The forgetful nature of Mr Macdonald.


1. The Forgetful Bature of Mr Macdonald

Monday: Alarm. Snooze. Alarm. Up. Shower. Shirt. Tie. Trousers. Toast. Tea. Door. Car. Traffic. Park. Lock. “Alright John?” Work. Lunch.  Work. “See you tomorrow John.” Car. Traffic. Supper. TV. Bed.

For twenty two year old Simon, this had been his routine for the past four years. He loathed it. Working as a secretary for a businessmen Brian Jeremy, was NOT his idea of fun. What happened to me? He often wondered. How did this happen to me?  I was going to be the next big thing. The front-man of the greatest band in the world. Well, I would’ve had to find a band prepared to share my artistic ideology first. And put up with me for more than five gigs. And actually like me.

In truth, Simon Macdonald was NOT a nice person. He was big-headed, opinionated and short tempered. He was a terrible singer, shockingly bad on the guitar and also was astonishingly ugly. Fat. Had bad taste in clothes. Stank of sweat. Terrible table manners. The whole, as it were shebang.

Tuesday: Shower. Toast. Tea…. As Simon waddled up the stairs to his single bedroom apartment, he thought to himself. Maybe, maybe I could try to write a song, and post it on one of those sharing websites. So he did. Simon threw his grease stained plate into the overflowing sink with a sickening belch. Song writing time.

As he moved the empty crisp packets, the empty beer cans, and assorted other rubbish onto the floor, he began to think about themes for a song. I’ll write one about…erm… being an awesome guy who nobody understands! Yeah! So thus, the first of many to come was written. It’s title? “I’m an awesome guy (but nobody wants to know…).”


Shower. Tea. Toast…..  

Simon dived onto his computer, and hurriedly logged on to the website. Three Inbox messages!!! Simon smiled to himself.  My genius is finally going to be… oh.  Simon stared at the three messages. The title of on read “congratulations on joining” The second read “Some tips for getting started!!!!!” The third read “OMG Dud3 U T0TaLLy suk. Trolololol” Some kid that doesn’t know what he’s talking about… they’ll go away once I’m a rich songwriter like Clapton or Waters or, or, or erm, Townsend!

Thursday: Shower. Rice Crispies. Tea….

Simon cut work early, said he didn’t feel well. When he got home, he immediately wrote another song. “Screw the rat race.” Simon smiled to himself. He was GOOD at this! He should do this ALL the time. You know what. I think I will.

He picked up the phone and dialled his boss’s mobile number. It rang. It ran again. A mumbled voice appeared at the end of the line “He…Hello?” “Hiya Brian, its Simon. I went to see the doctor this evening and he said to take a few months off work, so I won’t be in for a while, okay?” “Sorry?” Simon repeated himself. “Sorry mate, I think you’ve got a wrong number. I don’t know anybody called Brian…” “Hahaha, good one Brian. I’ll see you in a few moths time then, okay?” “No, I’m not joking mate. My name’s Rodger Smith, I’ve got no idea who you’re talking too.”

Simon blinked. What was going on here? “But… you gave me this number last week… We checked it twice….” “LOOK Mate! I AM NOT CALLED BRIAN! YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER! Anyway, who on earth calls their boss at four in the morning to say they’ll be taking the next few months off! For god’s sake, stop calling me !” “DON’T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT BRIAN! DON’T YOU DARE! You’re NOTHING without me! Nothing!” Simon slammed the phone down. He had a sore head. Maybe he should go to bed…. Yeah, that’s a fantastic idea Simon. Everything would make more sense in the morning,

Friday: Sleep. Sleep. Sleep…. Simon woke up with a gasp, and then screamed in pain. His headache was still there. Great.

He waddled through to his kitchen, his head thumping in time with the clock. He grabbed the bottle of painkillers sitting on the table and the bottle of vodka from the cupboard. He put five of the pills in his mouth and took a swig from the bottle. The pain in his head faded into a barely existent annoyance.

He sat down at his computer and wrote two songs. “Bow to me” and “I Am the Lord, Worship Me!” By the time he was finished, the headache was returning. He limped back to his bedroom, with another bottle of vodka and two packets of painkillers. He was unconscious in minutes.


Sleep. Wake Up. Vomit. Sleep. Drink. Tablets. Drink. Sleep. Drink. Sleep. Vomit. Sleep. Wake up… Simon opened his eyes. He was lying in the bath, fully clothed. The shower was on. The cold, icy water was running through his hair, onto his polo-shirt and soaked into his jeans. The toilet was filled with sick. He couldn’t smell it…. How odd. He stepped out of the bath, and the world swam around him. There were empties EVERYWHERE. In the sink, on the window sill, even on top of the toilet. He pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. The computer was on. He checked it. It was showing his writers page on WRITERSANON. The last he could remember, he was sitting at four songs. According to the website, he had now written over a 100. All revolving around the same themes. What was going on? WHAT WAS HAPPENING!

A drink. Everything’ll look better after a drink. I’ll have to go out to get one, but some fresh air will do me good. Yes. Just what I need. Simon walked towards the door.

Friday-ish Sleep, ?????, ??????, sleep, drink, drink, tablets, drink, vomit, sleep,?????? Simon opened his eyes. Where was he? It looked like his flat, but was it? His memory was slowly failing him.  He could barely  remember the events of the past few days. Snippets were there, but not whole memories. He could remember something at the drink shop. An argument. A fight. Simon had something in his hand. A GUN?! A scream of pain. Blood everywhere. Blood. Blood. He had grabbed what he could and left. WHAT THE HELL WAS HAPPENING!

????????????????? ????????????????????????????????????????????????? The man pulled himself out of the chair. Who was he? How did he get there? He didn’t know. He had always been here. He was the only person alive. He was IMPORTANT. He knew that from the words on the walls. Who had written them? He didn’t know. He couldn’t read them, but somehow understood. There. On the, the table, was the thing. He knew what he had to do. He picked the thing up. He pointed it at his face. He pulled the stick. A bright flash. Nothing……

********************************************************************** “Our top story tonight, a man was found dead in his apartment today. Police believe it to be the body of escaped mental patient Simon Macdonald, a delusional schizophrenic, responsible for the murder of local liquor store owner Rodger Smith. He was found surrounded by poetry that seemed to portray him as a messianic figure. The 44 year old was know to have an addiction to LSD and was originally arrested twenty years ago, for the brutal massacre at Brian Jones accounting services, where he worked as a P.A.. Our top story again, police have found the dead body of a man….” .


Hiya guys, A short horror peice for you, hope you like it. Any feedback at all would be nice. See you again soon(-ish)!


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