tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87768429748446611772024-03-05T06:00:07.693+00:00DedbutdrmngOr how the author RJ Barker learned to embrace the fact he has chosen a stupid and hard to remember internet name.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-57533173124549620132017-04-12T18:46:00.004+01:002017-04-12T18:47:31.762+01:00Not Making Sense.<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Sometimes I write things that barely make sense. Sometimes I like those things the most.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
See a Sidhe.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
What I are is forever. Some say fairy but aren't that, word
is an ache. I am placement. A there-ing that exists local. Time is ebb and flow
and I am here and now. Sometimes local is green and others stoney, sometimes
wet sometimes yellow-dry. Now it is grey and full of broken boxes that quick
ones live in.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The
smallyoung see so real, past the thither and into hither. Find me perched above
a dead squirrel – my adversary for a day and ever. I win. It touched me and
life ran out and into me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>'Fairy!'
made of flesh and waves.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>No!</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Realing out
teeth. Twist air into sharps made to snap and bite small fingers.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>No.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Such effort
to real. No life in attack.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>'Fairy,'
airtwist into words for them. Quick ones smiles.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>'Touch you?'<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Airtwist a yes.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I win.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>So easy.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Quick ones
are no squirrels.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> What </span>I are is
forever.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-60397452628087685352016-09-27T10:53:00.000+01:002016-09-27T10:55:34.862+01:00A 100% True and Factual Account of How We Entitled My Book.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, titles, yes. Titles took a
while. Age of Assassins[1] was submitted under the original title of
'The Uncrowned Heir'[2] which I kind of suspected might not survive
as all my historian friends had pointed a certain thing out about the
title and a few editor types too, picky people, basically, had also
pointed out the same thing. So it didn't wash. Fortunately, I
wasn't hugely married to the title so finding a new one wasn't a big
deal.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A lot of titles were thrown about. I
did like 'All Deaths Well Intention'd' but it didn't really say Epic
Fantasy and just after I'd suggested this the final title came about.
Would you like to know how?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yes?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then I shall begin.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It came to me, as things often do, in
a dream. In this dream I was approached by the ghostly form of Grrr
Martin[3].</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Grrr Martin!' I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'It's George,' he said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Sorry, I always read it as Grrr
and it's sort of stuck in my head.'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'But it is George.'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'My dream, my rules,' I said. I'm not
sure he liked that but he had important news to deliver so he
humoured me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I have the title for your
booooOOoooOOOooOOOk,' he said in a particularly ghostly manner.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Oh, good, because I've...'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Age of Assassins,' he said, cutting
me off because, to be quite frank, I think he was a bit irritated by
the whole Grrr thing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'That, Grrr, is epic,' I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Then all is decided,
oooOOOOooOOOOooo,' went ghostly Grrr.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'To be honest, Grrr, I'm not sure I am
that epic. I'm just me, you know, sat here, typing away.'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'You must believe in yourself, RJ,' he
said, and then he vanished leaving behind an echoing 'believe, believe,
believe' behind. Well, I thought, no wonder his book's not finished if
he's spending his time in other people's dreams giving them titles
for as yet unpublished books. I can't agree with his suggestion now,
as this would only encourage this sort of behaviour [4]</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I won't do it, Grrr,' I shouted into
a dreamscape not unlike a misty sequence from a 70's Dr Who episode.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyway, the next day my editor, Jenni,
got in contact and said, 'what about Age of Assassins, RJ?' and now I
was no longer in a spooky and entirely made up dream sequence I
thought it sounded pretty good and was actually surprised something
so epic hadn't been taken so I said, 'let's do this!' and my
themetune played and I slid straight into a writing montage.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
*INTENT WRITING FACE*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Which I have taken to saying in
the voice of the Space Ghost narrator.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But aren't all Heirs technically
uncrown... SHUT UP. Shut up or I will cut you.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dressed as Santa Claus, which he
really made work and it was also an obvious and useful metaphor.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yes, I am the parent of a small
child. How did you guess?</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-20038957308599216902016-02-26T11:16:00.002+00:002016-02-26T11:20:55.822+00:00Wordplay<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What I are is forever. Some say fairy
but aren't that, word is an ache. I am placement. A there-ing that
exists local. Time is ebb and flow and I am here and now. Sometimes
local is green and others stoney, sometimes wet sometimes yellow-dry.
Now it is grey of broken boxes filled by quick ones.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The smallyoung see so real, past the
thither and into hither. Find me perched above a dead squirrel – my
adversary for a day and ever. I win. It touched me and life ran out
and into me.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Fairy!' made of flesh and waves.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
No!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Realing teeth, twisting air into
sharps made to snap and bite small fingers but.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
No.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Such life used to real. Less gained in
attack.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Fairy,' airtwist into words. The
quick one smiles.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Touch you?' Flesh waves air.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yes.'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I win.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So easy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Quick ones are no squirrels.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I are is forever.<br />
<br />
.</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-85080056618710233132016-02-10T13:54:00.001+00:002016-02-10T13:58:57.316+00:00A Brush of Grief<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Little girl in the Boy's class, she's
fun: smiley and mischievous and we often walk home the same way. She
laughs a lot and sometimes I pretend to be a bear – which she finds
hysterically funny and her, slightly older, sister finds funny in an
eye-rolling oh-my-I-am-nearly-eight-way. Usually their mum or Grandma picks them up but
sometimes it's her Daddy, he always looks a bit fierce, a bit
hassled.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He died at the weekend.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't know what from.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Something they don't tell you when you
become a parent is how you will feel about other kids. I have never
particularly liked children but every kid in the boy's class feels
like family, I wouldn't hesitate to go to one of them if I saw them
upset or lost and I'm pretty sure any of the other parents would do
the same for my kid. And I'm glad, it's a happy class.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Now it's just their mum and her
sister who live in her house,' is how the boy put it. He said it three times when
he told us. As if he was trying on this concept and moving the
intonation about until it felt right (it never will).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I never spoke to their Dad, he didn't
really invite conversation, seemed in a hurry and I'd like to tell
some story about how he always smiled when he saw his girls. But I
never saw that, cos when he picked up his girls it was them you
noticed, the sudden grin – 'Daddy!' A flurry of bags and coats and
fluttering, brightly coloured, paper.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's gone now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the mornings when I drop the boy
off this girl always has a smile for me, most of the kids do - in that
way kids have I've been put into the 'safe and fun' bracket - she
smiled at me as if nothing had happened. As if this weekend wasn't a
fracture point in her life, a crack that will run through the rest of
her existence. I sort of wanted to sweep her up, tell her everything
would be alright. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of course, I didn't. It would be hugely
inappropriate for a start, and it would be a lie, it won't be
alright, it may fade but it will not – ever – be “alright” </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
More than that though, this little girl has had a huge part of her
life come tumbling down and until you have a kid you don't realise how important stability is to children. The more upset a kid has in one part of
their life the more important it is that the rest is rock solid. So I
will pretend I am not heartsick for her and continue to smile when I see her. I will hug my boy, hard.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And sometimes I will pretend to be a
bear. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-90470079523275764512015-07-20T13:01:00.001+01:002015-07-20T18:00:05.015+01:00Favourite Things.Do you want some movie deaths set to 'Favourite Things' from 'The Sound of Music'?<br />
<br />
Who wouldn't? (Now updated with contributions from friends.)<br />
<br />
Favourite Deaths.<br />
<br />
<div style="border: currentColor; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
Tears in
the Raindrops as Rutger's switched off, <br />
Nommed by a shark, bring
up blood with a cough, <br />
Poor Gwyneth Paltrow is only a head,
<br />
these are a few of my favourite deaths. <br />
<br />
Hans Gruber
falling from Nakatomi's Top, <br />
Chestbursting John Hurt and out the
airlock. <br />
Freddy gets poor Johnny Depp in his bed. <br />
these are a
few of my favourite deaths. <br />
<br />
Bambi's mum bleeds out Mufasa
stampeeded, <br />
Charlie don't surf but napalm's still needed <br />
An
overweight metaphor, Kurtz takes his last breath, <br />
these are a few
of my favourite deaths. <br />
<br />
When the knife cuts, when the gun
shoots, <br />
when I'm feeling sad, <br />
I simply remember Scanner's
exploding head, <br />
and then I don't feel so bad. <br />
<br />
Lynchian pimp tries to headbutt a table,<br />Church spire aims to make body more stable,<br />Fire extinguisher makes such a mess,<br />these are a few of my favourite deaths (Plushy)<br />
<br />
Fall on a handgrenade, go out a hero<br />Execute vampires in death by stereo<br />Howie in Wicker Man, pour on the meths<br />These are a few of my favourite deaths (Sarah)<br />
<br />
Trapped under ice whilst playing ice hockey<br />Bisected on a bridge by a headless jockey<br />Pushed off a raft, Leo takes his last breaths<br />These are a few of my favourite deaths. (Richard Buffet)<br />
<br />
Sliced like an egg by a criss cross red laser.<br />That guy in the omen in need of a glazer<br />William Foster’s passing left me bereft<br />but these are a few of my favourite deaths. (Richard Buffet)<br />
<br />
Quadruple amputee knight won't stop fighting<br />Opera Ghost sabotages the lighting<br />Victims name murderers with their last breaths<br />Just a few more of my favourite deaths (Sarah) <br />
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-63839866711783075062015-04-20T14:10:00.001+01:002015-04-20T14:10:11.674+01:00The Traitor.
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The chimneys of Leeds were cold for
the first time in decades. The air were cleaner to breathe than I'd
ever known though it were thick with the threat of violence.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We'd rejoiced when Vickery's had won
the contract to build an Empress class dirigible for Montezuma,
god-king of the Incas. Germany had fallen behind on airship
manufacture, they had the skill all right but what use that when you
need exotic woods from the India, cotton from Jamaica and metal from
the African mines? Not much when good Queen Vic controls them all. So
now if you wanted an airship you came to England, and if you wanted
the best airship you came to Leeds.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Me, I couldn't even say the name of
the airship we built without choking, we called her 'the Popcat'.
They'd named her for some dark Inca god and it seemed he'd brought
all his ill will to our city. Montezuma wanted her in white, see, and
the government – self important, ill informed lugs that they are –
promised him just that. Two weeks before the skinning of the Popcat
started all industry in the city was shut down. Not so bad for those
who run it and can sit back and have themselves a holiday in
Scarborough or Brighton but a disaster for the families depending on
the wages that wouldn't be paid.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I think it was about the time of the
first riots that the kiddies started vanishing.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One of the Lords, some high
fancypants adventurer named Lachlan Quellor, brought up a regiment
of steam tanks to guard the houses of the rich. Denied a target the
hungry masses had started giving dark looks to Dridgers like myself
-- even though I was already a known agitator and if I was not such a
skilled man Vickery's would have ditched me long ago.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We couldn't stand and watch our
brothers starve. When the men decided to strike it was natural they
would ask me to lead them.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So I broke me fast on black bread
smeared with a thin skin of lard. I would have had nothing but Mary
insisted, said I needed my strength to go find Barnaby, our son. He
had joined the ranks of the missing four days ago. That was one a
week for the last five months. Even before he were gone I were
consumed by the need to find our missing childer. When Barnaby went
my fervour became a madness that ate me up and sucked the life from
me. I had not eaten, slept nor paused to comfort my wife in her
worry. Fear makes a man selfish.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We did not speak during breakfast,
Mary and I. I had a half remembered vision of being carried back to
our damp little terrace the night before by friends who had found me
collapsed in the gutter. Mary crying as I were laid out insensible on
the bed.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I ate a voice surfaced, as if it
were a ghost. A memory of a soft hand and a whisper into the ear of
an exhausted man.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Mary,' I said, 'one moment.' she
stared at me with eyes raw from weeping.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Do what you must, Husband,' she
said. There was no love in her words. There had not been for many
years.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My Dridgers coat was a heavy thing,
waxed against the weather and with many pockets for the tools of my
trade. As a skilled skinner it was mostly filled with the long, sharp
bodkins and heavy caulking tools that I carried – Leeds had
become an even more violent place recently and they made good weapons. In the lower left pocket,
the one in which I usually kept my canvas thread, was a piece of
paper folded once with a sharp crease. I took it out and rubbed it
between my fingers. Good quality, not the rag parchment most of us
used. The words within stole my breath away and forced me back to
sitting on the rickety chair I ate my breakfast from.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dear Sir,</div>
<br />
I believe your son, Barnaby Finlay,
has joined the ranks of those missing. I am in no place to act on the
information I have but believe it may be of some use to you. I write
to say only this, it is possible that your child, and the others who
are missing from your community, are within the Vickery factory.
Indeed, I believe them to be in the disused undercroft. You
will find the key with this letter.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Yours Sincerely,</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
a Friend.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
I turned the paper, as if somehow a
key could be hidden there without me knowing before feeling foolish.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Woman,' I coughed out, 'get me my
coat.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Your coat,' she gave me a look
would have withered fruit on the bough, 'I'll not...'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Do it,' I barked. Harsher than I
meant to be and held up the letter, 'it is about the boy.' My voice
softened as the tears returned to her eyes, 'may lead me to him,
Mary. Him and the others.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She nodded, kneading her pinafore
with hands twisted by arthritis, damp and cold then quickly passed me
my coat. Within the same pocket I had found the letter in was a key,
an old rusted and ugly thing.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I must go, Mary. Hope I bring
Barnaby back with me.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'God go with you, Barnabas.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I nodded but could not reply. I had
long given up on a God who seemed to only care for the rich.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hurrying through the streets to the
Vickery factory were heart breaking. A morning mist had slunk up out
of the river and the smell of baking, usually so strong in the city,
was absent. No one had money for bread. A Steam Dragon coughed in the
mist ahead of me and I pressed myself into the walls of the terraces
as a column of the beasts steamed past – guns high in the air,
engines coughing and hissing. Soldiers little better than bandits
rode their iron shells, staring at me with eyes as cold as the
wife's. I could smell the liquor coming off the soldiers even above
the bitter and cloying stink of machine oil. They could well do with
some of my Mary's temperance.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Outside Vickery's factory the picket
was already in place. I'd missed the morning jeering at the workers
brought in from London who lived in a fenced and guarded campsite up
on Roundhay park but heavy stones littered the ground. Hector, one of
the union stewards ran up to me. He sported a black eye and held his
left arm close, cradled against him to protect it.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'How do, 'Ector,' I said, 'rough
night?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Aye, some Soldiers decided to 'ave
a drink in the Cross Keys,' he smiled, showing a missing tooth. 'We
gave as good as we got, Barnabas.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Glad to hear it,' I tried to smile
but I could tell he weren't convinced.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Barnabas,' he said, 'I know you
feel a debt to us but there's no need for you to picket. Go find your
lad.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'That's why I'm here, 'Ector, he's
in there,' I pointed at the massive red-brick building with the only
chimney in the city still belching out dark smoke. 'I need to get in
there.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He nodded, chewed his lip.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Right,' he said, 'there's a back
way, pickets thinned a little as people get hungrier. We couldn't
guard them all. No one'll see.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'No,' I said, 'and thank ee, but if
I sneak in they'll arrest me as a luddite the moment they see me. I
need them to think I'm real. I need them to think I've broken.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He leaned in close, wincing with
pain as he moved.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Barnabas,' he said, 'if our men
think you're a scab they'll rip you apart.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He was worried for me but I saw no
other way. I had to get into the factory and I had to make it look
real or before I walked through the factory doors I'd be dragged away
to prison.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Please Hector,' I said. 'He's my
son,' and I had to swallow the tears back. Hector nodded.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Walk with me to the gate,' he said.
'You can be over the gate before they realise. I'll make it look like
you let me down.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Thank you,' I shook his hand.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was hard, walking amongst men I
had worked with, befriended, talked around to my way of seeing
things. Some I had bullied into solidarity with their comrades in the
mills and the foundries. They clapped me on the back, asked after
Barnaby. Made offers of help, told me they had food secreted away and
I was welcome to it. The black iron gates of the Vickery factory grew with
every step I took. As cold and unwelcome as the moment coming where I
would betray these men and the principles I had held dear for years.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Beyond the gates stood a row of
soldiers. Bright red smears in the fog, Martini-Henry rifles on their
shoulders, bayonets on. I hoped they wouldn't fire when I leapt the
gates. If the men behind me mis-understood and followed me thinking I
was storming the place the Martini-Henry's would make short shrift of
us all. One bullet from them could pass through three men. A steam
Dragon roared behind as it brought round its turret mounted maxim
gun.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One deep breath. One jump.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was up.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There was a moment when nothing
happened. The crowd behind me, so lively a moment ago, became silent.
The soldiers stared and I brought my foot up onto a crossrail and
with a great push forced myself upwards so I was out of reach of the
crowd.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Scab!' I heard Hector's shout and
his call was swiftly taken up by the crowd. My heart cracked along
the lines scored by the loss of my son. But it was too late now to
stop. The soldiers brought their rifles up to aim forward as I went
over the top of the gate. A stone bounced off my shoulder and the
pain barely registered through the shame. I let myself drop to the
floor and raised my arms. The crowd behind me went silent once more.
As if waiting for me to speak. To say something that would justify
the faith they had had in me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I..' the words would not come. I
had to concentrate, force them out. 'I need to work.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I tried to close my ears to the
noise, the hate. As the sergeant came forward to march me into the
factory I silently thanked him for ignoring the tears streaming from
my eyes.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could not clock in. I'd torn up my
clocking card on the first day of the strike. Instead Mr Vickery
himself, thin, sonorous, welcomed me back to 'the family' with a
clammy handshake and told me how he believed now I had caved the rest
would soon follow. He was almost chummy with me. I could not speak
but he seemed to think I was being suitably deferential and sent me
on my way.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
To get to the undercraft I had to
pass through the hanger in which housed the Popcat. She'd been a
skeleton when I had seen her last and now she was fully clothed –
a pure white skin stretched across her ribs, the gondola below carved
with the vicious gods of the Aztecs. Her cannon weren't mounted yet
but there was already something fearsome about her, something I had
not seen in a dirigible before. It was as if all the fear and hate in
the city was held within the beast before me. The professional within
me wanted to inspect the skinning of the airship as I walked past the
gantries and scaffolds to get to the undercroft. But my skin crawled
at the thought of touching her and I stayed well away.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The key slid into the undercroft
door, it was a place I had only been in once before and it were
mostly filled with dirt where the back had collapsed. Then the door
had been difficult to open, screeching in complaint as it were forced
backwards. But now the door swung open easily and the light intruding
showed the debris inside had been cleared away. I made my way further
into the place, whispering a silent prayer to a God I no longer
believed in as I moved slowly towards a flickering, dismal light.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I found a hell.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Had I believed in God I would have
thought Satan had arisen and made this place his home. It hollowed
me. Stole the ability to cry out or move. Here were our children, or
what was left of them. One look showed the cruel gods of the Aztecs
had made a home here. Snarling wooden statues held rotting meat in
their jaws. A small hand. A small foot.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh my Barnaby.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My lad!
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A sobbing shuddered up from deep
within me, bending me over, forcing me down onto a floor dirty with
old blood and gobbets of jellified meat. I reached into my coat for a
bodkin, I do not know what I meant to do with it, to take my own life
or run amok in the factory. I had not thought that far ahead. Before
I could do owt a firm hand twisted my wrist and made me drop the
heavy needle. Then I was gripped around the neck and the barrel of a
gun pushed into my temple immobilised me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Get a grip on yourself, Man,' said
a voice, well spoken, educated. 'Your boy is safe,' he sounded
irritated. 'Boy, speak.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Father?' he sounded unsure of
himself, but what child would not if he were seeing his father cry.
Relief,rushed through me, like water to the thirsty, like faith to
the faithless.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Barny? Barny you are well?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yes Father.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Enough,' said the voice, 'Gilroy,
take the boy away, the less time he spends in this charnal house the
better. Get him a bun or something.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'What do you want?' I asked and the
man chuckled.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I want for every man to do his duty
for England,' the gun dug into my temple, 'not that you are a man
given to duty.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'My duty is to my fellow man, not
the rich,' I told him.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'What about your son?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'You wouldn't hurt a child.'
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He laughed.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Oh I would, though I would rather
not. Now listen well. Montezuma himself intends to fly in the
Tezcatlipōca back to Texpoco, after a brief stop off to quell the
Catalan rebels in Spain.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Brave men, we should be standing
with them not building machines to stamp them down.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Well,' hissed the voice in my ear,
'on that one thing at least we are in concordance my friend. Kill
Montezuma and there will be instant civil war in Azteca. This will
give the Catalans and Spanish a chance to make their rebellion
against Aztec rule work. That is where you come in.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Me?' What did he mean? 'I'm no
soldier nor a pawn of the ruling classes.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I tried to struggle to free myself
from the grasp of the man who held me, He felt like, like nothing, a
skinny thing and yet he did something that caused me such pain I
could barely breath.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Look around you, fool,' he spat
into my ear. 'What you see is the everyday life of the Spaniard,
their children are food for Aztec Gods and their men and women chewed
up in the armouries to supply the jaguar soldiers.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I don't understand what you want?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'It's simple,' he said, 'you're
going to blow up the airship when it's over the channel.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Me? You kidnapped my son to get me
hear? But why me?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could hear the smile in his voice.
'Becasue you;re perfect. What a story, a known agitator sneaks aboard
the ship and blows it up?' The Aztecs will suspect we had a hand in
it but be unable to prove anything. The Empire cannot afford a war
with the powers of Mezo-America yet.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'They will destroy the trade union
movement if I do this,' I whispered, more to myself than the man
holding me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'A useful side effect, I admit,' he
did not sound concerned, 'and one that will please my paymasters but
it is not my intention. I'd rather use a timer but we need a
scapegoat. Now, what say you? Your life for that of your child and a
generous stipend for your widow?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'How do I know you tell the truth.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'You don't,' he was laughing. It was
a cynical sound, 'but I've not blown your brains out and I am not
completely inhuman. Now, England expects every man to do his duty,
what say you, Mr Finlay?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Very well,' I said, and then added.
'Which lackey are you? Lachlan Quellor.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He sniffed, as though he smelt
something worse than the rotting flesh around us..</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Oh no,' he said, 'I'm one of the
men who actually gets things done. I'm not the sort of man you would
read about in the papers.' he leaned in close and whispered in my
ear. 'For what it's worth, I'm not unsympathetic to your cause.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I think I hated him a little more
for those words. Rather a man who fights for what he believes than a
man who betrays what he knows is right. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They sat me in a packing case, the
bomb is below me and the gentle vibrations of the airship run through
me. The ticking of the expensive fob watch in my hands seems terribly
loud, louder than the voices of the Aztecs I hear occasionally
walking past. The watch is engraved with the initials S.W.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In ten minutes I will be dead.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hope it will not hurt.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There has been too much pain.</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-51631680235569924362015-02-03T14:30:00.001+00:002015-02-03T14:38:43.714+00:00The OngoingnessSo, number three in a very occasional set of blogposts about the exciting life of an author hovering at the edges of professionalism. We've done The Rejection (boo!) we've done the 'New Start' (huzzah!) now we are on to writing the new thing (ambivalence!) [1]<br />
<br />
Writing about this is hard cos I don't want to give much away about The Uncrowned Heir in case you get to read it one day. So I'm going to try and talk about process rather than content which could be really dull.[2] I don't really read many posts about 'how to write X' because then I think 'well, I don't do that' and then I start reading more posts about 'how to write X' and I don't do that either and then I sit here thinking I am doing everything wrong and really if you think about the odds of having any sort of success at all you realise you are quite likely wasting your time and what's the point?[3] Which means I have been entirely derailed from why I am doing this - I'm doing it because I love doing it[4]. So I'm going to stick with what is the best piece of writing advice I have ever been given and it was given to me by the rather wonderful Chaz Brenchley – 'What works for you is the right way of doing it.' <br />
<br />
Follows, is what works for me [4a].<br />
<br />
Once I knew what I wanted to do I decided to write it and nothing else. That sounds like nothing but it's not because that's the moment I stop being distracted and commit to finishing what I'm on with.<br />
<br />
Then for the next week or so I will annoy my wife by being generally distracted and not paying attention to what she's saying[4b] while I daydream through the entire book. I make occasional notes if I REALLY like something but the aim is just to know what I am doing and where it is going. In this case I knew I wanted to write a crime book in a fantasy world, rather than a fantasy book with crime elements. I also focused a bit on my principal characters and how they would interact and what their relationship is but I knew most of this as it's them that excites me and they are the starting point. I'm a people person and people are what it's about.<br />
<br />
Then I made a table that had room for thirty chapters, a brief description of what I intended in that chapter, room for notes if I needed to backfill and a final column for whatever it is I had forgotten to make a column for.[5] I also did some sketches of the castle so I had an idea of the geography as it plays an important part in the story[6].<br />
<br />
I fill in what I can in my chapterguide thing, this mostly consists of: the end, the beginning and a few milestone moments that need to happen, it'll be maybe half full by the time I start. I don't bother with sub plots or world or other characters as I like to feel that comes organically[7] from the story. I'm still undecided on whether this bit is procrastination or not.<br />
<br />
Then I ignore all the notes and guides and maps and stuff and write. I set myself a target of 2000 words a day, Monday to Friday, and nothing at weekends as family and stuff. I don't sit and write solidly I sort of dither about through the day, coming and going and talking to myself like I have 'problems'.[7a] As I said, It took about six weeks in real writing time as I had a break for Christmas and to be really ill in the middle but I ended up at 85'000 words so I outstripped my target by a fair bit and ended up with a first draft that had plenty of good stuff in it.<br />
<br />
Once done. I left it for a couple of weeks and wrote some comedy stuff with my friend Chris[8] <br />
<br />
And now we are at the bit I struggle the most with. The rewrite to get something that works. The second guessing, the wondering, the not knowing. It's not quite as bad this time as it has been with other stuff and, as I'm reading, I definitely feel what I've done has a real emotional punch to it and I have a hugely likeable main character. But there are problems and the good thing is that I am seeing them[9]. <br />
<br />
I think. <br />
<br />
Or maybe I'm not.<br />
<br />
Or possibly it was right first time and now I'm making it wrongerer.<br />
<br />
I still love doing this.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. I'm not actually ambivalent about it I am excited but that wouldn't work as a joke.<br />
<br />
2. Eh? What? Sorry, I fell asleep thinking about process.<br />
<br />
3. ...which inevitably ends at entropy and the heat death of the universe. SO JOLLY.<br />
<br />
4. I may have mentioned this before. Not sure.<br />
<br />
4a Or doesn't, judging by my success so far.<br />
<br />
4b She is watching Celebrity Big Brother at the moment so I kind of wish I'd timed that bit of the process for now.<br />
<br />
5. Ascii pictures of badgers that only look like badgers to me.<br />
<br />
6. The sketches also serve to make my wife, who is an artist, laugh hysterically. Of course, if she REALLY loved me she'd do it for me but apparently earning money so we can eat is more important than me. Terrible state of affairs.<br />
<br />
7. Organically. Really? Organically?<br />
<br />
7a This is why I don't sit and write in a café. *Telephone rings* 'Hi, MrsRJ? It's me. No, now...listen...no, I don't care what Keith Chegwin said in the house last night. Listen, I've been committed. Yes, again.'<br />
<br />
8. Chris really likes process, and order and planning and things like that and will probably murder me at some point in us working together.<br />
<br />
9. Ha! Some of them anyway.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-20345717374047303452015-01-27T11:56:00.002+00:002015-01-27T12:06:36.959+00:00New Beginnings.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyway.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Last blog post was about not selling
the book[1]. This blog post is about starting again from scratch.
Starting again is like a beautiful flower of possibility opening after a long
winter of cold, grey and uncertain weather that rains rewrites,
snows line edits then melts away leaving you with a manuscript
no one wants[2].
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After A Darkness Against the Stars[3]
not selling I had a chat with Rob, my agent, about what to do next. He
had some suggestions[4] and a couple of editors had some
suggestions[4] and my friends had some suggestions too[4]. So I wrote
a bit, I outlined five ideas I thought had legs and wrote a bit of a
couple of them. I also wrote about ten thousand words on something an
editor had suggested might be a good fit for me. Showed it to Rob who
though I'd missed what they meant and then wrote another ten thousand
words which were nearer the mark. Rob also looked through what I've
suggested and told me what he liked and what he didn't[4]. In all I wrote about 50'000 words of experiments and what-do-I-enjoys.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But, picture me at this point. I am in
a quantum[5] state. I have four more books roughly outlined that
occur within the same universe as 'A Darkness'[4] and a few short stories. I LIKE that
universe. I also have five ideas, most of which my agent thinks have
legs, and I have quite a bit written on a thing that an editor has suggested I have a go
at. I am the proverbial pig in mud. Lack of ideas is not and never
has been a problem[6].</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, what do I do?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Can you guess?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The answer is...</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
NONE OF THE ABOVE![7]<br />
<br />
Go me. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Let's be honest. I mentioned in my
last post about the reason for doing this and the reason is I love
it. Although I would no doubt enjoy doing what was suggested by an editor if it
didn't sell then I'd probably be a bit gutted. I'd much rather be hung for
a wolf than a sheep. If I get turned down again then at least I've
spent -indeterminate amount of time- on something I really want to
do. I took a couple of elements from things Rob liked and rolled them
up with something else and ended up with a thing.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Here's an aside. If my agent had
suggested any of the following:-</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A coming of age.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A teenage 'hero'.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Introducing romance elements.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I would have flounced off in a huff.
Well, I wouldn't. I would have said, 'yeah, I'll think about that.'
Which is my version of flouncing off in a huff cos I'm not really a
huff type of person. The jury is out on flouncing[8]</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
However, what I am doing has all the
above elements because I am contrary like that. And they are needed for
the plot. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At first the new thing was called 'The Jester's Twist' which I really
liked but Rob wasn't as keen [4]. As I wrote it though that title
made less and less sense - the book proved to be about a something
else. So now it has a more definite title, which is 'The Uncrowned
Heir'. Its first draft is finished, at 85'000 words. I wrote it in
six weeks which is pretty quick. It's either going to be really good as it works, or
awful. TUH is a fantasy whodunnit which doesn't seem to be a very
popular thing[4] but I think it has really likeable central
characters that will pull you along. It's written to be one of three and because I know what I want to do I can pre-seed it with stuff that carries forward to other books.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I let a couple of people read the beginning few chapters and the feedback was that they were pretty excited by it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now I've just started my
first edit of it so no doubt my next blogpost will be about how much
I hate it and what a fool I have been to write such rubbish.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Woe, poor me, etc. Feel free to
make cash donations if it will salve your conscience.<br />
2. See 1.<br />
3. That title is so dramatic. It
really is a pity.<br />
4. Write fantasy. Everyone wants to
read fantasy. Don't be too weird.<br />
5. Picture my physicist friends tutting and
pointing out this is a very bad usage of 'quantum'. At least I know
that. I hope that gives them a Quantum of Solace. Ha ha. Oh my. So
angry.<br />
6. Can you say Hubris?<br />
7. I picture my agent shaking his
head while saying 4.<br />
8. It isn't. I am practically built
of flounce. In imperial measurement I weigh ten stone eleven
flounces.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-71536185556847030022015-01-13T18:56:00.002+00:002015-01-13T19:02:17.297+00:00A Fall.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ill Considered Poem About MarkeSmith</div>
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Outside my window.<br />
He's in among the Dahli-a<br />
Peeking out.<br />
I think he's coming to kill me because
I don't like his band.
<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Peeking out.<br />
He looks like one of those rubber
puppets you put in your fingers <br />
As a kid.<br />
Made it gurn<br />
Mark E Smith is gurning in the bushes.<br />
I think he's calling me a Kant.<br />
In German.<br />
While gurning.<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Peeking out.<br />
Maybe he wants my teeth<br />
He doesn't have any of his own.<br />
I think he sold them to the devil for
cult like acclaim.<br />
And now he's come to kill me because I
don't like his band.<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Peeking out.<br />
Secretly planning a radio 6
retrospective <br />
One he can never bring himself to present<br />
Maybe he thinks I'm Marc Riley<br />
He must be drunk.<br />
I have more hair.<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes
<br />
Peeking out.<br />
I've gone outside <br />
Because the live
experience is always better than the record,<br />
It's cold, no worries for the hard man
of the Manchester scene<br />
But I need another jumper<br />
Maybe a scarf and hat.<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Peeking out.<br />
Not even quoting any Fall lyrics in
this.<br />
Just lazily appropriating his most
famous speech pattern.<br />
He's not disappointed, just angry.<br />
<br />
Mark E Smith is in the bushes<br />
Outside my window.<br />
He's in among the Dahli-adedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-24041490896180357232015-01-03T16:23:00.000+00:002015-01-05T08:31:09.587+00:00Failing at the Highest Level.<strong><em>Digest Version</em></strong>: Wrote a book, didn't sell. Quite enjoyed the process. Not disappointed.<br />
<br />
So, 2014 was a pretty exciting year for me. I spent most of it working on a big concept SF novel named 'A Darkness Against the Stars' with my agent, Rob Dinsdale of Dinsdale Imber. And I loved doing it. Rob picked up the novel on the promise of the first part, wasn't as taken with the back end of it so I ripped that out and rewrote. Then rewrote and rewrote and rewrote. It probably sounds like hard work but it wasn't - yes, occasionally I'd get tired of reading the same bit again or rewriting it but rarely. Mostly because Rob supplied what I wanted, which was a critical eye and an understanding of the business of writing that I don't really have and aren't really interested in. Plus, I really like Rob, he makes me laugh[1] and I keep that at number one on my priorities list with people I have/choose to deal with.<br />
<br />
Then the book was set free, sent off to the publishers and Rob was pretty upfront with what he said about its chances in the current market. Slim, was the gist of it. He also used the words 'too cerebral'[2] at one point. Like any neophyte author I heard this as 'not good enough'[3] but again, Agent to the rescue by pointing out if it wasn't good enough he wouldn't send it out.<br />
<br />
So it went round the publishers, feedback was got. Mostly it was good, some people didn't like it as it was too slow. Some people didn't think some bits worked, some people plain didn't like it – which is all well and good, I don't really want to write stuff everyone likes as my mind tells me it would have to be a bit middle of the road[4]. But, some people loved it. Really loved it. I had the wonderful experience of talking to people, people whose job it is to know about this stuff, who got it. Who saw the things I'd put in there that weren't obvious, that were hidden in the text, who were excited by the bits in it that excited me.<br />
<br />
But it fell at the final hurdle (I say final but I think there are a few avenues left, however, that's agent stuff that I don't pretend to understand). When Rob emailed me with a 'well we tried but not this time,' I genuinely got the feeling he was more disappointed than me [5].<br />
<br />
Thing is, I've found out I can do this. I can write, it works. I am not awful at writing. I may not have sold but I'm writing pretty close to a professional level[6&7]. That is worth a year or so of work for me as I've always felt like I'm winging it. <br />
<br />
Also, I've always told myself I write because I want to write, not because I want to be a writer, or make money[8] or be known. I'm writing because I love to write and now I know I'm not lying to myself about that. The most painful part of this entire process was between the book being sent out and it not selling. I had nothing to write. Couldn't start a sequel, couldn't start anything else. I wrote shorts to keep my eye in but I prefer a longer form and a huge part of not being disappointed was the sense of relief that cam with being able to start something new[9].<br />
<br />
It's only now sort of filtering through that it's unlikely people will get to read 'Darkness,' which is a pity as I think I created a great, and pretty unique, universe and some memorable characters. As I said, there are still avenues to explore and there's always self-publishing - though, if I'm honest, I'm not sure I'm at all suited for that. Freeing it on Amazon is probably the same, for me, as it not being read except I lose first world rights should anyone ever be interested. Besides, I'm a going forward sort of person and that would sort of feel like going backwards, which I'm not into. <br />
<br />
The upshot is, 2014 was pretty great really.<br />
<br />
Also, a publisher bought me steak. In London. <br />
<br />
So cool. <br />
<br />
<br />
1. *Maniacal laugh* Why once again, Mr Dinsdale, you have failed to understand my genius.<br />
2. I can actually hear people I know rolling around on the floor laughing at this.<br />
3. I'm not paranoid. Are you saying I am? What about your friend? What did he just say? What about them? You know, them, the others. The people over there. The ones hiding and cringing at this obvious joke? Eh? EH?<br />
4. 'Yes, but what about....' LA LAAALAAA LAA CAN'T HEAR YOU. I AM SINGING.<br />
5. His reply read 'well, that's the most sanguine reaction I've ever had.'<br />
6. Please feel free to point out the grammatical errors in this blogpost that prove otherwise.<br />
7. Either I am writing at a pro-ish level or the entire publishing industry is perpetrating a practical joke at my expense (see 3).<br />
8. Will not refuse money.<br />
9. An, as yet, untitled fantasy thing.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-44551090941662866742013-12-23T15:45:00.001+00:002013-12-23T15:47:53.290+00:00The Groveller.<br />
Another ten minute experiment. This time fantasy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Groveller.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My name? You wish to know my name.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Why, Sir, I cannot thank you enough
for asking one as lowly as I, as pathetic and small, as wormlike, a
mere nematean nothing squirming in the mud at your feet for something
as utterly useless to your own magnificence as my name.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And I shall not be slow in giving it as I am sure your time is valuable, valuable as gold, and equally as precious and beautiful and shiny. My name, ugly in the mouth as it is, is Larahill the Groveller, once of
the bounteous Kingdom of Varn where I was the son of the son of the
son of the very man who started our noble profession. For it is
noble. Though I am it's most lowly example, worth little more than attempting to grovel the excrement from the arse of a dog and...</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You would know more? Why, I can scare
believe that a man of such obvious and clear intelligence as yourself
is unfamiliar with the lowly unimportant and only partially
well-renumerated as it deserves to be job as that of a groveller is.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Or was.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But we shall come to that.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The position of groveller came to be in the wondrous, tree lined, mountain rimed, sun kissed and water dribbled upon Kingdom of Varn
under the beneficent and munificent reign of King Harand the Changed
of Ways. When my very own great, great, great Grandfather whose seed
would far better have been spent being spilled on the ground or in a
handkerchief than begetting the line of one as earth bound and
miserable and malformed as I.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Talk less?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, what a wise course of action
that is, Sir, for indeed I am one given to filling the air with the
effluvium of my wo...</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yes. Less. I do understand the word.
Though my understanding of words is often...ah, no. Put the blade
away good sir. I shall indeed, speak less.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
See, before King Harand changed his
ways they were somewhat, unwise, some may say, in that he executed a
policy of enjoying himself and taxing the populace to such a degree
they became blinded to his magnificence and chose to revolt. In the
last moments of that revolt my grandfather stood before the mob and
grovelled. He grovelled as no man has before or since. Why, he very
much invented the forms of abasement; begging, renting and crying,
that have become the modern form of grovelling once so worthwhile to
the wellbeing of Varn.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Was I good?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was not my father good, no, not
that good. For my father grovelled Agmin the Violent out of a death
sentence and not once, not twice, not three times but four times
before Agmin ran out of money and into a noose. But it must be said,
Agmin truly enjoyed the life my father won him.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Though many others did not.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That is not to say I am without
plaudits entirely, Sir. Why, I can see from your wondrous dress and
sumptuous, subtly garish fabrics that you are of Iren and was it not
I, Larahill who won General Vordice a reprieve after his disastrous
defence of the Eastern Isles which are now in the hands of your most glorious and I have heard exotic and curvaceous and bountiful
Empress? Although, I am first to admit, that your people may be a
little cross at the fact that I freed him to counter attack I am sure
that the ensuing destruction of our fleet and your subsequent
annexing of our western territories go some way to making up for
my actions which were carried out with the best of intentions and at almost Ruinous cost to the general whose estate never did pay up..</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But I must not boast, that was only one
of my many grovellings and am, was, one of many grovellers. Busily
upholding the Varnish way of life which was of benefit to all Varnens.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Until the King, in his wisdom, banned
grovelling.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Banned it!</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After so many glorious years, after
so much tradition.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, good Sir, this is how you find me
here, in this much reduced position and forced to stretch out my had,
beg, cry, nay, grovel even, and ask you in all the best faith and knowing of your exalted and most high position.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Can you not provide one of your
assassins at a little cheaper price?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I'm sure you can tell. It's for
the good of the kingdom.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-41330651068007809992013-12-09T19:34:00.002+00:002013-12-09T19:35:24.486+00:00The BreakdownI've not written anything here in a while so I thought I'd set myself a quick ten minute story writing exercise and this is what I came up with. As is the way with something written so quickly I have no idea whether it's worth your time or not but it was fun to do. Kind of sad. Also, SF today.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>The Breakdown.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Hey Bob.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Hey Arl, what you got for me?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'This scyther, little guy was out there
cutting the lawn and he just got up and stopped on me.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'It jammed?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'No, checked everything mechanical,
seemed fine to me.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Well, probably came across something
alive, fieldmouse or something.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Hey, Bob, you know I'm no amateur,
checked for that too. Nothing living there, just a couple of dead insects and
they don't stop for insects do they?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'No, they usually make enough noise
to scare off insects. I'll have a look at its code.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'You feel anything in there?'
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Well, Arl, I'm in its systems, there's
nothing screwy in the code.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'But he can't just stop. Can he?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'No, let's have a look through its
visual memory. See what the last thing it did was.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Okay, he stopped about half an hour
before I turned him off properly.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Right, let's see. Right, here it's
cutting away and...woah. Is that the insect it killed?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yeah, that stripy one.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Arl, man, that's a bee.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'A bee? But bees are...'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Extinct? Yeah, I thought that.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'So he killed the bee and then, he...he just
stopped.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yeah, Arl, he killed the bee and then
he just stopped.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Poor little guy. Bob, are you all
right?'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Just got something in my eye, Arl,
that's all.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-39998322823413454152013-08-20T18:13:00.000+01:002013-08-20T18:14:47.609+01:00I Have a DreamWouldn't it be great if in every one of those huge open plan offices, each chair had a huge spring under it. And utterly randomly, once or twice a week, it would launch people into the air.<br />
<br />
Health and safety nightmare, I know. But when I worked in a big office this was what I spent my days imagining and it brought me great joy, laughter and quite a few strange looks. I thought I'd share.<br />
<br />
EDIT: Launchees would yelp. the yelping is what makes it funny.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-22209487735662477022013-08-14T10:41:00.002+01:002013-12-02T21:17:54.606+00:00An Actual 100% Accurate Metaphor (Involving Soft Furnishings) For What it is Like to Write a Novel.<br />
I'm two thirds through a rewrite now so I thought I would take a moment to explain what it's like to write a novel and use an example that we are all familiar with, and indeed one our lives would be smaller and somehow less civilised without: soft furnishings.<br />
<br />
A novel is a lot like making a cushion. Your plot and characters are the cover, they give the novel its shape and then your theme is the decoration you use on the outside of the cushion, it needs to tie in with the cover you have made. Once you've completed the cover you go back and “stuff” the cover with dialogue, sub plots and description. Once that is done you spend some time beating the cushion in to shape, trying to get out the lumps and make sure your cushion fits in with all the other soft furnishings in your house. Or as I like to call it, “your vision”.<br />
<br />
Then your friend who has heard you like soft furnishings so much you are making some of your own calls on you and they bring a cushion they bought at Habitat in Homebase. You look at this cushion and realise, although it was made by someone called Julie with eyes dead through boredom and whose only thought is for Gary who looks really cool when he smokes Regal Kingsize, it is still better made than yours. In fact, you can't see how you can ever make a cushion that can compare with the one your friend brought you. <br />
<br />
In tears, you throw your friend out of the house and refuse to ever speak to them again. Then you spend a few weeks staring at the new cushion and your pathetic, shameful attempt at a cushion that you can't believe you ever considered for one moment any sensible human may ever, ever want to sit on. Then you burn the habitat cushion on the electric fire which shorts out everything in the house and your wife tells you that you are an idiot and you are over-reacting and actually your cushion is perfectly good. WHAT DOES SHE KNOW? IS SHE A CUSHIONOLOGIST???? NO. <br />
<br />
You realise she will never understand you or your art and you only option is to leave home. You relocate to a stone bothy on the Isle of Mull with only as much Morrison's own brand whisky as you can get in the car and a photograph of your children. The only soft furnishings in the bothy are an upright chair that is thick with the smell of the previous occupier's incontinence and is also worryingly damp, you feel sure it also has bedbugs. Worst of all, despite its decrepit state you cannot help but notice that the cushion on it is very well made. <br />
<br />
The whisky takes the edge off the pain.<br />
<br />
Years pass and eventually you run out of whisky and decide, maybe, it is time to return home. When you do you find your wife is living with a man called Roger who does, 'something to do with accounts but it's not really that interesting what I really enjoy is paragliding.' Your children now call Roger 'Daddy' and look at you like you are a tramp who has come in off the street, mostly because you look like a tramp who has come in off the street. In the front room you find your cushion and, shockingly, you realise it is not nearly as bad as you remember. In fact, if you find better material, use a completely different design and change the stuffing it could actually work.<br />
<br />
Frantically, you set to work, week after week you stay up late into the night, ignoring Roger and his pathetic attempts to 'sort this out like grown ups'. When you are finished you hold up your cushion to God and he sends a single, beautiful ray of sunlight which illuminates your cushion and you know. You. Know. This one is far, far better than the last.<br />
<br />
But on the other couch, unnoticed until now, there are two cushions, one showing an amusing picture of a cat with a cigar and the other with a Union Jack in blue and green that is shaped like a teapot. They are well made, too well made. A TEAPOT? WHY DIDN'T YOU THINK OF THAT? This is more than you can bear and you throw your pathetic cushion out of the window. You hear the siren call of Morrison's own brand whisky and the bothy on the Isle of Mull and the whole process starts again except this time you have scorpions in your hairdedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-90710801653614925382013-08-11T11:38:00.001+01:002013-08-11T11:40:57.838+01:00Cbeebies Xtra.Being a stay at home Dad I watch an awful lot of CBeeBies. An awful lot. Sometimes it's more than you can bare but as there's a fashion for gritty reboots I thought I'd have a go.<br />
<br />
<br />
Gritty reboots<br />
<br />
<strong>Octonauts.</strong><br />
<br />
Kelli Kitten is the new Octonaut and has sworn to avenge her father killed by pirates. Kelli and Kwasi swiftly become best friends but when Kwasi comes clean about his Pirate past he is forced to kill a vengeful Kelli. Overcome with remorse Kwasi throws himself into the ocean without his mask to drown. Meanwhile, Captain Barnacles and the Vegemals play with a mischievous Sea Urchin.<br />
<br />
Lesson Learned. - You cannot run from responsibility. Sea Urchins are a type of mollusc.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Mike The Knight.</strong><br />
<br />
Mike butchers the Muslim prisoners. Realising this isn't honourable he volounteers to be first over the wall at the siege of Jerusalem. Squirt's leprosy gets worse and results in a hilarious search for his arm. Meanwhile, at home, Evie is burnt as witch.<br />
<br />
Lesson learnt. Take responsibility for your actions.<br />
<br />
<strong>I Can Cook with Gordon.</strong><br />
<br />
Danny (5) buckles under the pressure of a twenty cover service. Jasmine (6) falls off her stool while preparing pasta and suffers 35% burns. Gordon says a naughty word.<br />
<br />
Lesson Learnt. Get your ars*s in gear, being a f**king child is no f**king excuse in this F**king economy you f**king cretin.<br />
<br />
<strong>Peter Rabbit.</strong><br />
<br />
When Peter sees Mr Todd has eaten so much he says he can't eat another thing he thinks it's safe to leave the burrow door open. Mr Todd rushes into the burrow and massacres the entire family just because he can. (Last in series) <br />
<br />
Lesson Learnt: Nature is red in tooth and claw.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-58849275487382677332013-08-02T10:04:00.003+01:002013-08-02T10:04:48.167+01:00The Third - 'The Boy Who Listened in at Doors<br />
This was due to be the third in a triptych of experiments after <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Interment-ebook/dp/B005LI46G0" target="_blank">Interment</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Social-Diary-Ghoul-ebook/dp/B006NXG9LM/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1375433824&sr=1-1&keywords=the+social+diary+of+a+ghoul" target="_blank">The Social Diary of a Ghoul</a> but as is wont to happen life intervened and Mikko had to attend to boring things like earning money for food and stuff. It was recently featured on the lovely, fragrant and talented <a href="http://sjiholliday.com/" target="_blank">Susi Holliday's blog</a> and I thought I'd put it here.<br />
<br />
Hope you like it anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><strong>The
Boy Who Listened in at Doors.</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
are Witches out there, with skull faces .</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On
windy nights they gather in the tree outside his window and huddle
together on branches winter-shorn of leaves. They chatter and laugh,
flap their cloaks and watch him with beady black eyes. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">All
witches, all watching. Laughing black leaves on the cold oak’s
boughs.</span></span></div>
,<br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'They’re
just crows,”'says Mother with her half-sad mouth. 'Just crows, my
boy, just crows.'</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
Boy pulls his curtains together tightly. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">not
even the mercurial moon </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">can
peek into his room. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Better
the dark than peeking Witches, </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">with
skull faces. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hard,
black, leather-skin carapaces </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Long
dead grimaces.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grinding
and eating and cawing and gnawing.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
has protectors, many and varied. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Can't,
doubt the bravery of Flying Fred Ted nor Keemo the duck that Daddy
brought him from the hospital.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>When
Daddy was still here.</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stick
thin on the bed. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
bears hate the witches with Skull faces and he hugs his small army
close.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
should feel safe.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Witches
talk </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
squawk </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
screech and cackle and yatter and caw-caw the night away.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Outside
those thick black curtains that Mummy, with the half-sad mouth,
fitted. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They’re
just crows, My boy, just crows,' she had said as she hung the
curtains, shoulders slumping, a pale hand covering tearfilled eyes.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When
they first visited - </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>black
flecks falling out the dusky sky to populate the bare oak -</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
Raggedy capes making excellent wings for those who wish to be
something else. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
same night the Terminal took Daddy went away.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Witches
have guile, they know people would spot birds with skull faces
straight away. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Make
a fuss. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Call
animal protection.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or
the newspapers</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Get
the T.V. People</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or
maybe write a book.) </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Witches
don’t want that.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
they slip their black pointy hats down over their shiny-leathered
skulls.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hard
black beaks </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cover
hard black faces.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Just
crows my boy, just crows. Where do you get these things from, my
son?'</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes,
the caw-cawing and yattering starts to swirl in his head, stops being
squawks and screeches and becomes words.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Always
the same.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Taunting,
teasing, sneering, squealing, high pitched, rakkety-ratchet old-hag,
warty-chinned voices</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Shall
we eat the boy tonight? Good and plump he is. Who’d miss the lonely
little scrap? Our bellies would be full and his mother not be sad.'</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Again
they say it. </span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Again
and again. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Each
time more teeth-on-glass voices join the chorus until eventually, in
a great taunting, teasing, sneering, squealing, high pitched,
rakkety-ratchet old-hag, warty-chinned wail the whole flock of
skull-faced, witch-crows takes to the sky. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Raggedy
capes flap. Hat mouths croak. A dark spiral rising up and out over
the city.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'They’re
just crows, my boy, just crows' she says but the tears in her eyes
and the tremble of his lip won’t leave. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Daddy
would scare them away.'</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'I’m
sure he would,' she looks at the floor to hide her tears as she tucks
him in. 'There are no monsters, my son. Nothing eats people They’re
just crows, my boy, just crows.' Her voice a strangled sob.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He
tries to be brave but he knows she lies and pulls the covers over his
head and curls up, folding in his fear and pain with ganglion arms. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Monsters
are real. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>'I'm
sorry, Mrs Taylor,' said the doctor. 'There's nothing we can do. It's
eating him away.'</i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-46911516945385082202013-04-18T17:56:00.001+01:002013-04-18T17:56:20.080+01:00Also provides children's entertainment.
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
This was originally printed in a children's magazine called Spellbound and I'd totally forgotten about it until someone contacted me asking for it. But here it is now. If you have small people and think they might like it feel free to copy under CC.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u><b></b></u> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u><b></b></u> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u><b></b></u> </div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u><b>TIMOTHEY
THADDEUS BEAUMONT: DEAMONHUNTER (Aged six and three quarters)</b></u></div>
<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u> </u></div>
<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
<u> </u></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
It was an odd
scratching sound that made Timothy look under the sink. Of course,
mother had been expecting him to clean under there but he never
did, it was too damp and cold. The scratching noise had Tim’s
curiosity piqued so he made a rare venture into cupboard, one eye
closed and the other only half open, brush held at the ready in case
a spider tried to jump on his arm.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
They do
that.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
It wasn’t
a spider under the sink, Tim wasn’t sure what it was.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
At first
he thought it might be an escaped monkey. It was about monkey sized
but the more he looked, the more it seemed a strange sort of monkey.
It had no fur for a start, just brown wrinkled skin like it had
stayed in the bath long after mother had told it to get out. It also
seemed to have wings, though they weren’t very big, more like
little rags suspended from knitting needles on its back. It
definitely didn’t have a monkey’s face. In fact it looked more
like a turtle, all flat with big round eyes.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Whatever
it was, it was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to eat through a pipe
under the sink.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim
wondered if turtles had big teeth like this creature did. He didn’t
think so.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What
are you doing?” Asked Tim politely.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
The
creature stopped chewing on the pipe and looked at Tim, it made a
sort of tutting sound and moved its mouth like Grandpa did when
chewing gum.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“You can
see me?” It asked, in a voice similar to his father’s
car engine on a cold morning.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Timothy
thought this was an odd question as he wouldn’t be talking to it if
it were invisible.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Yes.”
Said Tim, a little confused.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“’Appens.”
Replied the creature, “children and animals, sometimes they can,”
it started to head-butt the pipe quite vigorously.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What
are you?” Asked Tim rather bemused, he was sure he had never seen
a creature like this on television. Tim liked to watch all of the
nature programmes, though he liked foxes best.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“I’m a
demon ain’t I?” Said the creature.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“I
thought demons had horns,” replied Tim.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Well
some of ‘em do, mostly when you get further up the ladder, and a
right snooty bunch they are. I’m ‘appy me, minor demons like us
get easy jobs like this. No goin’ up against the forces of good
for me, no way. Dangerous that is.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim had no
idea what it was talking about but nodded anyway.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“And
what are you?” Asked the demon in a rather impolite manner.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“I’m a
boy.” Answered Timothy. The demons eyes lit up and it dived at
Timothy mouth wide open, ivory teeth extending.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim hit it
with his brush.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What
was that for?” Asked the demon rather sulkily from where it had
landed amongst the empty paint tins and cleaned out jam jars.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“You
tried to bite me.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Of course I
did, I’m a demon, that’s what we do and I wasn’t trying to bite
you, was trying to eat you, so there! Given me headache now.”
Moaned the demon as it resumed futilely bashing its head against the
pipe.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Sorry,”
said Tim. “I’m a boy, we don’t like being bitten or eaten.
Why are you banging your head against that pipe?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“It’s
what we do, ruin people lives. All the numbers went in Jack
Scratch’s hat and your fathers came up. I’m here to ruin his
plumbing.” Said the demon with an evil grin, although Tim thought
the demon was a bit too small to look really evil.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What
good will that do?” Inquired Tim.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Well
once I break this pipe, it’ll be gushing out everywhere. Then all
it needs is one spark, and boom! Your dead, your mum’s dead, your
dads life is ruined. Then the salesdemons move in and we get his
soul. Pretty smooth operation eh?” The demon winked and resumed
blunting its teeth on the sink pipe.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Timothy
wasn’t entirely sure that water was explosive and had an idea that
the demon may be chewing the wrong pipe. He decided it would be
foolish to question the forces of darkness and said nothing.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What’s
your name? I can’t just keep calling you demon.” Asked Timothy
whose mother had instilled good manners into him at an early age.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
The demon
looked at Tim, “you wouldn’t be able to say my name, it’s a
demon word.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“I could
try,” said Tim who firmly believed that if you ventured nothing,
you gained nothing.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Well
don’t blame me if your tongue falls out when you try to say it.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim
pondered this thought and decided he would try anyway. “What is it
then?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Alfred.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Alfred?”
Replied Tim sounding rather surprised.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“You
speak demon then? Well that makes things easier,” Alfred was now
hanging from the pipe, swinging slightly.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“You
don’t seem to be damaging that much,” pointed out Tim, who always
tried to be helpful.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“No.”
Alfred sat down looking rather unhappy. “I was meant to have help,
don’t suppose you’ve seen another demon about have you? Looks
like me but with antlers. Strong Scottish accent?”<br /><br />Tim
shook his head.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Just
wait ‘till Bert gets here, real nasty piece of work that one. I’m
evil but he’s really evil. Probably eat you, errr?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Tim.”
Said Tim.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Yeah, be
rooting around in your entrails as soon as look at you Bert will.”
Alfred started happily munching on a stray sock that had been in one
of the jam jars. “Tim? That’s a demon name, sure your not a
demon?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim
thought about this for a moment, “I don’t think I am.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Didn’t
think so, all that ‘orrible smooth skin, get laughed out of hell
you would. As I will if I don’t get this job finished. I hate
banks.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Banks?”
Asked Tim, rather confused with the conversations sudden change of
direction.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Yeah, banks.
Bane of my life banks are, used to be so easy.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“What
did?” Tim was by now thoroughly lost.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Ruining
lives of course, didn’t even have to kill anyone.” A tear of
nostalgia rolled down Alfred’s grizzled little face. “See Tim,
before banks everyone used to keep their money at home in boxes or
underneath the bed. Easy! Wander in, eat the money, life ruined.
Job done. Not now, oh no, now everything goes in the bank.”
Snorted Alfred disgustedly.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Daddy
hates banks too.” Said Tim.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“He does?”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed in what he fondly imagined was an image of
utmost cunning. He started to nonchalantly clean a claw. “So, er,
where does your Dad keep his money then?” Alfred chewed on his
tail as if nothing important was happening.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Oh he
keeps it upstairs in a box. Would you like to see?” Said Tim.
Alfred bit off the end of his tail in excitement.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“I’d
quite like to see yes. If it’s not too much trouble Tim.”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
Tim took
Alfred by the hand and, ignoring the rather clammy feel, led him to
the stairs.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Er, Tim
mate. You wouldn’t mind carrying me up would you? Never been very
good with them.” Said Alfred.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Don’t
they have stairs where you come from?” Asked Tim as he carried the
demon upstairs</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Only in
the disabled access areas.” Answered Alfred. “So where’s this
box then Timmy?”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“In my
bedroom, through here,” Tim led the deoon into his room.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Is this
the one?” Alfred pointed to a large box in the corner and smugly
thought to himself how angry Scottish Burt would be when he turned up
to find the job done.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Yes it
is.” Said Tim helpfully.” Before Tim could say anymore, the
demon ran across the floor and dived into the box, cackling with
glee.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
As Alfred
fell into the bottom of the box he could barely contain his
excitement and only half registered the sound of a key turning. It
was at this point that he noticed there was a distinct lack of money
in the box, he was about to ask to be let out when a Scottish
voice said.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.18cm; margin-top: 0.18cm;">
“Ach, I
see you fell for it too laddie!”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-42912988996103981722013-04-18T13:41:00.001+01:002013-04-18T13:44:24.641+01:00Doctor What (TF)?<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I have watched a few of this (and the last) series of
Doctor Who and, so far, I've enjoyed it but been a bit underwhelmed.
</div>
<br />
Now that's fine because it's not for
me, it is for kids and that's cool. I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy
watching it with the boy when he's a bit older. I did -love- it when
Christopher Eccleston was the Doctor though. I thought he nailed it
and brought a sense of real danger to the role that's been much
lacking since. But, a twitter conversation with the always rather
'establishment*' thinker @Ruthlesscult had me thinking of what I'd do
if put in charge of Doctor Who's scripting^. And in time honoured
tradition I have done a blog post about it without properly thinking
anything through.
<br />
<br />
It also involves a list. DOUBLE WIN.<br />
<br />
1) I would smash the sonic screwdriver
with a sonic hammer and then smash that.<br />
<br />
Locked in a room? Sonic screwdriver.
On a crashing spaceship and can't get into the controls? Sonic
screwdriver. Being attacked by evil badgers controlled with space
collars? Sonic screwdriver. It's vastly overpowered and an easy get
out for scriptwriters. On a more logical 'in world' level as it seems
to act on anything electronic then any Dalek or Cyberman invasion
should be easily ended with a quick sonic blast.
<br />
<br />
Smash it. Get rid of it. The Doctor
needs nothing but his wits.<br />
<br />
And some pants. Obviously.<br />
<br />
2) More Daleks.<br />
<br />
3) Stop the Tardis working properly. Oh I
know, no more Tardis chases or ending the episode watching a star
explode or something. But it's also a get out clause and the writers
use it in the same way they use the sonic screwdriver. It is far too
reliable.
<br />
<br />
'But it's sentient cos in ep...'
<br />
<br />
Shut up. I am not listening.
<br />
<br />
Instil in the Tardis (again) the sense
of the same (unknown-but-not-God) force that seemed to be controlling
Sam in Quantum Leap^*. Is the Tardis completely randomly dropping him
in places or is there some force behind it? OH LOOK. POTENTIAL STORY
ARC.<br />
<br />
4)More Daleks.<br />
<br />
5) Make him older. The Doctor is not
humanity's cool uncle. He is our Dad. Even better, our crazy Grandad.<br />
<br />
Would you write in a snogging with your
Dad? No. Not before the watershed and serving a long apprenticeship
writing plays for Radio 4 you wouldn't. Don't get me wrong, I like Matt Smith. I think
he's quirky and enjoy watching him but (and this is a casting error
not an acting one) last survivor of a species wiped out in a war
throughout all space and time? No. Neither was Tenant.
<br />
<br />
Eccleston? Yes.
<br />
<br />
Be quirky, Doctor, oh please, please be quirky, but also be intense and haunted and above all: it doesn't
matter how scary the bad guys are you should be scarier. That's why
Tom Baker worked.
<br />
<br />
And I don't care if he's male or female,
really don't**. Helen Mirren as the Doctor? Sign me up now. But make
the Doctor frighten me.
<br />
<br />
Make it plain about those companion's,
oh he's fond of them, but he would sacrifice them in a second if he
needed to. For the greater good and all but he'd still do it. And
make him slower, less energetic. Look at the Master, he's chaos, he's
energy: the Doctor's trickster God oppsite. The Doctor might be considered
chaotic to his own people, but they were basically space fascists.
<br />
<br />
You want energy, you say? Companions, the
flickering lights in the Doctor's long darkness. Make him odd, make
him dark, make him frighten us.
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
6) More Daleks.</div>
<br />
7) Bring back Gallifrey. Who does the
Doctor answer to? Oh no one. He's like a space Littlest Hobo except not a dog*^ and we know he's not actually going to
die because his name is on the titles. He's caught in the Superman
dilemma. There is, in essence, no real consequence for the Doctor
apart from losing one of his favourite amusements. <br />
<br />
But if you bring
back the Timelords they can reign him in. They can stop him or
imprison him. Also, great uniforms but as we all know that's one of
the few positives about being a fascist. I bet they make great boots
too, though I don't remember seeing any.
<br />
<br />
8) More Daleks.<br />
<br />
9) Take more risks. Doctor Who has a
massive fan base who will follow it no matter what. <br />
<br />
NO MATTER WHAT.
<br />
<br />
There's a lot of goodwill for you to use up. Two Doctors played by
different actors in different time streams? Go for it. The Doctor
regenerates as the Master with both sets of memories? CGI our Doctor into old adventures? Ace. I'm making
this up on the fly, if you're being paid for it you should be able to
BLOW MY TINY MIND. You have all of space and time to play with. Use
it.<br />
<br />
10) More Daleks.
<br />
<br />
You think I've been using this as a bit
of a comedy beat don't you? Oh no, my Whovian friend, not in the
least.
<br />
<br />
The killing off of the Dalek race? Just
stop it. Are they faintly ridiculous pepperpots gliding in only for a
bit of post modern amusement? Maybe, maybe not. I don't think so.
They are faceless, they are remorseless, they are the ultimate
product of unthinking mechanisation. They are what Hitler would have
invented -Panzer Mann- if he'd had the tech. And they scare us. They
should scare us more now because of our relentless advancement and
reliance on machines.
<br />
<br />
But Cybermen, Rj!
<br />
<br />
Oh yes, but they, at least, still look
vaguely human. Not so the Daleks.
<br />
<br />
And 'in world'? The Doctor's
civilization died fighting the Daleks. Lets not forget the Timelords
were the most advanced civilization ever. One that had control of
space and time. But the Daleks are STILL here.
<br />
<br />
I'd have them everywhere. A universe
wide plague. They've lost central command so star systems are being
devastated by Dalek on Dalek action as they argue -with weaponry-
about who's the purest. Cloning centres spewing out millions of them.
Stamp out one lot, another will spring up. They are like wasps.
<br />
<br />
They are also the antithesis of
everything our good Doctor stands for. He's about individuality
(within reason, of course) and a largely pacifistic way of sorting
stuff out. Daleks? Well, they're not are they?
<br />
<br />
11) Oh lastly my own little conceit, why not. Using the
galaxy as still infested with Daleks model. <br />
<br />
What if the Supreme Dalek
survived the time war? What if the the Doctor, after all the killing,
the millions, upon billions, upon trillions of deaths on his hands;
could not bare to land that final blow. So, instead of killing it. He
trapped it. Somewhere he had easy access to because they trusted him.
<br />
<br />
Somewhere like, oh I don't know, Earth? <br />
<br />
And if it got free all the Daleks busy with
killing each other would be united and swarm the universe.
<br />
<br />
Handily, this also gives you a cut off
point where the Doctor goes from being trusted by the military (the
Pertwee era?) to someone who they don't trust but need.
<br />
<br />
More importantly, then our Doctor would
have a real reason to protect us, wouldn't he?
<br />
<br />
Feel free to flame me below.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
*This is a lie.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
**But I'll continue using 'he' because
grammar is inherently sexist. Awkward.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
^*. I know they said/implied it was God but they're American, it's what they do. I choose to ignore it</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
.</div>
*^OR IS HE? See point 9.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-5298788311526003302013-01-04T14:40:00.002+00:002013-01-04T14:42:43.244+00:00To the editorI made a mistake. We were in the Chinese ordering takeaway when I opened the paper on the counter without thinking and got a blast of the Daily Mail. It made me sad. Anyway.<br />
<br />
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.7443963765891456" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A Letter to the Editor of The Daily Mail.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I write this under extreme duress,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Since I heard about schools handing out free durex</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Between that</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And single mothers</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I must confess</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I'm getting rather stressed</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My Father didn't fight in the war for this.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">On the corner I see kids with hooded heads</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We really need some sort of national service.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That's my taxes </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">funding scroungers</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Council housers</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And NHS beds</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And my Father didn't fight in the war for this.</span><br />
<span style="color: white;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Those Muslims aren't quite human we should know who they are</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Make them wear a crescent </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">or maybe wear a star</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And I really </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">am not racist</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">All I want to say is:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My Father didn't fight in the war for this.</span>dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-6080972625570882912012-12-19T10:13:00.000+00:002012-12-19T10:20:22.535+00:00Ten Minute Thingy #3<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Extreme Sanction.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I can still remember the first time,
but that's what they say isn't it? 'You never forget the first time.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was for Jenny Blydon. I was
thirteen. Ricky Sedge was chasing her on his bike and I was in the
field outside the house where Mum and Dad lived right up until they
died. I liked Jenny, I wanted to protect her and as she came running
up to me, Ricky pedalling like mad behind her as if trying to escape
the blurry heat haze that surrounded us, I concentrated.</div>
<br />
A sudden build of pressure, a
release.<br />
<br />
I can still hear that certain,
peculiar, silence, as if punching Ricky Sledge from his bike with my
mind had insulted nature and the world around me had taken in a
breath it could not release. The grass, in a circle thirty feet
around me was white, quite dead. The gentle sound of the birds
falling from the sky and hitting the ground around me in soft puffs
of ash. There was Jenny, pale, beautiful and dead. My footsteps
left behind me as I fell towards her like those left on the moon by Neil Armstrong. When I touched poor Jenny's face it crumbled.<br />
<br />
I wasn't a stupid kid. I knew that I
couldn't let this happen again, not without a really good reason.<br />
<br />
It came twenty years later in New
York. The Megaton it called itself, a nuclear powered battlesuit four
stories high, shrugging off the combined might of the American
military and I knew, it was like a voice in my head, 'your time has
come,' it said. Put the dishes down, grabbed a tea-towel and walked
out through the restaurant. Once I was out I wrapped the towel around
my head in true 'who was that masked hero?' fashion.<br />
<br />
I crumpled Megaton like an old coke
can.<br />
<br />
Ten thousand people turned to ash.
<br />
<br />
Public enemy number one. Grainy
satellite pictures of me, you'll know them. Head muffled in cloth,
arms outstretched, a barely perceptible ring around me.
<br />
<br />
MONSTER.<br />
<br />
I drank. I drank, I took drugs, I
wandered. So sure that I had found my purpose, my moment and all it
had brought was hate and condemnation from the entire world.<br />
<br />
But I'm sober now, straight. I'm back
in New York, back outside the same restaurant. No need to cover my
face. I've found my truth in God. <br />
<br />
And purpose.<br />
<br />
Allahu Akbar.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Quick Note.<br />
My apologies reader. I flinched. The original version of this has our character saving the Twin Towers from planes and a smaller bodycount. Which I think makes it a stronger piece of writing to be honest. But then there's always the worry, even though not many will probably read this little exercise, is it too crass?<br />
<br />
I mean, the implied ending is already crass but it's a necessary shorthand for the way alienation can drive people into extreme behaviour. Or that is what we subconsciously believe anyway. As far as you, the reader know, our chap has returned to New York as a missionary. But in the West, that's not what those two words mean to us (and it was not my original intention as I'm as guilty as anyone). But anyway, Yes. I flinched and I thought I should be truthful about it.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-64580447291917023502012-12-10T09:18:00.001+00:002012-12-10T09:19:10.570+00:00Ten Minute Thingy #2Same idea s the last one though this took slightly longer to write out. Not sure it's much better for it. Nevertheless here is a, loosely, Christmas themed fifteen minute thingy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Miracle on Oxford St.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karim Lee sat on a bench eating
sandwiches (cheese and pickle) as neon hoardings strobed out
everything he (and the wife and child he did not have) may possibly
want for Christmas. When God appeared Karim was staring idly at the row
of 40” 3d TV's in the shop window opposite him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Thud. Went something in the
ornamental bush behind Karim.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
God didn't look like Karim expected
him to look from his knowledge of the Bible (scant). God looked
nondescript, boring even. Cheap suit (tan), ratty, uncombed hair
(dirty blonde) and eyes like the skies of Karim's childhood holidays.
God smoked roll ups, cupping thick fingers around the thin ember to
protect it from the blades of icy wind, sucking on them like they
were a life support system and the harsh tobacco protected his lungs
from the city air.
</div>
<br />
'You Karim Lee?' God said. Karim
didn't know he was speaking to God. (God knew all about Karim Lee
because he was God.) 'You work at Enkidutech?'<br />
<br />
'I'm Karim,' said Karim, 'but if
you're a headhunter I'm not really interested in moving, I like what
I'm doing.'<br />
<br />
Thud! went a pigeon as it landed on
the pavement in front of him and burst like a sausage left in a
fridge dumped on a railway embankment by a man who couldn't be
bothered making a trip to the tip.
<br />
<br />
'Headhunter?' said God, he stared up
into a sky dirty with cab fumes and filthy language. 'I suppose so.
I've come to tell you, Karim,' God tapped him on the chest, 'that
you are the chosen one.'<br />
<br />
'Sorry?' said Karim who privately
wished God would go away and let him eat his sandwiches (ham and
onion).<br />
<br />
'I should Explain,' said God, 'I'm
God.'<br />
<br />
'Fuck off,' said Karim, who did not
believe in God.<br />
<br />
'Think of a number, Karim,' said God
and he bent over, stubbing out his rolly on the pavement causing a
crazy spiral of cracks that drew a portrait of Margaret Thatcher.
'Twenty-one, thirty-seven, five, twenty-three, pi,' said God with a
smile.
<br />
<br />
'Clever,' said Karim, 'I've seen
magicians do that on TV.'<br />
<br />
'God stared at him, laughed.<br />
<br />
Thud! Thud! Went two sparrows hitting
the pavement head first and staying upright like two comical garden
ornaments owned by an old lady who hated them but kept them because
they amused the grandchildren.<br />
<br />
'What an age of miracles we live in,
eh, Karim?' said God. Karim laughed, nodded, took a bite of his
sandwich (liver and mustard.) 'When you were fourteen you walked past
an alley near your house and saw a couple having sex against the
wall. You walked past that alley every day at the same time for a
year and a half hoping to see them again. You never did.' God gave
him a wink, 'that enough for you, Karim?'<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karim, his sandwich (salt and vinegar
crisps) held halfway to his mouth, did not know what to say to that.</div>
<br />
'I'm sorry, Karim,' said God, 'but
you're chosen and you're going to die for our sins,' the television
wall showed a crazy montage of wars, disasters and famines. For a
moment Karim felt like he was in an eighties rock video. 'Just like
they died for our sins' said God. 'Cool huh?'<br />
<br />
'Doesn't really sound cool,' said
Karim, his sandwich (rhubarb and dolphin) forgotten. 'And if this
happens, which I personally doubt, is it going to hurt?'<br />
<br />
'Fraid so,' said God, 'part of the
deal you see. It's for the greater good though, don't worry about
that.'<br />
<br />
'And just how will the world know
I'm chosen.' said Karim who had always felt it was best to mollify
crackpots and really just wanted to finish his sandwiches (cream cheese and chive) in peace.<br />
<br />
God leant back against the bench.<br />
<br />
Thud!Thud!Thud! Went three more
pigeons and a woman walking past told her friend she had blood on her
shoes and did she know how much these fucking cost? And she'd been
complaining about the fucking vermin for months and she was probably
going to sue the fucking Mayor about this.<br />
<br />
'A designer virus escaped from a
government lab about fifty feet below us. It got out about an hour
ago. Half an hour from now everything biological in a strip three
miles wide and twelve miles long in the direction of the prevailing
wind, which is away from the financial sector, thankfully,' God
tapped his nose and gave Karim a wink. 'They will be dead. Everything
apart from you, Karim. Your only side effects will be a series of
vivid hallucinations.'
<br />
<br />
'Sorry?' said Karim. 'That sounds
like the plot of video game.'<br />
<br />
'Doesn't it just,' said God, and then
he coughed into a handkerchief. He stared into it with evening grey
eyes, carefully folded it and put into his jacket pocket. 'Your
mother's from Iran, isn't she, Karim?' said God.<br />
<br />
'Yes,' said Karim and he became very
still, like an animal caught in the lights of a truck unable to move
because its little brain was unable to catch up with the relentless
forward march of the world around it.<br />
<br />
'Good,' said God, 'that's absolutely
perfect,' he said and he started to cry. Two tears of blood made
their slow way down his nondescript face.<br />
<br />
Thud! Went God's head as he toppled
forward onto the pavement.dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-27393077933819950402012-12-05T12:22:00.006+00:002012-12-05T12:29:20.158+00:00Ten Minute ThingyThis is a quick thing. I am feeling a bit 'not like doing the current WIP' so distracted myself with this. Allowed myself ten minutes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Pledge.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
...I want to thank you for electing
myself and this government. I won't lie to you, there are hard
decisions to be made. But remember, we are all in this together.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Look, John, I'm sorry but with the
economy how it is we're having to make cutbacks and you're one of
them. I know, you've always been an exemplary employee. Talk to the
MD? I'm afraid he's away at the moment, on holiday. Look, don't
worry, we'll give you great references. Give my love to Susie, won't
you. I really am sorry.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Look, don't cry. It will be fine I'm
sure. Fifty isn't over the hill by any means, I'll find something
else. Don't worry. It will be fine.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<br />
Yes, yes I know the mortgage payment
has been late twice, no, no I'll definitely be able to make the next
one. Yes, yes, I'll try and catch up but I was wondering about the
penalty charge? Maybe you could? Oh, it's automatic? I see. No, I'm
sorry.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>
I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
We've got savings, a couple of
bottles of wine won't hurt.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Well go to your fucking mother's
then.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>
I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Two bottles of extra strong cider
please.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<em>
I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
No, no bastards, they can't. Look
officer, this is my house. No, I won't calm down. This is My.
Fucking. House. Stop that, stop it. I'm not a criminal. Why are you
cuffing me?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
No, I don't have any change. Come
away from him Jack, he's fitlhy.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm sure you used to live here, but if
I find you in this area again I'll arrest you.
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This is our turf, you dirty old
fucker, you can't fucking sleep on our benches, stinking it up. Come
back to this park and I'll fucking shoot you in the knee, alright?</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man
with a brick.</em></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I know where they hide their gun.<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.</em><br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You are all in this together.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-60462256572740085812012-11-27T10:39:00.002+00:002012-11-27T10:39:45.037+00:00The Blue Danube.Very quick, five minute sketch out of how I would start an Elite novel. If you've played the game it makes more sense.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Zella hadn't seen her father for five
years and now she stood on the cold metal flooring of Lave docking
bay and looked up at his legacy, the Cobra freighter 'Kali Yuga'. Her
Father's letter had promised eight thousand credits but the streaks
down the side of the Cobra's left side told of the damage that had
been caused to the station when the rookie delivery pilot had brought
it in without a docking computer.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Arsehole.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He'd run of course, taken a Python
out-system and left her with the bill.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So now she had a hundred credits a
ship and a Father 'presumed dead' according to the comm saved to her data cuff. But when
she read that, in her mind, she heard 'missing.'</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She put her hand up to touch the
smooth hull of the ship.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Hang on Daddy,' she said, 'we're
coming.'</div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-22920895666238907122012-11-26T09:42:00.001+00:002012-11-26T09:42:11.156+00:00Poem Bin II
(Untitled)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Can't sleep.<br />
Rather ill.
<br />
Hospital tomorrow.<br />
Feel the joy.<br />
<br />Schrodinger.</div>
<br />
Sleepless<br />
Traffic lights <br />
Partway down the hill,.<br />
Endlessly cycle:<br />
Red<br />
Red/Amber<br />
Green<br />
Amber
<br />
Red<br />
For
empty roads.<br />
And ghostly pedestrians.<br /><br />Flashing.<br />
Unintelligible Morse,<br />
for an audience of<br />
One.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Shipping Forecast.
<br />
<br />
(Cold)<br /><br />Breathing glottal stops.<br />
No sense of direction.<br /><br />
North Etc.<br />South Etc.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm variable,
</div>
feeling poor.<br /><br />
See state:<br />
Rough, occasionally
very rough.<br />
Invincibility, Moderate.<br />
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8776842974844661177.post-26861478600552410922012-11-19T10:22:00.004+00:002012-11-19T10:24:12.758+00:00Crowdsourcing.Would you humour me for a minute or two? This is an experiment. I'm playing with two things at the moment and could go either way. I keep changing my mind. They are both in a very early stage, still forming it, writing with a million typos. But both characters feel very natural and like they will be fun to write. I can hear their voices which is good at an early stage.<br />
<br />
But what would you read more of? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fractured-<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Detective Constable
Ajinder Kaur always felt the same way when she walked into the Chief
Constable's office; a frisson in her belly. Almost like she was a
naughty schoolgirl again, about to get a good telling off from the
headmaster. She knew she hadn't done anything wrong. Knew her record
was as spotless as her black trouser suit, every I in her work
dotted, every T on the forms crossed. The trepidation was still
there, the unspoken question; 'have I missed something he's going to
pick me up on?</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He didn't get up
from his desk when she entered. Chief Constable Arnie 'Rimmer' Felton
wasn't that well mannered. He didn't invite her to take a seat either
but that wasn't unusual, she stood at ease in front of his desk.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'How can I help,
Chief Constable?'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He gave her a
smile, lacking in warmth, and ran a hand through thinning grey hair,
turning it into greasy tramlines on his sunburnt scalp. Everything
about him was pristine, making the smell of him, stale fags and beer
all the more surprising. If she thought he was brave enough she'd
have suspected it as a metaphor, an underlying scent that hinted at
corruption but she knew that was pop-psych bollocks. Felton was a
paper policeman, rumours abounded that he'd been on a shout once and
pissed himself, she suppressed a smile. Aj could imagine that.
Imagine his face.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Constable Kaur,'
she hated him a little bit more for that, for dropping the
'detective' part when he spoke to her. 'I understand you went for the
H-Met interviews on the last round?'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yes sir,' fuck
him, 'I've always been quite open about my wish to work on the
Homicide and Murder Enquiry Team'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Really,' he gave
her a dishwater smile, 'well. I had a visit from Tim Franklin.'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'The MP?' she said
and her mind started to race. Had she tangled with him recently? She
didn't think so.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Yes,' he picked
up an expensive fountain pen and stared at it for a moment, 'the MP.
It seems, Ms Kaur,' oh she hated the way he emphasised the 'Ms',
'that one of the councillors, Sarpreet Singh, has been explaining to
Mr Franklin how Asian women are under-represented in our murder
squad.'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A hole seemed to
open in her stomach, taking her insides with it, hollowing her out.
'Not like this,' she thought.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Felton blew on the
end of the pen and shined the gleaming gold band around the centre,
'Sarpreet Singh is your cousin, I believe?'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Aj wanted to kick
something. Instead she tried to turn it into a joke.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Been checking up
on me, Sir?' she gave him a smile, tried to hide the fury growing
within her.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'It's good to know
who knows who, politically speaking,' he took the top off his pen.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Then you should
know, sir' she smiled again and felt an almost overwhelming desire to
touch up her lipstick, her words came out in a rush, memories of a
childhood in Bradford sneaking into her carefully accentless voice.
'Sarpreet is my dad's elder brother's kid, but we don't have anything
to do with them. My Dad and Sarpreet's Dad fell out ages...'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Felton held up a
hand.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Nonetheless, Mr
Singh is correct and we are below the national average in the area
of,' he examined the nib of the pen before saying slowly, 'Asian
women.'</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There were four
words in her mouth, desperate to get out: 'don't you fucking dare.'
She fought them back, blinked her eyes. Gave him a smile.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Escalator.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've spent the
last one thousand years or so hunting myself. Not literally, you
understand, because literally would be easy. I could web into the
Unity central truth core and just ask: 'address for Lonal Haraljiit,
please >DNA embedded<.' Then drop in with a gun. Life is never
that simple.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Neither is death.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
And I know, I die
a lot.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'You should be
more careful.'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
As Mr Jiggs, my
crystal intelligence companion says, I probably should be more
careful but after so many long years and cheap bodies it's easy to
become a bit gauche about survival. Now pain, pain is an entirely
different thing. You never get over pain. It never gets easier to
bear and if you block it your efficiency is cut down by fifty, maybe
sixty per cent. I could do without the pain coursing through me. The
spider web of red agony that radiates from the wound in my stomach.
Gut shots are always the worst. It's like they know where to hit me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Of course they
know. I'll have told them. Or a facet of me will. A once was.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'Where are they,
Jiggs?' every whisperthink word I don't speak into the link is an age
of ache.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'I don't know.
They seem to have backed off but these linker places are hell on my
sensorium and your pain is causing feed back.' Jiggs sounds amused.
He always sounds amused. 'I'm glad I'm not a biologic, it seems a bit
shit.'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'Thanks Jiggs. How
long have I got left?'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'Oh, you've got
hours of agony yet.'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Linker stations
are drab, miserable, places to die.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Beghella station
was like them all, grey, the populace walking like dead people,
unaware of the world around them. To be fair, every one of those
people probably lived an exciting life in a riot of colour to them,
no need to decorate the outside when the inner life covers it all. I
wondered why they moved about at all, why not just become loaders and
ditch the physical? Something about walking among these silent,
somnolent people made them feel as alien as any of the other species
that called Unity space home.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Or maybe it was
the drizzle.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Baghera station
was a perfect storm for drizzle. Somewhere a designer was burning in
hell for creating this place. A steel sphere with a 1500 kilometre
diameter, a mass gatherer placed in the centre created a smaller
sphere where gravity was just not quite near enough to human normal
to be annoying. It had been beautiful once, full of fountains, but
gradually it had fallen into disrepair and the mean temperature had
increased. Now water evaporated off the pools and the sweating
populace and drifted up to the outer edges where it condensed in the
cold that radiated in from the outer skin to fall as drizzle.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
It rained, people
were trying to kill me and the predominant smell was of rust and
failing sewage recyclers. I fucking hated this place.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
I was here
tracking a load of dilium a chemical harmless to humans but that had
a dramatic effect on a non-unity species called the Vina; it either
gave them a massive high or caused them to explode. As the Vina were
nine-meter tall flowers covered in six centimetre spines this was
causing trouble throughout the Unity sphere of influence. The Vina
government refused to admit a problem, 'Vina have no need for drugs'
was the official line but the whole dilium trail was being set up
specifically to look like a Unity plan to destabilise their
government. Fair enough, it is the sort of thing we do, but not this
time.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Unity central
couldn't ban the Vina from our space as they were a relatively
powerful force on the lower right segment and given to petty
belligerence, border raids and such. And here I was, Unity Central
Investigator Lonal Harajit tracking the drug and hoping to stop a
war.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'Oh-oh,' said Mr
Jiggs, 'Lon, I'm picking up, wait. Wow, this is going to be
impressive. Someone's overloading the central station reactor.'
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'What? There's
fifty thousand people on this station, what do I need to do to stop
it?'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'Do? Fight your
way into the control room that's eighty KM away and shut it down. Or
you could just relax and wait for death.'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'How long do I
have?'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
'About eight
seconds.'</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Sliding down the
wall to curl around my aching guts I wondered, for a moment, what I
had to done deserve this. Then I remembered: genocide.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Maybe they
wouldn't wake me up this time.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
A sudden, fierce,
warmth against my face.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
dedbutdrmnghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02572029652132785021noreply@blogger.com1