Wednesday, February 23, 2011

2) The Battered Baby.

These stories, that have been available on Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing, writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.

Below are introductory paragraphs and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate those stories, hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.

While his parents continued bickering over their beers and cigarettes in the kitchen, Arthur slouched demoralized upon the vinyl couch in the living room and contemplated the bric-a-brac lying atop the cheap furniture. His disconcerted mind focused upon two framed photographs from the Nineteen-Forties, one of a young Elaine in her white frothy wedding dress, as beautiful as Maureen O’Hara, the other of a young Frank in his sailor’s uniform, looking like Popeye with his chin thrust out and one eye closed in a cynical wink. And Arthur wondered who these two young people were.
He later came to know that his parents, Elaine and Frank Farthing, were opposites of mythic proportions, she being of Irish Catholic stock and he of Irish Protestant. They came from two of Melbourne’s most competitive inner-city neighborhoods, Collingwood and Richmond, whose respective Aussie Rules football teams, the Magpies and the Tigers, were bone breaking nasty in their rivalry. Elaine was vivacious and flirty, she liked a good time, singing and dancing at parties; Frank was dour, shy, macho, going bald and he couldn’t dance in a fit.
Elaine didn’t love Frank Farthing when she married him, she only liked him, thought he was half OK. Apart from her stint with the WAAFS during World War II, she had led a sheltered life, dumb and gullible after a sadistic education in a Catholic convent school during the 1930’s where the nuns caned her viciously for the slightest of transgressions. She was itching to break out but her stern Irish-Australian father kept her on a tight leash, shocked when she wanted to go jitterbugging with all the handsome American soldiers, forbidding her to go out at weekends, even movie houses were suspect dens of decadence.
A housepainter, lapsed Catholic and rabid Communist, her father was one of the original Melbourne Larrikins, dressed in garish three-piece silk-suits and running a two-up gambling school to stay on top of hard times during the Great Depression. He was a domineering, obdurate man, locking her in the house, refusing visits and playtime with friends, whipping her if she disobeyed; she thereby remained naive and infantile, living in her daydreams of a glamorous movie-star’s life.
Her own mother had abandoned her in early childhood and an unsympathetic step-mother contributed to the beatings, belittling her worth as a woman, making her do all the housework, scrubbing the floors till her hands were raw. No wonder Elaine had “mothering” difficulties, domestic violence had long beaten her spirit down, she showed Arthur only what she’d known, an unemotional aloofness.
(This just a sample of the story, if you want to read the rest please go to the WEB address above and buy "Vagabond Freak".)