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Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle begins - Your WRITES

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In the very likely event that you might happen down Moreshire Way on a summer’s afternoon, you might see billows of smoke coming from the house on the corner. 4 Moreshire Way, of course, was the residence of Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, who enjoyed sitting on his porch smoking his hooka in the late afternoon hours when there was nothing of greater importance for him to while away his time with.
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle was a jovial sort of gentleman in the manner of those jovial sorts of gentlemen of old. He was very nearly forty-two years old—which is to say that he had already reached the ripe age of forty-one—and was beginning to develop a bald spot atop his head. He was of slender build and still had the eyes of a youth half his age. He could often be seen sporting a dark purple waistcoat and navy slacks and pale yellow shoes, and he was never at all seen without a black top hat upon his head.
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle lived alone except for his husband, Myron, and his pet king cobra, George Wayne Morris III, with whom he often could be found engaging in philosophical debates and conversations of less important matters. George Wayne Morris III, who was more fondly referred to as just George, had been named after Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle’s father shortly after he had been found abandoned by a carnival. (George, that is, and not Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle’s father.) Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle had taken him home promptly, and the two of them became fast friends within a very short period of time.
You might think that king cobras do not spend their time engaging in philosophical debates, but that so happened to be one of his favorite pastimes, as it was also one of Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle’s favorite pastimes, and the two of them were known to have long conversations into the late hours of the night.
Another one of George’s favorite pastimes, which actually made him such a good match for Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, was smoking hooka, and he often would curl up on a pillow quite near to Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle when the latter would light up the hooka, and the two of them would take turns smoking and debating, debating and smoking.
It so happened that one warm summer evening, as Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle and George were sharing a hooka and discussing the advantages and disadvantages of socialist economics, a young man in a uniform appeared on the front porch with an unexpected telegram for Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle.
“I have an unexpected telegram for one Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle.” He knew immediately to hand the telegram over to Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle and not to George, and George acted quite normally as though the young man’s slight did not bother him in the least bit.


Posted

I loved this it is full of contradictions
I kept thinking am I reading this right or is this guy smoking his hooka lol
and I'm a little past that ripe old age so I enjoy my silly bright clothes too because no one cares anymore lol
I've found when people reach a certain age rules go out the window but I'm not sure I followed them before.
I hope you write more of this story I can't wait to know what was in that unexpected telegram lol.
I love your work


Posted

Thanks, Carol. I do not write enough children's material, but when I do, I think I do it well. My novel, Starlin's Child, also contains in some parts the repetitiveness and contradictions that you find in this intro. I definitely would love to continue with Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, so I hope that I shall. I was a bit concerned about bringing children's lit in here because the things I see in this group are generally more of an adult tone, but I am glad to see that it is appreciated, and I'll definitely continue this.


Posted

Since when do we want to fit in or be like everyone else?
Different is good, this group is called your writes so write what you want too.
I'm sure others will enjoy it as much as me in fact I loved that it was light and fun.


Posted

Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle took the telegram and waved the young man adieu, blowing a friendly puff of smoke in his direction. He turned to George. “It looks like a telegram has arrived for me,” he said.
“Looks that way,” said George with a nod of the head in the manner in which snakes nod their heads.
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle opened the telegram. He took a pair of rimless spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his nose. He squinted at the lettering on the telegram, inspecting it carefully.
After a minute or two, George lost his patience and inquired, “What does it say? Please share with me.”
“Yes,” Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle responded. “It says such: ‘Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle. Stop.’ That is the way in which they write telegrams, you understand.”
George nodded.
“Let’s see. Ah, yes. ‘Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle. Stop.’”
“You read that already.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle with a jolly laugh. “’I have found your brother. Stop. He is on Willowhill Island. Stop. Come quickly. Stop. Your confidant Willard Wilson. Stop.’”
“Your brother?” inquired George. “I thought your brother—“
“Disappeared ten years ago,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle pensively. “Off the coast of Zanzibar.”
“Has Zanzibar a coast?”
Mr. Mackenzie pondered the question. “I think it has,” he replied.
“Very well,” said George, allowing Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle to continue.
“He was on a banana shipping barge, and story has it that they were attacked by pirates or natives or something of the sort and—oh, bother.”
“What?” asked George. “What is the matter?”
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle removed the spectacles from his nose and returned them to his pocket. “I forgot to remove the spectacles from my nose after having read the telegram. They are not becoming of me, you understand.”
“There are two schools of thought,” George replied.
“Regardless,” Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle continued, “the barge’s indigenous attackers took all those on board the barge captors and they were never heard from again.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.”
Now it was George’s turn to be pensive. “What are you to do?”
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle looked in the direction of the setting sun, which now was beginning to paint the sky brilliant shades of pastel yellows and oranges. “I must sail to Willowhill Island and bring my brother home.”
“Where is Willowhill Island.”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle took a puff from the hookah.
“And from where will you sail there? There is no coast anywhere around us.”
“I shall have to find one, then. We shall have to find one,” Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle corrected himself.


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“We?” bemused George.
“We,” Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle confirmed. “You, Myron, and I.”
George stuck out his tongue with delight. “Oh, how I love adventure, and oh, how I love to travel. I have not been on a travelling adventure since—“ He thought, and he thought, and he thought. “Well, now, can you believe it?” he said with a sheepish smile. (Peculiar, a sheepish smile on a king cobra, but that was the kind of smile it was.) “Why, I never have been on a travelling adventure. This will be an altogether new experience for me.”
Feeling the need to look impressive, Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle took his spectacles once more from his pocket and put them once more on his nose. “We shall need a boat of some sort, shan’t we?” he said mostly to himself. To George, he said, “Willowhill Island is an island, so logic argues that we shall need a boat to reach it, yet we are presently on dry land.”
George did not need to think a moment for he already had thought of the solution. “May I suggest a caravan.”
“A caramel?” asked Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, obviously with a perplexed look on his face.
“No,” George replied, shaking his head almost sadly. “A caravan. Like gypsies or Bedouins or circus performers.”
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle clapped his hands delightedly. “How delightful! How delightful!” he exclaimed. “Yes, a caravan.” He became quite bewildered once more. “How shall we go about acquiring a caravan?”
“We shall make one,” said George as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”
It was at that very moment that Myron, who had an uncanny knack for impeccable timing, appeared on the porch. Myron was a stout little man with a neatly trimmed beard of dark brown and a moustache that reached lengths the likes of which one rarely ever did see in those parts. He was dressed quite casually in khaki pants, a starch white polo, and a tweed jacket, and perched upon his head was a dark blue top hat with a gold ribbon around the base. Scrunched between one pudgy cheek and an eyebrow was a monocle, which had on it a chain that was unclear where it might be fastened on the other end. He had soft, green eyes, a pointed nose rather much like the beak of a penguin, and small, pursed lips. In another dimension, he might have been considered debonair, but for pour purposes, we shall describe him as dapper.
Myron looked around the porch as the last sliver of sun ducked below the horizon. “I heard voices out here,” he said, staring off down the street.
“We are here,” George clarified.
“No,” said Myron, shaking his head and still staring down the street. “I must correct you and say that I distinctly heard three voices, and there are presently only two of you here at the moment.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, nodding knowingly to George. “It was the voice of the telegram carrier that was the third voice that you heard in our chorus.”
“Telegram carrier,” said Myron with a slight nod of his head. “Indeed. And, what sort of telegram was the telegram carrier carrying?”


Posted

George licked his lips. “The telegram stated in quite clear words the whereabouts of his brother.”
“Of what importance to you is the whereabouts of the telegram carrier’s brother if I may inquire?”
“Not his brother,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle. “My brother. My own personal brother.”
“Great scot!” exclaimed Myron. “I thought he was—“
“So did I. So did George.”
“But, he is not,” George added.
Myron pondered the new revelation. “My,” he said with a shake of his head. “My.” He looked at Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle with a glimmer of something or another in his eye. “This means an adventure, I daresay!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle with a preoccupied nod of the head. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“You appear preoccupied,” said Myron suddenly. “What preoccupies you?”
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle said with a sigh, “My late mother,” and he put his elbow on his knee, rested his chin in the palm of his hand, and took another puff from the hookah.
“His late mother,” sighed George and Myron in unison.
“We shall be needing a caravan now,” said George after a moment of contemplative thought.
“Why ever shall we be needing a caravan?” asked Myron.
“For travelling purposes—but only over land, mind you. A caravan will do us no lick of good travelling over water.”
“Indeed. Then, we must procure a caravan and be off.”
At this time, the sun had long disappeared below the horizon, and faint stars had begun to swizzle in the darkening heavens above their heads. George took a puff from the hookah, but it had nearly died out, so he nodded his head to Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, and Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle wrapped the pipe around the bottle and moved the entire contraption out of his way.
Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle looked up at the sky (which is the best way to look at it). He thought about Willowhill Island. It was quite possibly becoming night there, as well. If the natives there were restless, they were surely not so restless at night, and perhaps Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle’s brother was enjoying a good night’s sleep or something of the sort.
“I suppose we shall head out tomorrow,” said Mr. Mackenzie Mudfuddle, looking at the stars. “With proper provisions packed, naturally.”



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