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About Literature / Artist Senior Member futilitarianFemale/United Kingdom Groups :icontransliterations: transliterations
from one world to another
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Jul 3, 2015
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Jun 29, 2015
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Jun 29, 2015
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May 24, 2015
:iconfyoot:fyoot has changed their username (formerly futilitarian)
Did I miss owt?
  • Mood: Excited
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes)
I’ve had this hobby for a while, being a pigeon.  It started when Marjorie suggested I stay on at work past retirement age and keep her in the manner to which she had become accustomed.  I’ll be honest, to that point I hadn’t given much thought to my future.  I mean, I might have taken up fishing, got an allotment and pottered a bit in the shed, you know.  I assumed I’d retire, at least, but do something to keep myself out from under Marjorie’s feet.  It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy my job, either, but policing’s a young man’s game when all’s said and done.  You have to know when to call it quits and avoid becoming a laughing stock.  So anyway I didn’t give her an answer then and there; said I’d think about it.

I’d seen a documentary on Channel Four about a man who became a squirrel.  Well, I say became a squirrel.  It was a pretty poor effort if you ask me.  His tail wasn’t the thing at all and he had a trick knee so leaping from tree to tree was right out.  He was some sort of Taoist philosopher type; got up to all that tantric nonsense in this cherry blossom tree in his garden and talked about becoming one with the essence of squirrel.  Can’t say I thought much of it, at the time, as a programme.  I remember Marjorie said it’s amazing what some people get up to, and I responded with it’s amazing what some buggers will make TV programmes about. So then she said it’s amazing what some daft sods will sit and watch, meaning me although she’d sat there too, with a magazine on her lap like she did, but not turning the page once.   I wasn’t stupid enough to shoot back with that one, though.  It’d have been tantamount to all-out war.  

It’s one of those things that sits there in the back of your mind, you know; the squirrel thing.  Part of it might have been the stuff he got up to in trees, but the chap seemed happy enough.

Anyway, so Marjorie filled in the forms for me to stay on at work without telling me.  Then she booked us on a holiday to Fuengirola, all inclusive.  I’d as soon stay at home because the oil they put in food over there doesn’t agree with me and I do suffer from the heat.  But anyway, we went, and I sat in the shade and read Clive Cussler books while she sat in the sun and basted herself while telling the couple on the next sunbed all about my inadequacies as a husband.  I’m used to that, but then she took up with some surfer-types and disappeared for a day.  I was more worried for her; I could tell they were only taking the Michael toting this wrinkled old bat around, but she only saw what she wanted to see.  Anyway words were exchanged when she resurfaced, and that was it.

As the plane touched down at Gatwick I was looking out of the window to avoid the gaze of my good lady wife who was, not to put to fine a point on it, glaring at me because I had drunk three whisky-and-sodas at the airport, another on the plane, and told the stewardess that if I was twenty years younger...  and as we taxied to the gate, there was a pigeon sat there staring at us with its little beady eye and its maimed foot.  They had these bird-scarer things there, and every time it went off, the pigeon would flap a bit, rise in the air about a foot and flop back down.  I felt a bit of a connection, somehow.

So when I got home, I started to become a pigeon whenever I could.  I practised flapping around the garden and ate only seeds, berries, bits of bread and things I found lying on the floor.  “For God’s sake,” Marjorie hissed on one of the rare occasions she spoke to me at all, “At least be something a bit less verminous; a budgerigar or cockatoo or something.”

Well, it worked, in one way.  I got invalided out of the Force on grounds of mental health, so I didn’t have to carry on working.  And Marjorie threw me out, which was inevitable after I pecked one of her women’s society ladies and got guano all over the living room rug (seeds and berries are terribly releasing, as a diet – I wholeheartedly recommend them, a hundred times better than those yoghurts Marjorie takes to ‘improve her natural digestive transit’).

I’m fully integrated now with a little flock in the park.  We do well in the way of bread, what with the ducks having more than they can eat.  I’ve met a lovely woman, Carole.  She’s a pigeon too, and you should see the aerial sex combinations we can get up to!  Well, maybe you shouldn’t see.  It’s the sort of thing that would have had Marjorie writing a letter to her MP.  Certainly the mothers in the children’s play park were unimpressed although the kiddies seemed interested.  Better than a nature documentary, I’d say.

Marjorie still comes to visit the park from time to time.  She feeds the ducks and sometimes she’ll chuck a bit of bread my way. Carole talks about fighting her for me – pigeons are quite direct in that way.  But there’s no need, really.
Midlife Crisis II
So, I was prompted in the CRLiterature chatroom to write about "aerial sex combos" and already had it in mind to write about a pigeon after being harassed by one yesterday. 

This is a continuation of Midlife Crisis which I wrote in 2011.

I'll never catch up with FFM if I don't do some short pieces.

This is day 4.
Have you ever written poetry about the combination of cheap booze, social norms and oxytocin we know as love?  How did you get on?  Any tips for avoiding the thoroughly sick-making?

Thing is, right, I'm getting married soon and I want to write a poem for my intended for the wedding.  I was originally planning on commissioning one but I figured my insider knowledge was probably hard-to-beat for the job.  My take on love poetry has heretofore tended to the cynical, humourous or NSFW, and I want something sincere that both our parents can sit and listen to without offence.  I think a degree of cliche is probably to be expected for this scenario, and I'm OK with that.  This little poem has a lot of work to do, though, because of the mixed audience.

My parents always knew I’d be a salesman.  I can sell ice to the Eskimos and do them a pretty good deal on four years’ interest-free credit for a low low deposit.  Oil to the Arabs, I could do that too.  

I’m doing alright in here.  It was more of an adjustment in scale than attitude.  Some could see it as a comedown, going from brokering multi-million deals to haggling over the price of an ounce of snout.  The stakes are, if anything, higher.  When it’s you, personally, that’s on the line, there’s more excitement.  It’s all about risk.

I am not a fundamentally dishonest person, contrary to popular belief.  I sell stories.  I believe wholeheartedly in my version of events and, if that version of events diverges somewhat from accepted wisdom, well, I’m sure I can swing accepted wisdom around to my way of thinking eventually.

I started selling land; tiny worthless parcels of greenbelt land that would never get planning permission in a million years.  I made my fortune, but lost the lot when my company folded.  So then I sold solar panels, home security aids, legal services...  I sold advertising space, sold companies to other companies.

I can sell anything to anyone.

I can prove this statement.

This is me, selling myself.

I should be grateful, sir, if you would consider my application for a probationary sales position in your business upon my release in line with your commitment to the rehabilitation of offenders.

Full CV available on request.
Blue sky thinking
FFM Day 3.

Challenge:  unreliable narrator.

I dislike this piece immensely.  Waste no time on it.
Did I miss owt?
  • Mood: Excited

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Should futilitarian...? 

22 deviants said Continue her inexorable slide into alcoholism and have another glass of wine because Friday and because the wine left in the bottle looks lonely.
21 deviants said Troll the forum.
11 deviants said Write some shitty story or something.
5 deviants said Other. Please expand.
4 deviants said Write some shitty poem or something.
3 deviants said Watch some shitty TV or something.


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dead-now Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
You've changed your identity.
chadwood Featured By Owner May 30, 2015   Writer
Just browsing and found your page.  Awesome.  +follow
CrumpetsHarvey Featured By Owner May 24, 2015   Writer
But how will I know who you are any more?
fyoot Featured By Owner May 26, 2015   Writer
You shall know me by my forum trollery.
CrumpetsHarvey Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2015   Writer
Yeah okay :P
Lexi247 Featured By Owner Apr 25, 2015
Just stopping by to say hello :hug: Have a wonderful day!
TheSkaBoss Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Why are you never about when I am? :(
RohMah1 Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2014   Digital Artist
Okay,  I don't usually read Lit works on deviantArt, but your works are simply amazing! Instant watch. :D
LadyBrookeCelebwen Featured By Owner Jan 24, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! I hope you had a wonderful day. :) 
Happy B-Day!~ :meow:
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