Short stories from Birmingham readers in 162 countries so far
HEAR ME READ ALOUD
207 stories written & read by me
https://profile.typepad.com/michaelgcasey
https://michaelgcasey.typepad.com/blog/
somebody was reading this, it made me laugh so here is The Common Room again
Wednesday, 25 October 2017
the common room
The Common Room (c)
By
Michael Casey
What are you sniggering at? You are worse than a child, I have to mark this drivel, you would think if they got to Cambridge they would have least learnt how to write, they’d know how to string a sentence together. Or at least make it interesting. This one will get an F, and F is the appropriate letter I should begin with for this drivel. If his Daddy paid for all the best schools perhaps he should have bought his a Dictionary too. Or at least paid for a French mistress who could have taught him English in his gap year. At least they leave a few cases of the 69 at the Porters lodge. He’s a decent sort, he told me to be really rigorous when marking his son’s papers. If only the French mistress was as rigorous and taught him a bit of English in the gap year.
You are smirking now, I’ll have to gather myself up from my chair and see what exactly you are reading. Oh, that 300 and Not OUT, a cricket magazine or something. I would ask Jeffrey Archer to pop in and explain how to write page turning prose, only he’s gone off with Andrew Graham Dixon and some Italian bloke to have dinner. I despair of the youth of today, they can’t string a sentence together, what they write reads like an obituary. Shakespeare should inspire them, or Charles Dickens, or that Little Woman, or rather the book Little Women, they should have Pride and no Prejudice in what they read and then write about. Instead its cut and *&***((ing paste, do they think we are stupid, WE ARE CAMBRIDGE DONS after all.
Yes I will have a Cuban cigar, and I know you really did steal them from Fidel, help yourself to some of the 69 while I light this monster. We are the last bastion of good taste here at Singing Anvil College, we really were founded by a blacksmith 100s of years ago. We are known as the SAC college because of all the ale stored underneath the chapel. That bastard you are reading stole the idea and used it in his butchered version of the baker and the undertaker story, The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, my big fat hairy Cambridge arse.
You are still sniggering, is he really any good? Or does he just make lots of money from his books, even though his writing is horse manure, if I’m being polite. So he’s written over a million words, but is undiscovered, like a pearl of great price but you’ve lost the shovel and the map marking the spot. So he’s just a bit of a cult, yes I said cult. So who exactly reads him? Only Dons in Cracow Poland. But the Poles have a funny sense of humour.
But what do you see in him. He’s fat and silver haired and wears shades, mainly to hide his ugly mug. His structure is like an outside toilet, big and strong with the odour of something quite right, if I ever met the daft brush I’ll give him a bottle of something. No not a bottle of the 69, it would be wasted on him, maybe some cheap perfume for men, or failing that some Jeyes Fluid disinfectant to dab behind his ears.
He just teases and half tells a story and then expects us to finish it for ourselves. I say he’s just a lazy writer, or has run out of steam. You don’t think so? If a girl and a boy are alone then he should tell us what happens, it’s more like a Bollywood film and he just leads us a merry dance. I want more detail. He uses a metaphor. She weighed up his evidence, she assessed the power repeatedly, she smiles and gently glowed, and she in turn gave him a stiff sentence, or was it a stiff drink. Or knowing your writer it’s always a pint of Stella Artois. The only thing sophisticated about his writing is the Stella Artois.
I know, but he’s big in Poland. Only Amazon don’t publish in Polish, the irony of it all, now that is amusing to me. I better mark some more of these useless bastards’ essays. And yes of course I do want to read 300 and Not Out when you have finished with it. He may be a totally useless writer but at least he entertains me, otherwise I’d have to read Harry Potter to my grandchildren.
Some say he’s really a Don at that crappy University, up the road, you know Oxford. He just pretends to be a moron, when really he’s an Oxford Don, though how do you tell the difference? The moron is better educated. Wasn’t there something in a Tom Sharpe book years ago about a writer who had somebody else pretend to be him to do all the publicity. While he stayed in some house of ill repute, like the House of Lords or something? Well whoever really is this Michael Casey I just hope that someday he gets discovered then he can bequest all his money to our college. The SAC college wine cellar needs replenishment, those bastards from Porterhouse College tunnelling into the cellar and stole a load of the 69. Is there no honour any more?
With that it’s just after midnight, so go to bed with your wives and lovers and mistresses And if its 3 to the power of one its far cheaper, though for the mathematicians out there, you are in for a very exciting night, 3 to the power of one, is your favourite equation after all. And if you don’t know what this fat silver haired writer in shades means by that, I’m sure your girl will enjoy explaining it to you.
See no wonder Cambridge Dons hate me, though one brother really went to Cambridge and another to Oxford. Me I was just more common, as common as a Common room.
for BoA in Korea, read the sad news, so hope this helps
죽은 자와 산 자 (c)
~에 의해
마이클 케이시
나는 아홉 살 때 죽은 사람을 처음 보았고 아버지는 그렇지 않다고 말했다.
죽은 사람이 산 사람과 같다고 걱정하는 것은 웃음뿐이다.
그들을 떠났고, 그들의 눈에서 반짝임이 사라졌고, 걱정이 사라졌습니다.
그들의 어깨에서 들리고 그들의 목소리는
영원 .
낙원에서는 반짝임이 다시 돌아올 것입니다.
별이여 웃음도 돌아올 것이다 아침바람과
회전하는 조류는 웃음으로 흔들리는 그들의 측면입니다.
나는 산 사람에게 베푸는 것과 같은 예의로 고인을 대하고,
나는 고인이 항상 더 예의 바르다는 것을 알지만. 우리 아버지도
살아있는 것에 대해 몇 마디 했습니다.
그는 산 자는 영혼을 돌보는 자일 뿐이라고 말했지만,
그들은 자신의 존재가 전부라고 생각하고 모든 것을 알고 있다고 생각합니다.
감각 으로 많은 것을 경험 하기 때문입니다 .
살아있는 사람들이 인정하지 않는 것은 그들의 시간이 짧고
내가 그들의 몸을 쉬게 할 때 그들의 영혼은
그들의 강함 없이, 그들의 약함 없이, 그들의 없이
아름답거나 추악한 일시적인 형태, 말할 수 없는 곳에만
그것이 더 나은 곳이라는 것을.
퍼시 장의사는 관에 뚜껑을 덮고 영혼은 자유로웠습니다
시작