Cinnamon Twigs by Darren Freebury-Jones Page B

banged out a first draft within an hour.
                  The play, An Open Audition , concerned a lovesick teen named David, his deranged mother, Gina, and a Russian stripper who believed he was Superman. The audience loved the show and laughed at every corny pun. They especially loved the part when the Russian stripper hits on David’s mother. David roars, ‘If you carry on you’ll be in the crypt tonight!’ The stripper replies, ‘Yes, kryptonite is Superman’s weakness!’
                  The script is an interesting example of juvenilia, with some odd mixed metaphors, especially in the narrator and David’s moping dialogue, but I’m proud of it as a product of my youth.
                  My mother laughed along, so I knew the performance had been a success. But she noticed that my swagger was swaggerier than ever before.
                  ‘You think life’s so easy, don’t you?’ She turned to me in the car on the night of the play.
                  ‘Have I been smiling too much lately?’
                  ‘Oh, you keep that cheesy smile as long as you can.’
                  ‘Oh, I will.’ I beamed.
                  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts, because you’ll soon realize that it’s a big world out there.’
                  ‘I’ve heard. I was talking to Captain Cook the other day…’
                  ‘You think you’re so funny.’ She cracked a smile. ‘Just make the most of it.’
                  ‘My sense of humor?’
                  ‘No. Your youth.’
                  I kept experimenting with poetry, using different forms and exploring fresh themes. I sent some of my new stuff to a publisher, but my previous book hadn’t made an impact on the shelves. I’d been stripped of my cape. I wondered if I’d be resigned to the heap pile of failed bards. My mother reminded me that writing could be a capricious line of work, but Michael and Lisa convinced me I had nothing to worry about. I’d been so naïve, expecting success to come my way without a battle. I look back at the way I was then and always snigger. I was a different person. So young and bloody fragile.
                  I knew nothing about the real world, the trials awaiting me and the inevitable tide of negativity. I’d spent my youth dreaming, but the realization would eventually dawn that in the real world it’s a struggle to keep your dreams afloat.
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    Mates Forever
     
    Lisa, Michael and I sat on an aniline leather sofa, on the upper balcony of a cavernous pub on St Mary Street. Michael had ordered a series of bizarre alcoholic combinations, mishmashes of spirits and all sorts.
                  ‘You’re not gonna be able to stand up in an hour.’ I warned him.
                  ‘Good.’ He sipped his latest drink. ‘Standing up is overrated.’
                  Lisa chuckled.
                  ‘We’re gonna have a b-brilliant night tonight, dude and dudette. Let’s get on it!’ Michael’s breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.
                  We’d been drinking all day after watching a play Michael had disliked. He’d shared his view with the cast afterwards, engaging himself in a heated debate, which he’d won convincingly. The director had been most upset when Michael denounced the play’s poor attempt at realism, and asserted that the theatre practitioner Stanislavski would be turning in his grave.
                  ‘I need to pop into the little boy’s room.’ Michael finished his drink and stumbled across the crimson carpet.
                  ‘Yeah, me too. I’ll be back now in a minute,’ I told Lisa.
                  Michael flashed me a smile as we entered the bathroom.