A collection of short stories and journalistic commentaries depicting my simple life
and how I fit in with the modern day universe of our times

WRITER'S BLOCK

          
         Elizabeth Carey was never the pretty girl – always the outcast, a loner with no friends. By the time she was fourteen, she already weighed over a hundred and sixty pounds. Hefty and round faced, the kids at school taunted her, calling her all sorts of names. ‘Scary’ was a favourite, ‘The Frump’ and ‘Big Boy’ two others. Just because her mother made her cut her hair in a manly crop, it wasn’t fair to call her ‘Big Boy’ – that was downright mean. But Elizabeth didn’t care - she knew she was smarter than all of them, even though she managed to flunk out in most subjects.

          “You’re an idiot,” her father often said to her.

          Then one day he fell off a ladder, hitting his head and suffering an untimely death. Who was the idiot now? She thought.

          Shortly after her father passed away, Elizabeth and her mother, Noreen, a small sparrow of a woman who worked as a seamstress at a downtown clothing shop, moved in with Noreen’s brother, David. He lived in a small ramshackle house a short walk from the seediest part of Hollywood Boulevard. He was divorced and childless, and since he’d recently broken his leg while ‘on the job’, he needed help.

          On the job for David meant photographing celebrities – usually when they didn’t want to be photographed. He hung around outside popular restaurants and clubs, camera at the ready – grabbing any shots he could. His big claim to fame was catching Britney Spears and Kevin Federline in a steamy embrace before anyone knew they were a couple. Pure luck, really. But he made plenty of money from those particular photos, and garnered a modicum of respect from the other freelancers, who couldn’t believe David had finally scored.

          Elizabeth was fascinated by Uncle David; to her he was a celebrity himself. As soon as he recovered from his broken leg, she began following him around, watching in awe as he went about his job. Since David had no children of his own, he didn’t mind Elizabeth trailing him, especially as she was strong enough to carry his equipment, and big enough to shove other photographers out of the way – a task she seemed to relish.

          By the time she reached the age of twenty, Elizabeth was taking pictures too. She knew where to go to catch the famous faces, and she didn’t care what she had to do to get the shot. She proved to be more tenacious than Uncle David, chasing her famous subjects aggressively into their cars and limos if they failed to cooperate – taunting them with insults – getting away with it because she was a female. Not an attractive one by any means – overweight, surly, pushy and rude. But because she was a woman they didn’t dare fight back.

          Uncle David said she was a natural, but the other photographers loathed her. They nicknamed her ‘The Hun’ and steered clear.

          Over the years Elizabeth made some good scores. Whitney Houston screaming at Bobby Brown outside the Peninsula; Charlie Sheen screaming at her as she chased him and his sexy date to his limo. A dishevelled Jack Nicholson exiting a club; A drunken David Hasselhof falling down a flight of stairs; An abashed Hugh Grant outside the police station after being arrested for dallying with a prostitute; And Posh and Becks with their latest baby – a rare sighting indeed.

          And then, one day, into her life came Jennifer Gates, and everything changed.

          Obsession wasn’t the word for it.....

Please finish it off.



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Its my own fault really, its all about what I see in the world, and how it all translates for me.

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