martinsmithstories.com
A short story by Martin Smith
They're ready. A book of short stories of attempted humour. Edited. Formatted. Proofread. Ready to be unleashed on the world. Literary fame and a bohemian poverty beckon. As does eternal reverence.
All the author needs is for them to be discovered.
At dawn, he creates a blog with a spiffy design and calls it: martinsmithstories.com
He posts a short story of humour. One called Why Buy the Book When Its Stories are Free Online. A witty flash fiction nuanced with ambivalent angst.
He sits and waits. And waits. And waits.
Come mid-morning, his inbox is empty and his blog hit count is zero.
Somewhat bemused, he goes for Plan B.
He copies the email addresses of his contacts and pastes them as subscribers to his blog.
He posts a short story of humour. A fractured fairy tale, funny but with a poignant not-so-happy ever after.
He sits and waits. And waits. And waits.
Come noon, his inbox remains empty and his blog hit count is still zero. Not even his children have bothered to check in on their old man. Brushing aside thoughts of disinheritance, he goes for Plan C: social media.
He creates a suite of accounts with a hip handle, then anoints himself as a “humorist”. Of sorts. He announces his arrival on the Big Stage that is the “literary canon” with a pithy profile blurb and a flattering, fogged photo of his innocent childhood self.
He follows up with a post summarising his scandalous past. All bullshit, of course, but nonetheless it’s embellished infamy, not the quality of the writing, that garners loyal readership these days.
He invites followers to click the link to his blog.
He sits and waits. And waits. And waits.
Come mid-afternoon, he stirs from a slumber at his desk. Dried drool crusts the corners of his mouth, and an impress of his keyboard is stamped across his furrowed forehead. He checks his inbox. 15 items! Good God! The floodgates have opened. He has been found!
Dizzy with excitement, he clicks the first item. Spam. He clicks the next one. More spam. Indeed, all 15 items are spam. Promoting all sorts of shit. Lonely wannabe brides, winning lottery fortunes, penis enlargements. The Nigerians seem particularly active.
He deletes them all.
He goes to post a story of humour. But, alas, domestic responsibility waits for no literary giant, let alone a literary minnow. He is soon lost to a world of vacuum cleaners, lawnmowers and dishwashers.
Come evening, and having raided the fridge, he finally returns to his computer, armed with a spoon and a jumbo tub of Neapolitan ice cream.
He checks his inbox. No items. No hits.
He releases a curse of frustration, only to splatter his screen with a sticky, tricoloured spray.
He checks the time. 11.30 pm. But of course! America breakfasts. Europe lunches. Asia dines. Continents full of readers keen to feast on the written word, desperate for a good laugh. Readers who appreciate nuanced Aussie humour. Readers on the cusp of discovering him.
He posts another story of humour. A biblical farce with universal appeal.
He sits and waits. And waits. And waits.
A ping wakes him at midnight. An item! Not spam! Rather, a comment posted by someone with the handle Mx Goody Salem. They label him a misogynist, a wan fossil, and threaten that if he posted any more of his pathetic humourless shit, they and their buddies would witch-hunt him down and conduct a sacrificial dunking.
Lovely, he thinks. Not quite the reverence he’d hoped for, but at least someone out there had discovered him. He basks briefly in the tepidness that is a cyber hug.
He then deletes the item.
He posts another short story of humour. A rib-tickling feghoot that drips with punning humour.
He sits and waits. And waits. And waits.
Come dawn, he, bleary-eyed and buggered, sits slumped before his computer. His credit card burns white-hot. He may not have been discovered, but his future is assured. Who needs literary fame, bohemian poverty and eternal reverence when you’re on your way to Nigeria to collect your winning lottery fortune, to have a penis enlargement and to marry a beauty?
As he reaches for his passport and suitcase, ready to be lost to the Dark Continent, a ping sounds from his computer. A second ping follows. Then another. Then non-stop pinging.
He ignores them.
He’s through with waiting.
