A bad case of writer's block

I see what he’s doing and I think I like it. Cropped dark hair, chiselled jaw, bulging arm muscles, tee-shirt stretched tight across my buff chest. I feel strong, invincible, an alpha male at my peak. I’m what you’d call a fine specimen. No one can defeat me. Ha, yes, I could get to like this, very much indeed.

His bare arms rippled in the sun. He sprinted, leaping three metres and mounting the motorbike from behind. He revved wildly sending a cloud of fumes into the path of the red-headed gorilla chasing him on foot. The gorilla, a KGB hitman, of course, lit the rag in the Molotov cocktail he was carrying and flung it ahead of the bike and the scrubby, dry terrain burst into flames which licked at Tom’s feet, his tight leather pants blistering in the white heat…

Whoa there, wait a minute – did he just write Tom? Does he mean as in Tom Cruise? Well, okay then! Action adventure it is! The guy’s a bit short and isn’t he in his sixties now? But no matter, no matter, I’m not complaining. He’s a hero, a heartthrob, a hunk, and he always comes out unscathed with a beautiful leggy babe on his arm, I’ll take it! Yee ha, this is going to be great! No, wait… what are you doing? Hey, you there, yes, you. I’m waving my arms around; can’t you see me? It’s Tom - stop it, aarrgh, quit it will you, oh, not again, not the delete key...

This is corny, it’s cliched. The action’s good but, Tom Cruise, I’m not sure. Besides, he’s got the money to sue. Hmm, how about… I make him a her? And put her somewhere else altogether?

***

I feel like I’ve woken up in a dream. I’m in a wetsuit, I can see that much. I’ve got wavy blonde hair. That’s weird. Am I a mermaid? No, I can see bare feet and my toenails are painted red. I’m no mermaid. I can feel all this pressure around me, but where on earth  am I?

She glided her body through the crystal blue water. Silvery scales darted by. Oh, how beautiful it is under the surface of the ocean. She was in her happy place, a clear blue paradise. The water parted before her like a silken blanket as she swam, the sun above sending golden shards of light to illuminate her way. Her slightest movement propelled her forward…  

Oh, geez. I don’t like this one little bit. I’m supposed to love it down here, but, honestly, he knows I’m claustrophobic. It’s kind of spooky. And how am I breathing? I don’t seem to even have a snorkel. I’ve said it before, this guy’s an idiot. Something doesn’t feel right…

She looked ahead and in the dim distance a dark shape emerged…

Oh, my God, what the heck is that? This blasted blonde hair is wrapped around my eyes. I can barely see, and I’m hardly treading water here. Why the hell don’t you at least write me some flippers – hey, you, flippers, please! And hurry!

The shape grew in immensity and speed, the solid mass of fish suddenly becoming all too apparent to Marylin who felt a chill grip her backbone and her bowels loosen…

Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but Marylin? You don’t mean Marylin – no, even you wouldn’t be such a drongo as to star Marylin Monroe in an underwater horror, if that’s what this is – please don’t tell me that’s what this is…

Marylin had watched enough YouTube videos to know what to do. She reached out her arm as the beast’s wide mouth shot toward her like a torpedo. Its approach sent a cascade of current which knocked her backwards. She flailed her body and righted herself. It took all her courage to push her hand against the tiger shark’s sandpapery head…

- tiger shark, oh my God, aren’t they the most dangerous? What are you thinking? -

…and shoved with all her might to turn the two-ton creature away. Known in the swimming-with-sharks trade as redirecting, the manoeuvre worked. The beast slid past her and relief coursed through her. Phew, that was close. She could see the dark outline of the boat bobbing only meters away. Time to swim back before the beast circled for another look. Tiger sharks were tenacious and curious creatures, Marylin knew from the internet, but she felt like she’d nearly dislocated her wrist redirecting the first time. She struck out for the boat…

 – good idea, get me out of here, pronto, if you please –

…but just as she raised her arm over her head she felt a bump from behind. Oh, shit. She’d taken her eye off the ball. Every shark diver knew never to turn their back in the ocean. It’s 101 diving-with-sharks-for-dummies to rotate so you can see what’s coming at you. When the bite came…

- oh, dear lord, the bite - are you serious? You’re going to kill me off so soon in the story? We’ve barely begun…

Oh, bugger. This is shite. I’m going to get a coffee.

Hey! You can’t leave me here in the ocean! What about the bite? Did I get eaten or what? Hey! Come back you big loser! What’s that red stuff all around me? You bastard, you come back here…

***

All night. I’ve been bobbing around all night long. In the dark, on my own. No flippers, no torch. He came back about 2am, briefly. He tapped out the start of another scene, in which the moonlight illuminated (yes, I told him he’d already used that word. Ignored, as usual) an arm – my arm – floating by, then, thankfully, he hit the delete button again so I’m still intact. For now. He scrolled on his phone and muttered and hiccupped and poured something into a glass, then he read aloud an email he’d composed to his agent. Hi Joan, Sorry for the absence. It’s going fine. I’m not sure the exact shape it’s going to be yet but please don’t worry. The writer’s block’s always only temporary.  Trust me. Yours, Don. And then he left again. So here I am, bobbing in the ocean with tiger sharks for company. I fcken hate that guy. I’m cold!

***

Great news, the sharks have been deleted. I feel the sun warm my perfectly tanned skin. My hair, a golden brown, clings gently to my skull. Droplets of water run down my legs. I glisten. I’m wearing a white bikini. I have to say, I’m impressed with my cleavage. Astonished, really. What an amazing figure I have. My bikini top has a tie at the front, the bikini pants have a belt with a buckle. I feel like I’m from a 1960s film set. I run my hands over my waist. Hourglass. I feel sensuous, voluptuous.

She ascends the ladder at the back of the launch one sinewy limb at a time. “Did you enjoy your dip, my dear?”

Oooh, what accent is that? Wait a minute, let me get a look at this guy. He reminds me of someone…  

He stands silhouetted against the sky, his freshly-brushed hair billowing in the breeze. He’s shirtless. His man-breasts are cut like the rigid outline of mountains, his six pack is solid as a tree trunk, his jeans are casually rolled to his knees. His eyes rake Ursula’s body, his hunger plain. She tosses her head as he offers her a glass of champagne and she gently flares her nostrils. He’s like a stallion, she thinks, stepping onto the boat, exotic and untamed. She falls into his arms, moaning softly as the white bikini top drops to the ground. He’s only teased her so far on this Mediterranean sojourn but now, finally, the moment has come. His hand caresses her…

OMG, I know who this is! It’s Fabio! I must be in a spicy Mills and Boon. You know, this guy Don? The writer guy I said I hated? Maybe I was a little quick to judge…