Dear Small Screen Video: Part IV

Words by Oliver Mol

Pictures by Lucy O’Doherty

Published on July 28, 2012

Dear Barbara,

I have written you a story about a friend of mine. Please find it below.

Once, during a Brisbane summer, the heat and wind carried Milton Brewery’s yeast smell so high that those in Paddington, Red Hill and even Kelvin Grove were forced to shut their windows. Naked and on school holidays, Tim sat on his leather couch sweating, watching the television in front of a fan. There was a Coles advertisement that offered discounted items: Gladwrap, butter, a cheese grater and Tim, hungry and still naked — his parents at work — decided to go downstairs for a bowl of Coco Pops. Standing in his pantry, Tim found himself wanting to put his dick inside a honey jar. What would it feel like, he wondered. Would it feel like a vagina? Tim’s house, that week, had become recent home to a small bee colony and so, staring at his penis and then back at the honey, he returned the jar to the pantry. He looked around and wondered what else would feel good on his penis. Tim walked to the fridge and looked inside. He grabbed the butter, cut off a knob and put the butter knob in the microwave. While it melted, he found the Gladwrap and, becoming hard — thinking about a newly appointed teacher’s aid — he wrapped his penis in Gladwrap. The microwave went beep and then he removed the butter and walked back to his room. Kneeling before his leather couch, he imagined he was about to lose his virginity. He became giddy and, loading a porn he had downloaded and kept in a secret folder marked Year Eleven Chemistry, poured the melted butter over his Gladwrapped genitals. Tim screamed. During the next twenty seconds there were two smells. The first was familiar and warm, buttery — a family sitting around a bonfire, their father saying, ‘a family who plays together stays together’ — and second, something else, something noxious, poisonous — children throwing plastic bags, chairs and plates into the fire, saying, ‘ooo so pretty,’ while adults rush everyone inside screaming, ‘who did that,’ and then, ‘it wasn’t my kid.’ But Tim continued screaming because the butter had melted the plastic to his penis. He clawed at his penis, trying to remove the melted plastic, which he did, along with a staggering amount of skin. Tim waited for six hours, in too much pain to move, for his parents to come home. Tim told the press, ‘I was trying to wear a condom. That’s what they told me… always wear a condom.’ No one saw Tim much after that. The school blamed porn. A semester later, the thing had, more or less, blown over.  The End.

The end Barbara… and guess what? That friend was me, Barbara. What do you think about that, Barbara? What do you think about your neighbourhood with the phallic, European trees outside your house, Barbara? Hahahahaha. LAUGH YOU OLD HAG I AM WATCHING YOU. Hahahahahahhahahahahahahhaha.

See you Monday,
Tim Bruce.

P.S Bet you’re thinking about my penis now.

P.P.S That didn’t really happen. I am just super lonely and bored.

P.P.P.S Kisses.


Oliver Mol is a Melbourne based writer. He can be reached at  oli.rob.ver@gmail.com. He is the second writer to be featured in our Struggling Writers Residencies.