Holy shit, it's actually a friday update? Yep. This is something I am writing for English, when I'm finished it will be about 1300 words; anywhere between 1000 and 1500 really but, it's probably about 1300. This is only about 50o of the 1300 words at the moment but I think if it's cut off here, it can seem like my usual length stuff. Next week: The thrilling conclusion!
Martin West was just a man. I would, at this early stage, like to point out the importance of the use of the past tense in the previous sentence. It is very important. As of now he is sitting on the pavement outside his house looking very sullen indeed: his face a deathly cold shade of white, it seems as though there is something wrong, people swarm near him but nobody notices; the usual activities that you expect a sullen ex-man to be participating in. There is a good reason for this. He is a man torn asunder by grief; ropes securing his arms are tied to the twin horses of guilt and regret. To modernise this they could be cars. Back to the matter at hand; the man is sad, at least, he was a man. There is a story behind this strange, vaguely supernormal event. Here it is.
Martin West stood still, completely rooted to the spot and displaying many of the qualities of an oak tree. “Ah... Hello there.” He muttered, under everyone’s breath but his own. Before him stood Susanne the Debt collector. She stared him in the eyes, the kind of stare that made you wish you weren’t frozen to the spot by the kind of stare that freezes you to the spot. Then she decided to speak.
“You’re late” her voice seemed to be forced out of her mouth, as if it didn’t want to hear itself, which was understandable. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard or for a less cliché approach; like an un-oiled seesaw manned by the two most determined children to ever exist. “You’re late, your money is late and Mr. Brown doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.” It was at this point she remembered that she was carrying a large knife and talking with her hands as much. “So?” She said, awaiting a reply from the now ridiculously nervous Martin West stood before her, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
“In my defence; there is no Mr. Brown, I have to debt to him or indeed anyone else and you have recently escaped from the local crazy house. I would very much appreciate it if you lowered the knife, please.” By this point of course Martin was so scared that the simple, speech limitations that came with being terrified had left him entirely, along with what there was of his courage and all of his sweat. He now stood like a statue awaiting almost certain death.
“You make a fair point, statue-like man, but I’ll have you know that the last man who tried to confuse me with tricky rhetoric died of several stab wounds to the neck” she smiled the smile from hell as the raised the knife as though she was fencing, “have at you, good sir!”
Martin could do nothing but stare blankly into space as the knife slid into his neck, for a brief moment metal replaced his muscle, his blood and his skin then left nothing. Susanne knocked Martin to the floor, sitting on his chest and continuously stabbing at his throat as she hummed an eerie song and the onlookers; all dressed as various animals, historical figures and such, stared in blank shock as the fancy dress party was bought to a halt.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Hitchhiking
I couldn't find the real origin of the "Hitchhiker's thumb" due to a condition that effects the thumb going by the same name. Damn it google. Oh yeah, this is supposed to be set in like, Victorian era England, therefore; horses and carts. Ah, and if you have the time follow the banner to venganza, under the blog archives. It's pretty lovely.
A man stood alone, in a field. This man, although he would never know it, would go on to create a worldwide phenomenon. He had been walking for hours and in the grand scheme of things, he may not have walked at all. No closer to his destination than he was before. Off in the distance he saw the worn away path that passed as a road. People would often ride their horse through here, sometimes pulling a cart behind them. He decided to try it and set off with renewed vigour, towards the path. He got there just in time to flag down a horse and cart; his luck seemed to be changing. A man stepped off the cart and held up a piece of paper to his face. It read: “John Butler, wanted for: Gross dereliction of payment x3.” He pulled it away and held the paper next to his face, the artist’s impression giving him an idea of what he looked like. He gulped as he saw the look of glee wash over his smug face.
“You know what this means? Eh? You know what the punishment is for this sort of thing?” He laughed at him through every word, not with his voice, but with the smirk printed seemingly permanently on his lips. John shook his head; resigned now to his fate, even if it wasn’t him; this man was convinced. That was all that counted. The man came closer to John, the smell seeming to leap from him directly up John’s nostrils and said five words, which made John reel back in horror. “Say goodbye to your fingers.”
“What‽ No! You can’t…er… not without a fair trial!” Said John, frantic to get even the slimmest chance at keeping his fingers.
“Sorry mate, no trial for you, I cut your fingers off, my mate here patches you up…” John looked at thumb of the man and to where he was pointing. In the cart was a doctor. “… And we leave you here. I’ve got my orders. Don’t worry though; I’ll be leaving your thumb. Can’t be too cruel now, can we?”
With that the man pulled out a large, jagged knife from his pocket and before he knew it he was being held by his wrist. A second later he felt the warm metal pierce his little finger, he looked down. Beyond the blood now pouring from what was once was his little finger, he saw the look of happiness spreading along the man’s face and further still the doctor in the background, waiting idly for the man to finish. He looked down again, only his index remained. He faded from consciousness.
John woke in a haze, he had lost a lot of blood and his head was still spinning. He remembered what had happened and quickly looked down at his fingers or, where they used to be. All that remained was stumps, burned where the wound was to heal it over. He clenched his hand into a crude imitation of a fist, his thumb the only thing to look the part. He sat up, feeling grass beneath him; he was still near the road. He looked around for a way to the nearest town. A horse off in the distance pulled a cart towards him. He stuck his mutilated hand in the air, still clenched. His thumb the only thing poking out; the cart began slowing down and, walking towards it, asked where they were going. “Just down the road, to the market town. We’re traders.” Came the reply.
“May I request a ride there?” Slurred John, still slightly dizzy from the blood loss. “I am quite incapacitated. As you may well be able to see.” He held his hand up for the traders to see. They seemed shocked.
“You’ll need to get a doctor for that lad. Get in, we know a man.”
John thanked them and climbed into their cart, sitting next to the man who had been talking to him.
“A good way of getting our attention that was. We figured you were sticking your thumb out. We were gonna ask you why. Better’n stickin’ your hand out at least.”
And with that, the hitchhiker’s thumb was born.
A man stood alone, in a field. This man, although he would never know it, would go on to create a worldwide phenomenon. He had been walking for hours and in the grand scheme of things, he may not have walked at all. No closer to his destination than he was before. Off in the distance he saw the worn away path that passed as a road. People would often ride their horse through here, sometimes pulling a cart behind them. He decided to try it and set off with renewed vigour, towards the path. He got there just in time to flag down a horse and cart; his luck seemed to be changing. A man stepped off the cart and held up a piece of paper to his face. It read: “John Butler, wanted for: Gross dereliction of payment x3.” He pulled it away and held the paper next to his face, the artist’s impression giving him an idea of what he looked like. He gulped as he saw the look of glee wash over his smug face.
“You know what this means? Eh? You know what the punishment is for this sort of thing?” He laughed at him through every word, not with his voice, but with the smirk printed seemingly permanently on his lips. John shook his head; resigned now to his fate, even if it wasn’t him; this man was convinced. That was all that counted. The man came closer to John, the smell seeming to leap from him directly up John’s nostrils and said five words, which made John reel back in horror. “Say goodbye to your fingers.”
“What‽ No! You can’t…er… not without a fair trial!” Said John, frantic to get even the slimmest chance at keeping his fingers.
“Sorry mate, no trial for you, I cut your fingers off, my mate here patches you up…” John looked at thumb of the man and to where he was pointing. In the cart was a doctor. “… And we leave you here. I’ve got my orders. Don’t worry though; I’ll be leaving your thumb. Can’t be too cruel now, can we?”
With that the man pulled out a large, jagged knife from his pocket and before he knew it he was being held by his wrist. A second later he felt the warm metal pierce his little finger, he looked down. Beyond the blood now pouring from what was once was his little finger, he saw the look of happiness spreading along the man’s face and further still the doctor in the background, waiting idly for the man to finish. He looked down again, only his index remained. He faded from consciousness.
John woke in a haze, he had lost a lot of blood and his head was still spinning. He remembered what had happened and quickly looked down at his fingers or, where they used to be. All that remained was stumps, burned where the wound was to heal it over. He clenched his hand into a crude imitation of a fist, his thumb the only thing to look the part. He sat up, feeling grass beneath him; he was still near the road. He looked around for a way to the nearest town. A horse off in the distance pulled a cart towards him. He stuck his mutilated hand in the air, still clenched. His thumb the only thing poking out; the cart began slowing down and, walking towards it, asked where they were going. “Just down the road, to the market town. We’re traders.” Came the reply.
“May I request a ride there?” Slurred John, still slightly dizzy from the blood loss. “I am quite incapacitated. As you may well be able to see.” He held his hand up for the traders to see. They seemed shocked.
“You’ll need to get a doctor for that lad. Get in, we know a man.”
John thanked them and climbed into their cart, sitting next to the man who had been talking to him.
“A good way of getting our attention that was. We figured you were sticking your thumb out. We were gonna ask you why. Better’n stickin’ your hand out at least.”
And with that, the hitchhiker’s thumb was born.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Professional Nazi
This is, I think, the first script I have uploaded here so it might not make for ideal reading material. A couple of things; New logo lol and some information. I will be eventually making this script and probably "A grim work" into videos with Humans Humans Humans (AKA a few friends of mine) I'll keep you updated on it from here and tell you if we get it filmed. But I ramble, enjoy:
We see a man in a suit standing around, anywhere will do. Somewhere completely unrelated perhaps? Such as a park or beach. He is walking along the beach seemingly uninterested in the camera and is walking along with no regard to where it is.
Presenter
Well, today we have the opportunity to speak to one of these people about the that they do. We are going to the house of one of these men.
Shot of the man turning and walking into the distance. Scene changes, we are now in the house of PROFESSIONAL NAZI. The camera is positioned over his shoulder and we can see the back of his head, a large light or lights are being shined onto the PRESENTER.
PRESENTER
So, what exactly does your job entail? Tell us as much as you can.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, I'm mostly freelance, it works in a similar fashion that a small business would; I am phoned by someone who requires my services and we arrange the location, levels of racism and method of payment, simple really.
PRESENTER
It's a bit of a taboo subject though isn't it? And I imagine it's been hard keeping yourself anonymous with the current amount of attention on people in your situation.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
It has been hard, yes, I won't deny that but it comes with the profession I'm afraid and I can't stop any of that from happening. It has always happened, as you would expect, mainly whilst I was on the job but it still affects me, you know?
PRESENTER
Yes, yes. Of course. Now, a pressing question and, obviously we don't expect you to reveal the names of any clients but...well. What type of people hire you? And for what situations?
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, well... All sorts really! People you wouldn't expect to be doing it. I get people asking to go to things like funerals and be racist there or just doing for a stag night or something, you know, for a bit of a laugh, the one I find funniest is the KKK. They ring me up all the time asking me to fill in for them at their silly meetings. I must tell you it is funny there, you've no idea, but you know, brotherhood confidentiality (he laughs)
PRESENTER
Well finally, and sorry if this seems a bit rude but you don't strike me as the type to get into this. Why choose this career?
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, I must tell you now, I am not a racist man and as for the career choice, who said i chose it. It's not the sort of career you choose, you fall into it after failing damn near everything else. No-one chooses the life of the professional nazi.
PRESENTER
Well, thank you for your time.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
No problem.
Camera fades to black as the interview comes to a close.
We see a man in a suit standing around, anywhere will do. Somewhere completely unrelated perhaps? Such as a park or beach. He is walking along the beach seemingly uninterested in the camera and is walking along with no regard to where it is.
Presenter
Well, today we have the opportunity to speak to one of these people about the that they do. We are going to the house of one of these men.
Shot of the man turning and walking into the distance. Scene changes, we are now in the house of PROFESSIONAL NAZI. The camera is positioned over his shoulder and we can see the back of his head, a large light or lights are being shined onto the PRESENTER.
PRESENTER
So, what exactly does your job entail? Tell us as much as you can.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, I'm mostly freelance, it works in a similar fashion that a small business would; I am phoned by someone who requires my services and we arrange the location, levels of racism and method of payment, simple really.
PRESENTER
It's a bit of a taboo subject though isn't it? And I imagine it's been hard keeping yourself anonymous with the current amount of attention on people in your situation.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
It has been hard, yes, I won't deny that but it comes with the profession I'm afraid and I can't stop any of that from happening. It has always happened, as you would expect, mainly whilst I was on the job but it still affects me, you know?
PRESENTER
Yes, yes. Of course. Now, a pressing question and, obviously we don't expect you to reveal the names of any clients but...well. What type of people hire you? And for what situations?
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, well... All sorts really! People you wouldn't expect to be doing it. I get people asking to go to things like funerals and be racist there or just doing for a stag night or something, you know, for a bit of a laugh, the one I find funniest is the KKK. They ring me up all the time asking me to fill in for them at their silly meetings. I must tell you it is funny there, you've no idea, but you know, brotherhood confidentiality (he laughs)
PRESENTER
Well finally, and sorry if this seems a bit rude but you don't strike me as the type to get into this. Why choose this career?
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
Well, I must tell you now, I am not a racist man and as for the career choice, who said i chose it. It's not the sort of career you choose, you fall into it after failing damn near everything else. No-one chooses the life of the professional nazi.
PRESENTER
Well, thank you for your time.
PROFESSIONAL NAZI
No problem.
Camera fades to black as the interview comes to a close.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
A study of the earth-creatures
Note: I don't think this is too good to be honest. I wrote most of it in half and hour and it's late because I thought today was Friday. Oh, I'm sorry about the ending, it's a bit athiesty. But i don't think Luke, Tom and whoever else reads this, I'm not sure who does by the way please tell me, are particularly religious. Try to enjoy :/
There is a tale told, of a distant planet, far beyond where our ships can reach. The beings there are far more advanced that you or me. They can move around of their own accord, they sense the world in five different ways; they can even communicate by flapping a part of them around the lower face. We must sit here a while; hovering in our chairs and thinking of their technology. They have a magical, flickering substance, hot to the touch, to keep them warm. They have amazing box-like devices, which allow them to communicate over long distances. Larger box-like devices carry them from place to place with alarming speed. As for entertainment, a medium sized box-like device brings them images, captured from all over their planet and through time itself. But the most important difference is the way they spend their lives.
In their lives, there are five major stages. They spend a few years being waited on “hand” and “foot”, they live with a luxury state of mind; no worries, no fear, only happiness and sadness, this stage is the first and begins from the moment they emerge screaming and kicking from their host’s womb. The next stage begins around four of their years into its life; they mature, learn to communicate and most importantly, begin to develop the other emotions. Stage number three begins at thirteen and is seen as a fairly important part of their lives; their bodies begin to work to their fullest potential and they start developing feelings about their peers. The next stage is not unlike our entire lives; they work for a living, have new beings of their own to look after and slowly begin to break down. The very last stage is just the years spent waiting to die, we should be thankful our deaths come so suddenly, it’s the one advantage we have over them.
Another thing to mention is the people on this planet who have a certain belief. These beliefs are all different and of course some don’t accept it at all but the ones who do believe, with all their hearts, that an invisible and much larger, version of them is looking over them and controlling their lives. The most popular version of this calls this being “god” and they worship him all over. They may be wrong but it is a strange thing for these creatures to be able to stare logic and common sense in the face for their entire lives and simply say “No. You are wrong and me and my unseen, unheard large being are very much on the right side of this.” Very strange indeed.
There is a tale told, of a distant planet, far beyond where our ships can reach. The beings there are far more advanced that you or me. They can move around of their own accord, they sense the world in five different ways; they can even communicate by flapping a part of them around the lower face. We must sit here a while; hovering in our chairs and thinking of their technology. They have a magical, flickering substance, hot to the touch, to keep them warm. They have amazing box-like devices, which allow them to communicate over long distances. Larger box-like devices carry them from place to place with alarming speed. As for entertainment, a medium sized box-like device brings them images, captured from all over their planet and through time itself. But the most important difference is the way they spend their lives.
In their lives, there are five major stages. They spend a few years being waited on “hand” and “foot”, they live with a luxury state of mind; no worries, no fear, only happiness and sadness, this stage is the first and begins from the moment they emerge screaming and kicking from their host’s womb. The next stage begins around four of their years into its life; they mature, learn to communicate and most importantly, begin to develop the other emotions. Stage number three begins at thirteen and is seen as a fairly important part of their lives; their bodies begin to work to their fullest potential and they start developing feelings about their peers. The next stage is not unlike our entire lives; they work for a living, have new beings of their own to look after and slowly begin to break down. The very last stage is just the years spent waiting to die, we should be thankful our deaths come so suddenly, it’s the one advantage we have over them.
Another thing to mention is the people on this planet who have a certain belief. These beliefs are all different and of course some don’t accept it at all but the ones who do believe, with all their hearts, that an invisible and much larger, version of them is looking over them and controlling their lives. The most popular version of this calls this being “god” and they worship him all over. They may be wrong but it is a strange thing for these creatures to be able to stare logic and common sense in the face for their entire lives and simply say “No. You are wrong and me and my unseen, unheard large being are very much on the right side of this.” Very strange indeed.
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