm currently sitting on 110 500 (but I've got two editions going, one on the laptop the other on PC because I just love making life difficult for myself). I'm happy with the progress as I don my mask and hack away with my trusty chainsaw but I realized getting rid of dodgy sentences, corny lines and over descriptiveness was not the answer. So by chapter six I basically went, ctrl+highlight to end of chapter... DELETE. Actually I think it was backspace. Then the pooping in the pants began. I was in the library too!! (Just so you know, I am speaking of metaphorical poo) I admit after editing the book four (FOUR!!) times in five months I was pretty set in my ways but something in my gut just made me go, you know what - screw it. It took some large, dangly cajones but I think it just may be what sells my novel!

Now of course I was sensible and backed up the chapter but lets forget about that. Regardless, I panicked. I hadn't written fresh material on the same subject in months. I automatically felt pressured to come up with something really good. As if by some total miracle... I think I did.


Basically what I'm trying to say to other writers out there is take a risk!! If you don't like it, fine, delete it (because you copied it first, right?) and go about your merry manuscript way as if nothing ever happened. But, to anyone who is aspiring to write (and finish) that book make a meal of your pride and try re-writing or fixing areas that could turn things into a more exciting direction. Of course you don't want to go too out there and mess up the plot and continuation and end up with a choose-your-own-adventure, but give your characters some options. This is also probably a really good idea if you end up with writer's block or are feeling insecure/nervous/generally crappy about your story. And if you don't no one has to know. Or you could be so impressed you could post it in your blog.

Terminal

Clang of doors, bang
Rumble of turbines, ding of the bell
Sleep sleep

Shriek of a child, mum
Hum of the sweeper, click of high heels
Sleep sleep

Warm on my face, sun
Cotton in my mouth, dry, itchy skin
Sleep sleep

Growl in my belly, pang
Burn of my eyes, ache in my heart
Sleep sleep

Portrait of a Kiss

I bet he loved his job, painting all the pretty women that lined up on the street. They all adored him but they didn’t know just how shallow he really was. He would strut along the pavement on audition day:

“Too skinny, too ugly, you look like a boy...”

He was one to talk with his round belly, balding head and bad personal hygiene. These young women were paying him to paint their portrait. It was disgusting. I changed my mind about the audition and headed off down the street. A young man, not much older than I turned the corner a few yards ahead. I pulled my coat in tighter and bowed my head. I prayed to God a gust of wind wouldn’t blow my jacket up, exposing my scant under garments beneath my thick grey pea coat. The man doffed his golf cap and I smiled politely under my flapper hat, not making eye contact. I walked on, my heart thudding with worry as I imagined my backside being revealed by the unkind breeze but it almost stopped dead when he spoke.

“Ma’am?”

I froze on the near deserted street. Why did he want to talk to me?

“Excuse me?” he called again. His voice was soft and gentle. I turned slowly toward him.

“Yes?” My voice was thin.

“Did he reject you?”

His curious words caught me off guard. “I-I’m sorry?”

“If he rejected you he is a moron.” He was so sincere.

“Oh.” I lifted my head a little higher. “Well, no, he didn’t reject me. I left.” I tilted my hat so I could see him better. He was a handsome man with a square yet soft jaw and smiling grey eyes. Loose brown curls protruded from the bottom of his cap. He wore beige slacks and a waistcoat, his hands in his pockets. His rolled up sleeves exposed his forearms.

“You have beauty and brains.” His smile lit up his face like lights on a stage.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I felt rude asking but he seemed as if he knew Mr Westley the unsavoury artist aforementioned.

He extended his hand. “I’m Jonathon Wicks, Mr Westley’s assistant.”

I shook his hand gently, as all ladies do. “Evelyn Scott, it’s a pleasure.” I withdrew my gloved hand.

“Evelyn, what a beautiful name. Why are you leaving?”

Now I smiled, more to myself. I’d tell him the truth.

“Mr Westley is a pervert and I don’t even like his art.”

“That's a bold first impression. Then why were you auditioning?” A cheeky grin crossed his ridiculously handsome face.

My only response was to blush. He laughed heartily.

“Let me show you my own art.”

“You’re an artist?” I scoffed.

He shrugged. I spied his hands. They looked soft and delicate, his nails all short and even. They were creative hands.

“What kind of art do you specialise in?”

“I paint nudes.”

I turned away in disgust but he grabbed my arm gently.

“Mr Wicks! Take your hands off me!” I didn’t yell but he should have understood I was rather displeased with his uncouth behaviour towards a lady.

He pulled me in closer to his face. He smelled sweet and I was surprised to find I didn’t feel the need to pull away.

“I’m only asking you to look, Ma’am.”

I examined his diamond like eyes. They were so kind and gentle looking. Eyes like these didn’t lie. He released my arm and turned away. I followed him, as he had expected.

His studio was small but bright and airy. A red velvet chaise stood in the corner, shimmering in the sunlight that poured in from the window like liquid gold. A plain wooden stool sat before the open window and an empty easel and a table of brushes, jars and tubes of paint at its side took up the rest of the floor space. A closet full of canvases spewed colours of the rainbow, predominantly peach, bared buttocks and breasts the main theme.

I stepped closer to the canvases while Jonathon placed the easel to the side. His paintings were wonderfully tasteful and the realism of their faces captured my heart.

“These are incredible,” I whispered, looking through the art.

Jonathon stepped inside the small room and began fishing through the frames. He pulled out a somewhat small piece portraying a black haired woman reclined on the velvet chaise. Every tiny detail was painted so intricately, he must’ve studied her for countless hours.

“She is stunning,” I gasped, reaching to the frame for a closer inspection. Indeed she was with her full red pout, dark eyelashes and amazing blue eyes.

“She isn’t real,” Jonathon confessed with a smile.

“Pardon?” I said, a little surprised.

“I didn’t use a model for the painting, for many of these paintings. These are women in my head.”

I stared at him in bewilderment, clutching the canvas. “I don’t believe you!”

“But you must! I normally paint portraits of the interesting but less attractive women that pass through Mr Westley’s studio.” I set the black haired woman aside as he pulled out a less than perfect girl. Her eyes were staring in different directions – one inwards, one straight ahead - but she was very pretty. Again the detail was incredible.

“Paint me,” I instructed, folding my arms and facing him.

He pursed his lips and pulled them to the side ever so adorably. He folded his arms and examined me from a comfortable distance.

“What are you wearing under your coat?”

I willingly opened it and pulled the shoulders back. A black silk bustier and matching knickers and suspender belt covered the majority of my torso. However, my stockings were uneven and my shoes were splattered with dirt. My attire was a little saucier than I would have intended for an unknown artist. I was slightly embarrassed by the state of my shoes. My tram had stopped right by a puddle and two unruly boys splashed mud on me.

Jonathon, unperturbed by the feet turned away and stood by the window in thought. I buttoned my coat and perched on the nearby stool. I too gazed out the window, waiting patiently for a response. Scant drops of rain sparkled in the orange sunlight.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right,” I smiled, folding my hands. “What would you like me to do?”

He tugged the chaise over to the window and I moved out of the way and removed my coat. The fresh air dried my sticky arms. He carefully positioned the lounge so the light was just right then began rummaging through a box under the table of brushes. He pulled out a red boa and wound it around my neck. I went to remove my hat but he shook his head.

“Leave that, it’s perfect.” His words were just a whisper. “Lay down for me.”

I slid onto to the lounge and he began arranging my limbs like a puppet. I giggled as he fiddled, the boa's feathers tickling my nose. He rearranged that too and stepped back a few paces.

“Now don’t move.”

He fetched a blank canvas from the closet and settled it on the easel. He opened his waistcoat and unfastened the buttons on his shirt then began sketching with a piece of chalk, his face peeking out from the white fabric frequently. He then exchanged the chalk for a brush and began dabbing it in the pools of black, red, yellow and peach. His eyes followed the lines of my face along with his brush. He worked silently, beautifully. The San Francisco summer rain pitter-pattered gently on the rooftop creating a special kind of music. It was very relaxing, laying in the sunshine listening to nature's music. Occasional drops of golden rain sprayed me unexpectedly from the open window. Jonathon’s silver eyes examined my face, my body so professionally. His forehead glistened and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room had become stuffy with the heat and rain.

Several moments later Jonathon threw his brush on the table in annoyance.

“I have to stop,” he called through the canvas. He sounded very disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, still not moving in case he changed his mind.

“This weather is too wet, the paint isn’t drying enough and the colours are blending. You can relax now, Miss Scott.”

I sat up and removed the infernal feather boa that not clung to my skin. I covered myself with my coat, even though I was insanely hot, and joined Jonathon by the easel. He lit a cigarette and the smoke danced in circles. He stood with one hand by his head, the cigarette hugged by his index and middle fingers while his other hand met his bent elbow. He examined his work. I too looked to the canvas. My mouth opened.

“Jonathon!” I gasped.

It was absolutely stunning. In the short time I was laying there he had a nearly finished painting of me, navel up gazing out the window. He captured my brown waves of hair wonderfully, my red lips and pointed chin. My dark lashes and thin brows were almost identical. I could see his interpretation of sun's golden rays across my face. The paint still shone wet and fresh. I noticed the sections where it began to mash - between the red from the boa and the black from my bustier.

“Once the details go into the eyes, the nose... and then finish the rest, it will be better.” He mumbled when he spoke, his disappointment apparent.

“Better?” I shrieked. “You are so talented! You are much better than that fat old man!”

He smiled coyly as he inhaled a smoky breath.

“If you’re flattering me because you have no money, please stop.”

“I am not joking, Mr Wicks. You are gifted.” I said this as seriously as possible but he still chuckled softly.

“All right, if you insist.” He turned to his brushes and began cleaning them.

“I do insist. Please, let me come back so you can finish it. I will pose again for you whenever you like. Please, Mr Wicks. I want to help you. I want to get your name out there so that everyone can enjoy the beautiful art you bring into this world.” I sounded desperate, and I was.

He shook his head as he rinsed his brushes, wiping them in the direction of the fine bristles. His cigarette hung precariously between his lips.

“Fine. You may pose for me again.”

“Thank you!” I cried victoriously, grasping his arm. He set his clean brushes aside and turned to me. “How can I pay you? How much do I owe?”

“Never mind the money,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his cigarette laden hand. "I don't want it."

“No, please. It’s the least I can do.”

He lowered his hand from his face after taking a long drag. He blew the smoke towards the window out of the corner of his mouth.

“You want to pay me?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

I nodded.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me ever so gently with a slightly open mouth. His lips lingered on mine for a moment long enough to feel the wet warmth of his face soak into mine and the scent of his subtle cologne to dance in my nostrils. He slowly pulled away leaving me dazed and wordless.

That cheeky smile crossed his face again.

“Consider your debt paid.”

Nine Kilometers

I was tired of hearing ‘how are you’. I hated dating simply because of the awkward post-breakup conversations you have with family and friends. Why? How? Did you bang her first? Then... are you staying friends. Oh boy - we were definitely not staying friends. Exes and friends just don’t belong in the same sentence. And a lot of the time it’s because the two got involved in the first place.

There was nothing virginal about Virginia.

My (loyal) pal Gordy and I had decided to skip uni for a couple of weeks to just drive somewhere down south. I don’t know where but as long as I had wheels beneath me and thewind in my hair I really didn’t give a shit.

I threw Gordy’s stuff in the boot then we were off. It wasn’t as exciting as I’d hoped. Maybe because we didn’t know where were we going? Maybe it was because we were still stuck in the middle of surburbia? Or maybe it was because I hadn’t cranked the tunes yet? Yeah, that was it. I poked a disk into the dash and the stereo pumped out Twisted Sister's ‘I Wanna Rock’ at million decibels (or there about) as we rolled down the highway heading to... well I still didn’t know. Gordy tapped me on the shoulder. He started signing, too fast as usual.

“Slow down dude!” I hated it when he did his Auslan while I drove. He rolled his eyes and signed slower.

‘Can we stop at any big things and get hitch hikers?’

“Err, sure,” I shrugged. Big things were awesome. I wanted to get a snow dome from every one of them. The Big Banana, that huge Ram, the Pineapple. I didn't know where these places were but I was determined to find out now. Hitch hikers? They were uncommon in Australia so I doubted that we’d find one along the way.

Gordy began a silent game of pointing-at-random-places-on-the-map searching for a destination. I had driven all of 6ks when I started craving a Red Bull. I stopped at the service station for a caffeine fix. I grabbed Gordy a carton of choc milk and a Snickers bar. Being my typical space cadet self and not paying any attention, I fell over an enormous back pack laying near the counter. Don’t ask me how I missed it. It was the size of a baby elephant. I cursed as my items scattered across the floor along with yours truly.

“I’m so sorry!” a voice cried out.

I collected myself from the floor. Some hot tourist lady was standing at the counter, red as a fried Pom on Cottesloe beach. Poor thing was so embarrassed I wanted to die for her.

“Hey, that’s alright, I should watch where I’m putting my size twelve clodhoppers.”

I grabbed my stuff of the floor and set them on the counter. The lady started trying to jam stuff into her seriously overcrowded bag.

“You er, going somewhere?”

“No, she said,” shaking her head. Blow me down, she was a freaking Pom.

“What’s with the bag?” I was an excellent conversationalist.

She smiled. “I’m a backpacker.”

“No shit! Wow that must be exciting.” Like I said about the conversation thing.

I paid for my loot and headed back to the car. Something Gordy said made me stop. Hitch hikers, backpackers – they’re the same right? The auto doors opened but I spun around and walked back to the Pommy chick kneeling on the ground.

“My names Barney. I’d extend a hand but they’re kind of full.”

She was eating a donut. She wiped the sugar from her hand and extended it to me. “Tracy.” She pretended to shake my hand and I laughed.

“Hey, where you headed?”

“Nowhere really. I’m on my last few weeks here in Perth and I thought I’d just play it by ear.”

“No kidding! Me and my mate Gordy are on a bit of a road trip ourselves.”

“That sounds like fun. Where are you going?”

“Same place as you,” I smirked.

She looked a little confused.

“Nowhere in particular. We’re just driving.”

“Oh!” she realised, finally laughing.

“You, ah, wanna tag along? We’ve got room.”

“Umm, sure,” she said cheerfully. She was really pretty when she smiled. Shame she didn’t seem so bright.

“Come outside, I’ll introduce you to Gords.”

She grabbed her burden and dragged it outside. The thing looked damn heavy. I threw my crap into Gordy’s lap and helped Tracy with her bag. The elephant weighed a tonne! I lugged it into the boot with a thud and I hoped I didn't break anything. I opened the door for her then got in, careful not to whack my head like I usually did.

“Gordy, this is Tracy, she’s coming on our trip.” I fired up the engine. Thankfully it started first time this time. Stupid heap of crap old Subaru. Gordy turned around and waved to our guest.

“Gordy’s a mute. He can understand you when you talk but can’t say anything. Do you know much sign language?”

“Ah, no. Sorry I don’t.”

“Well, that’s going to make things interesting,” I muttered under my breath. They wouldn't have heard me under the rattle of the engine.

I tried to pull out of the servo but traffic was insane.

“Group up people!”

Gordy kept trying to sign to me and I swiped him. He was apparently blind too. I turned to him and snapped.

“Quit it, ya dick! I’m trying to pull out of here without smashing into someone!” The jerks finally grouped up and I finally caught a break long enough for old Betsy’s smoke to dissipate before strangling the unsuspecting drivers behind me. I stomped on the go pedal and the L series touring wagon lurched forward (in its own time) and we were off, hopefully for real this time.

Gordy began nudging me again. I turned to him and he started to sign.

“Vagina called? Dude, stop calling her that!”

Gordy developed a love for calling Virginia Vagina after she ran away with my supposed best friend and the rest of the uni's hockey team. They deserved each other as far as I was concerned.

“I’m not calling her back.”

“Who’s Vagina?” Tracy asked from the back seat.

“My ex.”

“Why is she ‘Vagina’?”

“Because she’s a whore.”

That pretty much summed it up. Tracy caught on.

“So where are we going?”

“Yeah Gordy, where are we going?”

I had left it in his hands to find a place on the map. He began stabbing locations with his finger which was useless to me. I guess choosing a mute navigator wasn’t the smartest decision.

“Tracy, can you please help him?”

“Sure.” She seemed like a top chick.

They began suggesting places either followed by a yes, no or where the hell is that.
‘Gold digger’ began screaming from my phone. Gordy leapt to answer it, sending the map flying (thanks to the open windows). Tracy squealed in the back as the map went mental and accomplished its suicide mission by flying out the window into the windscreen of the car behind me. It swerved to miss the kamikaze map and a chorus of horns began blowing. Distracted by all the commotion, I ran a red light. 7.5 kilometres from home. Wow.
The phone was still ringing. Gordy was signing ‘vagina’ repetitively until Tracy grabbed the singing phone off him.

“It’s Vagina.”

I snatched the phone and looked at it. Gordy must have changed her name, funny bastard. I reluctantly answered it to avoid further calls.

“Hey, Vagina – er Virginia.”

It was so hard being nice to her but I only did it because it pissed her off.

She began prattling on about some stuff she left at my place. Books, clothes, shoes, jewellery, blah, blah, blah.

“I’ll leave it in a box outside.”

Jabber, jabber...

“I don’t give a shit, it’s not my stuff.”

I hung up.

“Gordan! She has her own ringtone for a reason!”

He flipped me the bird. That was a universal sign.

“You answered it anyway,” Tracy piped.

“Hey, don’t you start!”

The car fell silent.

Gordy grabbed his choc milk and opened his snickers. I waited until the next red light to get my drink.

“You know that stuff is super bad for you?” Tracy said airy-fairily, referring to my caffeine fix.

“It keeps me awake. So unless you want to drive this bucket of crap, let me drink my can of super bad.”

Finally a red light. I cracked open the can only to be covered with a fizzing spray of energy drink. It squirted all over the steering wheel, the windscreen, me, Gordy, the floor, the seats. Tracy began laughing like an evil kookaburra. Gordy just stared at me.

"Don't sign a word," I threatened. He stifled his strange, silent laugh. “Screw this, I’m going home.”

My first ever road trip lasted all of 9 kilometres. That must be a world record.

Work Perks

I pulled over before I got to the street to check myself in the mirror. New clients were scary. I quickly learned through my apprenticeship that Ms, Mrs or Miss made no difference. There was always some kind of desperate housewife waiting behind that front door. I smoothed my hair – the ladies liked the scruffy blonde type. I had shaved – they also like the stubbly look. I drew the line at skipping the brushed teeth.
There was a blocked drain, leaky tap or faulty toilet that needed fixing, deliberate of course, at least once a day. I was quite surprised no one had poured quick set concrete into their drains, but then again...
I checked the job sheet.

‘Leaking shower taps’.

I laughed. No surprise there.
Mrs Connell was a repeat offender. I didn’t need to use the map to get to her house anymore. Twenty two Pepperwood Parade. I’d never forget it, nor would I forget the leopard print g-string leotard with the black tights underneath. Apparently I arrived early and caught her in the middle of things. Yeah, right. She should’ve known by the seventh visit that I was always on time. That was visit eleven. The early excuse gets old, like her really - well old for me. I should be so lucky to find a fifty something year old woman working out to Carmen Electra’s ‘Fit to Strip’. So lucky to still have my eyesight.
And then there was Mrs Morris. She conveniently forgot to take her iVibe Rabbit out of the bathroom. Twice.
I’ve seen it all in my line of work. Fluffy kitten heels, unbuttoned business shirt, hot pants and a hundred Wonderbras, sometimes all at the same time. I’ve been asked opinions on dresses while the client is wearing revealing underwear. I’ve been offered lemonade, massages, perfectly aged 20 year old single malt whiskey (like myself at the time) and spas. My muscles didn’t ache. The only thing that ached half the time was the sphincter keeping down lunch.
Sure I got the boring clients who would go about their business while I plunge their dunny. I had the ‘normal’ clients who would offer me a cup of tea to be friendly and I’d accept like the sucker I am for punishment. I’ve looked through wedding photos from the 1950’s and sampled 12 different kinds of homemade jams. Old people get lonely and I can’t help but feel sorry for them but they’re the nice, normal people who make the day interesting. I assumed every client was a crazy simply because they were the worst. Expect the worst, hope for the best, right?
I sighed and closed my eyes, briefly resting my head against the seat. I took in a moment of serenity before pulling the van back onto the street and finding the house.
It was different to what I was used to. Nice. New. Modern. I couldn’t understand why a brand new house’s bathroom fixtures needed mending so I immediately concluded that this was another crazy. Just another day - joy. I grabbed my paperwork that was fastened to a clipboard and climbed out of the van. I rang the door bell and a big dog started barking. I was used to those as well, and the ankle biters of the canine and human variety. They were the worst, little tool thieves! A female voice cried out for the dog to shut up and the solid door pulled open. The security screen was so dark I couldn’t see who or what lurked behind.

“Good morning, I’m Darren, the plumber. You called about some leaking taps.” I tried to sound gruff so I could just get in and out.

“Hi, Darren. I’m Trish. Please, come inside.”
The screen door clicked open and swung towards me. An amazing woman not much older than me stood barefoot on the polished tiles wearing comfortable, white tracksuit pants and a long sleeved grey shirt. Her curly brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and she had huge green eyes. If she chose to hit on me, I wouldn’t mind so much, I suppose. Better than the wrinkled cougars that normally preyed on me.
I stepped inside and slid off my feral boots. It was the first time in a long time that I worried my feet would smell. Thankfully they were okay.

“Could you please show me to the bathroom?”

“Sure it’s upstairs,” she smiled. Her teeth were straight and gleaming white. We headed up the stair case to the ensuite. I admit - I glanced at her ass once or twice as she led the way. The house was very tidy and it still had its new smell.

“In here.”

She directed me to the bathroom and indeed water was trickling through the shower head. I set the paperwork on the vanity and stepped inside the shower to take a look. Trish stood back and supervised.

“Be careful the water-”

Before she could finish a gush of water poured through the head all over mine. It was freezing and I jumped back in surprise, stumbling over the shower hob. My client caught me before I hit the ground.

“-pours out unexpectedly was what I was going to say, but I think you know that now.” She was stifling a laugh.
I scrambled to my feet and wiped my face. She handed me a towel.

“Thanks,” I muttered, patting down the front of my shirt. It got me good. My wet shirt was freezing but I ignored it.

“I need to turn off the water supply for a while. If you need to boil the kettle or anything, you best do it now.”

“Yeah I do. Would you like a coffee or something?”

She was ‘normal’. She was also hot.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Stupid me! I didn’t mean to accept her offer but her pretty smile threw me off. I’d fix her taps, take a few sips and piss off. Twenty minutes, tops.

“How do you have it?”

Not with clients, I reminded myself. And I didn’t mean the cuppa.

“I’ll have a coffee, white with one. Thanks-“

I struggled for the name.

“Trish,” she smiled.

“Trish,” I echoed, returning the smile.

She left the room and I followed her out with my clipboard. I collected my tools from the van and took them back upstairs, returning downstairs to turn off the water. When I came back inside I noticed two steaming mugs on the glass topped dining table that sat in full view from the front door. She was sitting there with a laptop in front of her. I stood in the entry way looking like an idiot.

“Come in,” she cooed, motioning with her hand.

I had wanted to fix her taps first but what the hey, I was getting paid to drink coffee with this woman. In fact, she was paying me to do it.
I set down the tools and pulled out a chair. I felt rather awkward, sitting at this stranger’s table while her attention was focused on the screen.

“What are you working on?” I asked, making conversation and taking a sip. It was a pretty good cup.

“Some stupid presentation.” She clicked the computer shut.

“Oh, what do you do?”

“I work in advertising.” She grabbed her mug with two hands and sipped it.

“Interesting.”

“No it isn’t really.”

I nodded. She looked at me for a moment which made the awkward silence worse. I took a few long sips and looked away, wincing as the hot liquid burned my throat.

“So, plumbing.”

“Yep.” I think I was blushing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she cooed.

I was definitely blushing. “It’s not the most glamorous job. You probably wear nice suits and heels to work. I throw on some Hard Yakka blues and boots and fix peoples toilets.”

“I’m sure there’s a fun side to being up to your elbows in other people’s shit.”

I snorted, almost spraying my mouthful at her.

“Not today.”

“Am I the first job for the day?” I think she was flirting. If so, she was bloody good at it.

“Yeah. I normally start earlier but I had lots of paper pushing to get on top of first.”

She raised an eyebrow at me and sipped. I wasn’t comfortable with the way she looked at me so I told her I should get working. She excused me and I went back up to the master bedroom.
I worked quickly. I had done this job a thousand times and before long it was over. I was nice and cleaned up after myself a little better than usual and packed away my tools. I was washing my hands in the sink when Trish appeared in the door way.

“All finished?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good as new.”

“It was leaking when I moved in a week ago. I had this house built”

“Oh. Well, as good as it should have been.”

She laughed genuinely. “Tradesmen these days.”

I frowned at her.

“Except for you of course, you fixed it, and cleaned up after yourself.”

I smiled as I dried my now clean hands on her fluffy, soft towel. I could feel her watching me. I dried a little longer than necessary but I eventually let go of my temporary security blanket and took a peek at her. I couldn’t read her expression.

“I’m done now. I’ll organise the invoice for you. I won’t charge you for the coffee time.”

I grabbed my tools and turned to leave the bathroom but she blocked the path. Uh oh. Maybe she was a crazy. I stared at her for a moment, trying to be professional and assert myself using eye contact but she didn’t move. She just looked back with those glowing green eyes. They flicked between my left and right eye, searching me. I felt her hand pry the toolbox out of mine and she slid it back onto the vanity. I turned to retrieve it but without warning she grabbed my face and planted her lips passionately against mine. I couldn’t help but return her kiss. I’d wanted to do it since I saw her. Those lips were soft. I brought my hand up to her cheek and held it, that was soft too. Then as quickly as it started, it stopped. She pulled away and took a step back. I frowned at her, confused. She eyed her feet and rubbed her nose. She was letting me pass. I snatched at my toolbox and walked downstairs, grabbing my boots at the door.
I threw my box into the van and rammed my feet into my boots. She walked outside as if nothing had happened and I filled out her tax invoice, scribbling everything down with a shaking hand. She handed me her credit card and I swiped it on the machine. She signed the slip along with the invoice and I handed her the receipts, not bothering to check them or staple them like I normally did. I was so angry with myself I just wanted to get out of there!

“Thanks, Darren,” she mumbled. She waved quickly then hurried back inside. I swung myself into the van and slammed the door. How could I be so stupid, so unprofessional? I started the engine but something made me look back at the invoice. Something was on there that I didn’t write. I shut off the engine and grabbed the board. I blinked and smiled.

‘See you upstairs.’

Short Ass

Tippy, Tappy and Geronimo looked ridiculous in their get up. They were their clown names of course, well, except for Geronimo. His mother was most certainly the most evil woman alive, calling her son such a name. It was bad enough he was born with Achondroplasia (a kind of dwarfism for you not-so-smarts) but to call a child such a preposterous name? No wonder he joined the circus. It was his destiny.
Me? I’m Dolores, a miniature donkey, a short ass. We were a quartet of midgets. Tippy (Gerald to be exact) was my carer. He’s a sweet guy, a little rough when he brushes my mane before a show, but he looks after me well. Tappy (Mark) was quite frankly a jerk. Some people often accuse ‘little people’ of having big attitudes. Well, this was certainly the case for Tappy. Sometimes I’d kick him and run away just for existing. He’d call me a stupid ass and then I’d poop in his bag. I bit him during a show once because he tried to set my tail on fire. We loved to hate each other.
Tonight was going to be interesting. Mark decided it would be a really funny trick to put gin in the donkey’s water. Gerald was ever so nice as to refill my bucket after I kicked it over but I hadn’t planned my revenge just yet. He had it coming to him though. Like a great big freaking freight train.
I didn’t explain the nights show did I?
Well now... We’re clowns. We do funny things to make simple minded people laugh (because people that look different are apparently really hilarious. Rude. We don’t laugh at ‘normal’ people). The trio of shrimps (I’m allowed to call them that!) run about with silly hats and shoes and gadgets that spray water and so on tormenting each other. I admit, our best show was actually a fight between Mark and Geronimo. Bickering dwarves must just be funny to watch because the crowd was going nuts. As usual, I stepped in and act as the peacemaker and the show goes on as per normal.
I usually enter on my cue and the crowd aww’s because I am so ridiculously cute you just want to squeeze me so tight my stuffing will come out. We do our Shrek act (where two of the dwarves sit on each other’s shoulders donning a blanket painted to look like the green ogre, complete with head. Then I stand beside them and continue looking cute while an overhead dialogue tape plays. Gerald gives me signals - which I’ve memorised, but he doesn’t know that – and I pretend to be the irritating little donkey. It’s rather derogatory but the kids love it and I love the kids) and I do a few little tricks then the other guys take over.
Anyhow, tonight’s show was different. These three men looked absolutely ridiculous because we weren’t in the tent tonight. I wasn’t too sure, but I think we were in a theatre. I couldn’t tell you, I was just a donkey. A ridiculously cute one. For the first time in a long time, I was nervous about a show, if you could call it that. It was really more like a nightmare. Can you imagine the Rocky Horror Picture Show entwined with Arabian Nights? We’re talking donkeys and fishnets. Gerald looked petrified. His manhood was only just concealed behind a red satin thong. I was even more concerned because I kept hearing something about ‘Tippy riding Dolores onto the stage’. Mark and Geronimo had full briefs on. Poor Gerald. What did he deserve to get stuck in the man-thong? If I earned an income from this degrading job, I’d put $20 on one of his nuts falling out. The thought of that made my skin crawl. I brayed in self pity but copped a smack on the nose by Mark. He had better watch himself tonight. In the words of Donkey I was ‘a donkey on the edge’!
I scooted to my bucket to find it missing thanks to the stunt Tappy pulled earlier.
That little man was so evil, I wanted to kick him hard in the head. Maybe that would knock some sense into him! I nervously paced backstage while the boys finished getting ready. Camisoles, boas, gloves. I had really seen too much.
My mouth was so dry I began a desperate search for water. I smelled everything carefully to make sure it wasn’t gin again and I found a glass. Being vertically challenged certainly had its setbacks. I knocked over the glass, tipping the water everywhere. No! That was the only source of water! I tried licking my lips to make my mouth water but nothing helped. Gerald (bless his heart) presumed I was hungry and shoved a fistful of hay in my mouth. He meant well but it made things much worse. I tried to spit it out but the sticks stuck to my tongue! A carrot! An apple! Anything! At least it wasn’t chaff. I think I would’ve choked to death on that. Choking to death would’ve been handy right about now.
“You’re up boys!” the stage director called.
Someone slung a veil over my head and Gerald attached my lead rope and stood beside me, stroking me gently.
I had no idea what was going on! We hadn’t rehearsed anything new! I began to panic.
I licked my lips and stretched my mouth, trying to get the sharp sticks of hay out from my cheeks. The stabbing hurt so badly. Someone finally entered the room with a fresh bucket of water. Without hesitation, I darted towards the bucket, yanking Gerald with me. I only sucked down three long gulps until I was dragged side stage by Mark and Gerald. Mark was growling as he tugged my lead rope. I needed more water. Gerald gave up and stood aside but Mark insisted I get on stage immediately before I ended up with a button fastened tail like Eeyore.
That’s it. I’d had a gutful.
I spun around and marched onto the stage with Gerald clambering onto my back and Mark tripping over himself as I shoved him out the way. I stood in the centre of the stage with the two pint sized men hanging off me. A little shaken, the boys composed themselves and Geronimo signalled for us to come back. We weren’t meant to be on stage yet apparently since a man I didn’t know stood at the front of the stage talking to the crowd. He turned to look at us and we froze. Gerald slid off my back and the crowd roared with laughter.
It happened.
Gerald spun around and corrected his wardrobe malfunction. I brayed, laughing. Mark led me back off stage, howling with laughter, his make-up smudging with the tears of laughter that streaked his face.
Take two.
Gerald was dressed correctly now and I allowed him to climb aboard. He hung on tight and his legs wrapped around my belly felt somewhat comforting.
Our cue finally came and Geronimo waddled onstage to begin our act. He gave me the signal and I walked sensibly back onto the stage. Then I remembered I hadn’t got my revenge on Mark yet. I watched him carefully as he performed his improv. The crowd laughed. Why wouldn’t they? We were funny looking right?
Mark’s shiny gold underwear was captivating as they sparkled in the stage lights. I plotted my revenge.
I waited patiently for my chance. Then Gerald slid off my back – without any more wardrobe malfunctions – and stood beside me. I was free now, I went for it.
In one quick moment I took Mark’s bloomers in my mouth and tugged. They tore away with an audible rip and I made a dash for the stage exit, gold undies in my mouth. I kicked and bounced away victoriously as Mark stood half naked and red faced with the crowd erupting into thunderous laughter.
I couldn’t believe my luck! The green room door was open. I ran as fast as I could through the door knocking over the bucket in my wake. Footsteps and yelling followed me but I continued through the maze of halls until I broke free into the night. I galloped down the busy NYC street with the gold jocks in my mouth and a cast of strange characters yelling behind me. Nothing stood in my way. My way to freedom.