A Little Competition

So that 'pretty peaceful - stay at home/be on call - week', I talked about in my last post didn't really end up going as expected and I have ended up working six days out of the last 7. That coupled with three days a week at the gym and time away from the house hasn't really made for the most productive environment...

Thankfully I'm no longer on call and I am itching to get some writing done so I should have something up within the next few days.

In the meantime I've been taking another look at the various writing competitions that are coming up that I would be eligible to enter.

This is what I have found so far:

Odyssey House Short Story Competition

1500 word short story exploring the theme "How did I find myself here" and making some reference to experiences either with drugs or alcohol - may be difficult to pull of considering lack of experience with abuse of either... Still the website says that they only need to be mentioned in the story as opposed to being the main focus. Have a few ideas, will see where they go.

Submissions close 4th November.

Link

Australian Literature Review Monthly Competitions

Short story of between 1000 and 3000 words fitting the theme of the month entered - in November the theme is 'Murder', which I'm not really sure about, but it won't hurt to take a crack. Will need to do some thinking on this one.

Submissions close 20th November.

Link

The Writing Lab Facebook Competition

Bit of an odd one. At first I thought it said 420 word limit, but it's actually a 420 character limit... Still this one will be seen by the most amount of people - as it is on Facebook and the winner is decided by the number of likes (a fair system to be sure...). Though given the length and the possible exposure it seems silly not to enter.

Submissions close 31st December.

Link


Not a very big list so far, but I get the feeling that there aren't that many competitions run at the tail end of the year. Will keep checking and update with more as I find them, as well as having a look for international competitions as well as Australian ones.


Comments and story ideas welcome - always good to bounce ideas off someone.

Till the next one,



M.

Escape Velocity

Okay,

the other story that I've been working on lately (I believe I mentioned it last week) is taking a little longer than I expected. The plot is there, drafted out, and there are three or four different variations on the beginning sitting on my desktop... what I'm having with trouble with is deciding which one works best - the idea was to retell the story of an illegal immigrant (a child with his family - mother & brother) coming into Australia. Just having trouble combining the innocent/ignorant experience of the child with the seriousness of the topic. I am muddling through, but I want it to be good so I'm going to wait until it clicks.

Other than that things are pretty much the same where I am - though I am getting more writing in. The PDQ that I talked about last post is up and running properly and my character got in. So far the writing and the story are a little all over the place, both in terms of quality and coherency (we have yet to establish a pecking order and so for the moment everyone is doing everything at once - which, coupled with the differing levels of writing ability makes the whole thing a bit messy). I finding it stimulating however and it has been a good way to ease my way back into writing stuff semi-regularly and hopefully it will get better as it goes along.

On top of that I have managed to get another short story done which I will put up at the end of this post. Bear with me though. Have gone back to SF for a bit - but it is part of something that I have been thinking of doing for a while - one of several stories that show different interpretations of a single event.

Obviously this is the first. There will be more. As well as my immigrant story once it is ready/done and the stock broker when I get back to that. Have a pretty peaceful - stay at home/be on call - week ahead of me so looking to get plenty of reading and writing in.

Anywho, story:

Escape Velocity I

Trapped. Hurt. Alone.

The floor is littered with empty syrettes, stained red... used up. A hand (mine?) reaches for the box. It is heavier now, there is less in it. Only three now. Not enough. The splinter of pain returns, somewhere in my arm. Leaking red (why won't it stop?). The third last slides in easy. Brings warmth.

Two left.

I pop a stim (pill. Plenty of those left) and the world sharpens somewhat; grows bigger. Five feet by five by eight. Standard ceramic white, smeared in blood. Mine. Every now and then the lights flicker. Running out of power? Damaged? Don't know. Red fingers too slick on display to find out; wont dry, even on glass.

Pod gives a low hum. Cold air rushes in; took longer this time, lasts for less. Running out of air. Red splattered everywhere. Seeping out. Wont clot. Running out of blood. Running out of time.

Time passes. Pain returns (shit. Fuck. Getting worse. Syrettes supposed to last hours. Supposed to help clot. Help heal. Doing none of those things). Push in another; nothing else to do. Hardly feel it. I eye the last one anyway and ask the question: Would it be enough if I took it now? Enough to bump me over the edge? Military syrettes. Supposed to be strong... Should be dead already.

One left.

Good hand pulls back slide on pistol. Hundredth time. Still empty. Still useless. Still cant throw it away. Thinking is getting harder, like sifting through sand, or thick mud. Slips through fingers. Hard to keep track. The lights dim. It gets darker and the blood seeps out of the hole in my arm. Still wont clot.

Pain again. Syrette number three goes in. Fingers clumsy. Numb. Pins and needles everywhere. Feel sleepy but don't seem to die. Damn... have to think. Start to panic. Syrettes all gone. Same with bullets. Never had any to begin with. Can't overdose on stims... Crack the door?

A red lever sits behind a panel of glass designed to be shattered. Yellow and black stripes signal a warning, further explained by blurry scrawl of letters too small to see. Can only read those above, big and bold:

E.V. 19. Jötunn. New Helsinki.

Empty words, meaningless now. The Jötunn is dead, others scattered. Probably also dead.

Might be all that's left. Little me in a little box, trying to find the easiest way out.

Take more stims. Take most of them. Try to pull myself up. Bad arm fights like dead weight. Unmoving. Still bleeding dark red. I drag it with me. It hurts... God it hurts.

Fall twice in five feet. Pull my self back up, leave more red smears on stainless white. Good arm shoulders the glass. Once. Nothing. Twice. Cracks. Three... It shatters in a puff of safety glass. The pod beeps again. One last breathe. I pull the lever.

The bolts inside the door 'pop' and then cold nothing rushes in as the air rushes out.

I breathe the nothing in. Remember the old warnings.

9 Seconds left.

9 seconds. That's how long it's supposed to take.


8.

Pressure equalises. More 'pops'. The door falls away.

7.

The drive fails, the lights go dark. Blood shines in the darkness. Snap frozen. Floating.

6.

I push out, craving... space. The cold is shocking. Wakes me up more than the stims.

5.

Outside is endlessly dark and empty but all of me is bright. My hands. All that I can see glows.

4.

Down below (up?) I can see the Jötunn burn. Still alive but venting gasses, atmosphere. Burning.

3.

The other ship spits fire across her bow, breaking her back. Still she hurtles towards the gate. Towards home.

2.

Jötunn impacts. The gate spins down. Shatters. Implodes.

The light is blinding. Pure. White.

1.

Darkness.

Obviously falling back on the whole short sharp sentences things here, though I was hoping it would reflect the characters state of mind.

Have ideas planned out at least three other perspectives though so will try and alter style for each.

Other than that, can only build back up slowly.



Until the next one,


M.

Different strokes

Well that wasn't a terribly good reaction - have edited the Orlan vignette as I thought, once I reread it, that it had ended up being a little sloppy. Enjoyed writing it though and I am looking forward to the game as I think that the character could turn out to be interesting - even if the whole play-by-post/role-playing thing is not everyone's cup of tea.

Anywho - Have just started on something a little more grounded in reality for the next post (I do have a couple of other things on the go at the moment that are closer to being finished but this hits on something that has been in the news a shit-load lately so it seems best to put it out as soon as possible). So far its all planned - I just need to figure out how best to actually write it - I will explain why when it goes up.

Also - finally figured out what to write for my 'stock-broker' story, so that should be making an appearance at some point to.


Stay tuned.

M.

Through the Looking Glass

Well the recruitment thread for Wonderland seems to have stalled for the moment (as this is my first time applying for a play by post i'm not entirely sure how this usually works, though I have been told that they are usually left open for a week or two to gauge interest before the game starts) so I don't really have much to report on that front yet.

I did think that it might be a good idea to actually put the character sheet and background up here though instead of just linking to it so that I have a web formatted version of it just in case the thread dies off.


Orlan Durigar

Dwarven Vagrant

He never meant to abandon kith and kin or to and up living a life of exile, but the stone gods are often cruel and even in death Ymir has a strange sense of humour when it comes to his children – more than willing to curse one and make him a dwarf in name only – too afraid of the cold and the dark and the closed in to make the voyage home and too embarrassed about it to ever willingly bare his face to a member of his own kind again.

So now he hides amongst those who live up above and have forgotten how wide the world may be, eking out a living through small tricks, small magics and a willingness to scrap and steal. He blends in, stays quiet (a table up the back and out of the way – where he can tinker and his toys and come and go unnoticed) concealing old wounds and odd features but he has not forgotten what he is and from whence he came and every so often he finds himself drawn out by others like him – those that don't quite fit into this 'normal' world, others who remember that there is something [i]more[/i], for a dwarf as aloof as Orlan gets lonely from time to time.


Skills:

Craftsman (+2):

Dwarf kin are typically obsessive tinkerers and craftsmen and Orlan is no exception – spare moments rarely see his hands unoccupied and his pockets are always full of various odds and ends. This makes Orlan a consummate repairman and patch-maker, but his real joy comes from turning things to unintended uses and the creation of little 'friends' to keep him company.

Sharp Eye (+4):

Even half hidden under heavy brows Orlan's eyes are sharper than most. He rarely misses anything and has an especially keen eye for anything that looks to be of value or of potential use. He is an expert scavenger and discerner of details – and it doesn't hurt that such an ability lends itself well to the use of crossbow and throwing knife.

Over-active Metabolism (-2):

Dwarves are well known for their healthy appetites but Orlan takes it a step further. Given the nature of his arm and his abilities he burns through energy rather quickly and so has to eat slightly more often than your average dwarf to stay at full strength. On the flip side if he does not eat often enough he finds it harder and harder to use his abilities at all – up to and including his arm, leaving it as little more than dead weight until he happens upon his next meal.


Supernatural abilities:

Golemancer (+4):

Before his self imposed exile, Orlan was a famed practitioner of Golemancy amongst his own kind and it is a craft that he has embraced to even greater degree upon coming to the surface world – to the point where he would most likely not be able to survive without it. He is extremely proficient in the animation of normally in-animate objects both large and small – typically smaller golems are pre-crafted by Orlan before animation and are more delicate and intricate and able to act on commands with semi-independence – even when controlling several at once. Larger golems are are significantly more difficult and are often a lot less precise – both in the objects that make them up (Orlan typically just draws what ever he can for the immediate area) and in the complexity of commands that they can follow (usually limited to 'clobber' or 'whomp'). They also must be made on the fly, given the high amount of energy required to create and maintain them (Orlan will be heavily fatigued and hungry after using a large golem for any extended period) and simply because you generally cannot conceal an 8 foot, 1 ton walking pile of detritus and debris built for smashing with any ease.

Clockwork Arm (+4):

At some point in his youth Orlan lost the use of his right arm (and he generally does not like to talk about the why and the how) he has however seen fit to replace it with an arm of his own creation – one of bronze clockwork and small piston cleverly grafted onto the (long ago healed) wound which saw the loss of his natural one. Orlan animates it in the same way he animates all of his other creations but he has become so familiar with so that it requires no more concentration than it would to move than any other limb and so it thus works just as effectively as the the one he lost (although being made of metal it obviously much stronger and more durable and if Orlan so desires can take attachments that he has crafted for specific uses - also is a given that Orlan will try to keep this concealed in public, i.e. under coat and gloves).

Claustrophobic (-2):

An incident in this youth – most likely the same one that cost him his arm (again he does not like to talk about it) has made Orlan incredibly apprehensive when it comes to tight and enclosed spaces – particularly underground - something that is highly unusual and embarrassing for a dwarf. Orlan will go to almost any means to avoid any situation that would require him to face this fear as it typically makes him both extremely jittery and irrational as well as overly prone to panic. In severe cases this can progress further into temporary paralysis and blindness (he curls up in a ball and closes his eyes).



Waiting for the game to actually start and wanting to develop the character has also been good for getting me to write so I've put together a small piece to set the scene for the character.

Orlan - A Seat at the Looking Glass

Orlan comes awake with a start, coughing and spluttering as he pulls his face up from a puddle of ale - his glass lying overturned next to a half eaten packet of crisps. He mutters to himself and then snatches a hanky from one of the many pockets in his ill-fitting coat to dab at his beard, it comes away suitably wet and he stuffs it back before reaching for his pipe and a loose match which he then strikes on a dry part of the table and places in bowl, sucking air through the stem until the tobacco takes on a deep cherry glow.

He sits back for a moment and takes a puff, loosing himself in the taste and the chatter from the bar: The Looking Glass is full tonight and the old ache in his arm tells him that most have been blown in by the storm brewing outside: Come to to stand in front of fire, to drink and relax; to forget the grey and miserable mess that is London in ill weather.

From his seat, hidden away in one of the pub's many nooks and crannies, he can see a few familiar faces - yet none so far seem to have noticed him, that or they are respecting the tradition that those who sit in such spots usually do so to be alone. Something that, at moment, suits Orlan just fine.

Change is coming. He can feel it in his bones, though he cannot tell if it will be for good or bad - just that it is coming soon and it will hit hard when it does.
He wonders if the other patrons can feel it too; fey and non-fey alike. Bubbling beneath the surface. Waiting to pop.


From under the table something small gives a light tug on his ankle, derailing his train of thought. More than happy to be distracted he taps his foot against the floor in response, signalling permission. Eight spindly legs find purchase and begin to climb and he smiles as the tiny golem – about the size of his hand – pulls itself up next to him on the seat against the wall. He runs his hand along its back and shivers in response, making a delighted chirping noise as tiny wheels inside turn on an antique bird caller placed where a heart would if a clock-work spider were to have a heart.


A single thought calms it down and Orlan moves to open the tiny leather pouch that carries upon its back. Nimble fingers find a pair of loose coins - he places those on the table - and an odd collection of usual bits and pieces scavenged off the tavern floor which he deposits into various other pockets according to some unknown criteria.

Carefully, he then reties the leather drawstring before laying his good hand open next to the golem and tapping his palm with a gloved finger from the other. Obediently the spider climbs up and then curls tightly into a ball as if to go to sleep and with a mental pinch Orlan lets it do so; pulling the the small thread of its mind from its tiny body and adding it back to his own. Carefully placing the now inanimate object in an inner pocket close to his chest.

Slowly he begins to fish around for a few more coins, placing each one on the table with the others as he goes - seems to be no point avoiding everyone all night- especially not when he wants another beer.


Pretty short. Horribly nerdy - but you know what? Fuck that noise - I'm rather looking forward to this, if and when it actually kicks off.



M.

Back on the Wagon

Well things have been a little slow lately but I'm gradually getting back into writing stuff - inasmuch as I've been home (bit of couch surfing still going on atm) and have been able to concentrate on writing.

Have a couple of stories on the go at the moment but none of them are done yet so they won't be up for a little while at least.

I have however (following by apparent need to continue delving deeper into the geekiness that other people I grew up with sort of tried to shelve) applied to participate in a play by post running under PDQ rules on the Something Awful Forums - first time i've done so, so if could be a laugh.

if you by chance want to read along (provided that I actually get in), you can do so here (my username is Trumbus obviously):

Wonderland

and if you are curious about what the hell PDQ actually is there is a guide here:

PDQ

I forget whether or not I actually explained what play by post was last time - but just in case it's basically a text based role-playing game that takes place online (in this case on a forum) where each post is made from the perspective of a character in the story (which is set up and pulled along by a game master). Can be rather interesting with everyone bouncing off of each other and doing things that no-one expects.

Anyway, will be back with some actual stories sometime soon (promise)



M

Creature of Habit

One of the things that I have to come to notice as I begin to write more and more is that my ability to write decent stuff, or at least my ability to really get into what I'm writing depends rather heavily on the fulfilment of a number of personal habits and/or quirks.

The best example of this that I can think of is that, unless a really good idea takes me and I need to write there and then, I typically prefer to do my writing at night. That is not to say that I can't do it during the day, just that it I typically find it easier to get in the groove once sun is down and I'm alone and everybody else has wandered off to do their own thing.

In the past I have swayed between whether this is a good or bad thing - as there seems to be arguments for both, i.e. on one side there is the view that you should embrace the your own little quirks as, one could say, are what makes you you. On the other hand you could a so say that this only will only lead to stagnation and that the 'quirk/habit' is something that you can work through with a little effort and once you do you will be more productive for it.

Typically I've felt that the right answer lies somewhere in the middle, but the last month and a bit have messed with that a little bit as I've realised that if my habits get thrown about then things can sort of fizzle out - re: the lack of story posts and the dozen or so unfinished stories sitting on my desktop.

I will not go into the reasons - they are not personal (not depressed, actually feel really good) they have just been unavoidable and oppressive.

Anyway, for some reason I still seem to be quite capable of writing non-fiction so I figure I'll just keep with that until I get the spark back as it seems to be a little more constructive.

With that in mind I was going to write a little more on the whole habits = good/bad/? as I’ve been thinking about it a bit lately, but I'm about to head out the door so I'll save that for next time.

Also, perfectly all right if this post comes off as slightly disjointed/nutty - mostly me working through internal monologue shit in writing form - will probably give it a bit of an edit once I get the chance so that it makes more sense.


Anyhow, take care peoples.



M.

Keeper of Secrets

For reasons that I will not go into, I have not really been home much over the last couple of weeks and while I have had some opportunity to get some writing done I have mostly spent it reading and/or doing research on story ideas (also Deus Ex came out a couple of days ago so I have been busy doing a speed run through that - angry Jensen all the time).

In keeping with my call for story ideas I have made a few attempts on a story based on "A day in the life of a stockbroker" as James suggested.

I have not had much success.

At the start of the week I had a poke around in some economic websites and watched a couple of video interviews with young, seemingly 'hip' stockbrokers who had been chosen by which ever corporation they work for to act as promotion/information source on what stockbroking actually is and/or why the person watching should choose it as a career.

In my case it pretty much had the opposite effect - I found the whole thing rather soul sucking.

I'm not normally one to criticise people (or if I do it's generally for of a 'poking fun' sort of criticism) but to be honest after watching a few of these videos I came to rather quickly dislike everything about them and the world they live in.

I have a problem with any culture that is centred around an obsession with acquiring money for moneys sake, where it is treated as the only important thing in the world and how ever much you have is almost taken as some form of points systems indicating your value as an individual (if you have none you are not worth attention, if you have lots you win at life, if you have more you win several times?).

I have issues with the servile pandering of stockbrokers towards their monied clients.

I dislike how they sell themselves, both in the usually accepted meaning of the word, as in presenting themselves as best for the job (all the while surely lying, glossing over and over embellishing) and in the way in which they sycophantically trot along at the heels of their clients - leeching off scraps of wealth while they try to make as much short term profit off a system that should really be focused on long term goals and long term stability.

I will admit that my grasp on how the international economy works is rather weak at best but, given the current climate it seems to me that they way it does work is fundamentally broken and in the future a lot of people are going to have to pay a very dear price for the greed and happiness of a very few.

It makes you wonder what the world would be like if people were slightly different. If the average world view was skewed just slightly further away from selfishness, self aggrandisement and 'I'm better than you'.

Anyway, the whole purpose of this rant was really to explain that I was going to have to shelve the whole writing about a stockbroker for the moment as the whole thing made me rather uncomfortable and I the only story ideas that I could think of that seemingly had enough tension in them to be interesting were of the 'stockmarket crashes, stockbroker throws himself/herself out a window - or - stockbroker embezzles, becomes paranoid and is eventually found out and then throws himself/herself out a window' type and to me that felt a little on the boringly clichéd side.

Still it has been a little while since any writing went up so I will be hard at work on something more interesting over the next few days so then you can come poke holes in that.

*edit*

Here are a couple of the videos I watched

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnkQtCdFY0A

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATlRemuKN_o

Love how in the one with the woman in it she talks about her parents said they would pay for her arts degree as long as she did a 'sensible' course as well.

Also possible reason for why world economy is doing so poorly - people on stock exchange floors just spend the entire time fucking around just like everyone else.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUlVDqHG3X4&feature=related



M.

Darkness; Dreaming

The Life and Death of Alistair Grout - Part 3

*Again this is a little short but it is pretty well contained so it seemed silly to keep on going past where I ended up cutting it off.*


The sun is low on the horizon by the time that Alistair stumbles back to his apartment door, cold sweat drenching his clothes and causing his skin prickle and burn. He searches for his keys, fumbles and swears before slotting the right on in the lock. He twists – his palms itch and his mouth feels dry – the lock is slow to give and once it does he is forced to shoulder the door open as it catches on the jamb. Relieved he pulls the chain across the door and throws himself down upon the bed. Every part of his body aches, as if something vital deep inside him were broken or suddenly missing. Unable to bring himself to move he surrenders himself to sleep and the myriad of twisted imagery that nightmares bring.



The sky is a long time dark by the time he finally comes to and for a brief moment he has trouble determining where he is. Anxiously he gropes in the darkness for the reading light beside the bed and is rewarded with a stabbing pain in the back of his eyes when he eventually finds it and flicks it on. He coughs and tries to cover them, only to retch at the horrible sour taste that has pooled in the back of his throat while he slept. He rises slowly, still shielding his eyes, and moves toward the sink for a glass of water – he makes it half way before he realises that his apartment is not how he had left it.
All about him is chaos: his suitcase has been ripped open and the contents tipped out and then rummaged through; kitchen drawers hang half open, a dirty plate is shattered upon the floor. Frantically he checks through everything and then breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes clear that nothing seems to be missing, although, he now admits to himself, it is not as if he really owns anything worth stealing any more. Nothing valuable... he sits amongst his scattered possessions and thinks for a moment and then his gaze is slowly drawn to where he had left the silver flask the day before: The kitchen bench is bare.

He trembles despite himself, looking towards the door, still shut, still locked and yet someone has been here while he slept. A liquid chill seem to roll down his back and he shivers involuntarily and suddenly the room seems very small and very dark; the light by his bed almost struggling to keep the shadows at bay. He no longer feels safe. He has to leave.

Frantically he jams everything back into his suitcase and pulls on his jacket and moves to go. Something bumps against his chest. He freezes. Slowly his hand goes to his pocket and quickly darts inside. There is a sloshing and a shifting of weight. The flask, except now half full. He stares at it like he would have a venomous snake.

His mind races and he begins to shake. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Someone is just playing a prank. Someone is just messing with me. Having a bit of fun...
He breathes deeply and tries to push the thought away. The flask glints dully in his hand and completely illogically he begins to remember how thirsty he is. The flask seem to call to him. It warms in his hand, first pleasantly and then as he resists, with enough heat to burn skin.
He yelps in alarm and hurls it across the room where it clangs against a wall and comes unstopped, splashing dark fluid all about before it drops and vanishes behind the bed.

The pain is slow to fade and for a long moment he simply stands there twitching and wondering if he is beginning to lose his mind. How can it have done that? How could it have gotten hot? Blankly he stares down at his hand, at skin burnt pink. He swallows, his throat grinding on itself as if it were made of sandpaper. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that if he were to leap across the bed now he might be able to save whatever was left before it all spilled out onto the carpet. At the thought his muscles snap taught and it is all he can do to stop himself from doing so.

Something is very wrong here.

He tries to move towards the door instead, his body fights him for a moment and then surrenders, a mournful cry bubbling up unbidden from deep within.

As if released he bolts and runs. Out the door and down the stairs.

He does not look back.

Outside the sun has now well and truly set, but Alistair pays no mind and pulls himself out into the night. He passes people, he passes bars, he does not stop; all distractions driven from his head and his mind burning with with apprehension and paranoia. He watches everyone, watches how they move, how they act, half expecting one to come at him at any moment.

From far behind he is watched as well. Studied. Observed. The watcher follows and decides to wait.



The start of this last part gave me a little bit of trouble, namely because although I felt it was necessary, the skipping of most a day still seemed a little jarring - I have had an idea for a transitional scene that I think would make it less so but strangely I I can only see it working if the story were a film or a television show - as I have yet to find a way to translate something purely visual into writing in a way that I am satisfied with.

Different ideas and pacing work better for different mediums I guess.

For the moment this may have to go unresolved however as although I am enjoying writing this story and I have rather a large amount of it already plotted out I need to work on other stuff as well, seeing as I do still have a number of other decent other story ideas rattling around in the old birdcage that I want to test out as well as a desire to revisit some of my earlier stuff (edits, re-dos etc.) just to see what happens.

I will, hopefully, come back to it eventually - especially if there is a request to do so - but for the moment WATCH THIS SPACE - there be new stuff on the horizon and I am feeling more confident about my writing (for no real apparent reason) so it might actually be readable.

Stay tuned,



M.

The deep breath before the plunge

Okay boys and girls I think it is high time for me to kick this shit up a notch.

As has been pointed out to me several people now, I have a decent amount of time on my hands seeing as I have finished my under-grad (my actual possession of a physical diploma being beside the point) and so if I really want to take this whole writing thing seriously (which I do) then I need to start:

a) writing as much as I possibly can.

and,

b) submitting work to anyone and anything that will take it in an attempt to get feedback from people who are both in the know and not people that I know.

With this in mind - and with this* helpful list in hand I am going to do just that.

*http://www.austwriters.com/AWRfiles/competitions.htm


At this point my expectations are not overly high - I am not going to win anything straight off the bat, and, if and when I start getting feedback it will most likely tear into whatever it is that I have put out there - still this is a necessary process - If my writing is going to develop past what it is now I need to practice, I need to have stuff torn to pieces so that I can sift through the remains and gather up the good bits (if indeed there are any).

Anyway, current story will be updated tomorrow, then it is my birthday this weekend (22 - how the fuck did that happen) and then once that is done with updates will resume - but, to quote a phrase, "faster and more intense."

Also advice on entries for competitions will be extremely welcome (that especially goes for you my dear lurkers and people who have forgotten that they should be reading this).

Till tomorrow,

M.

Red Sea

Over the last few weeks I've been making a conscious effort to get more reading done, and, rather than just letting my self slip into the escapism that a good (or sometimes bad) book will offer, I've also been trying to pay more attention to writing style, flow, forms of expression etc...

*On a side note I think this shows on of the major issues with growing up reading from a selective pool of literature (especially if that pool is fantasy or something similar) in that most of the works that you will read will be written on what can only be described as a middling quality - in that while they are not, for the most part, horribly written, they are, also for the most part, nothing overwhelmingly fantastic either - something which causes the physical writing aspects to take a bit of a back seat to world building and ideas, making it difficult to learn anything, about writing, beyond a certain point*


Anyway, I think it is helping. Though strangely, while I am attempting to read more broadly than I have in the past - it seems that I am getting just as much out of reading works (both excerpts from novels and short stories) that I know to have been written early of a writer - as they are, while showing promise, often more clunky than the works that will come after - something that, firstly, forces you to pay attention to the writing and, secondly, forces you to ask yourself "If I have a problem with this small excerpt - how would I alter it to make it better if I was the author?"


Anyway, it has been a little bit since my last story update, so here is the next bit from the story I put up last

The Life and Death of Alistair Grout: Part 2


The sun was slow in coming and once it arrived it remained long hidden behind a blanket of thick fog that had rolled in off the ocean during the night, only to become caught, like thick cobwebs, between the buildings where it now flitted and flickered in the morning breeze.

Slowly light began to fall upon the city and down below the inhabitants emerged as if ants, shivering in winter clothes and then scurrying this way and that, which each breath trailing behind them in the cold air. The smell of coffee drifts out from alleyway cafés and the people yawn, rub their eyes and drink, resigning themselves to another start of a working week.

From his apartment Alistair tries not to notice and instead pulls a pillow over his head and attempts to burrow further down below his blankets where it is warm.

He is expecting a hangover and he is expecting it to be bad and although he know that it will not work he hopes that if he keeps himself away from the piercing light of the morning sun for long enough he will be able to avoid, or at least delay the onset of the splitting headache that he knew would eventually sneak up behind him and hit him over the head like a hammer.

The sun, however, has other ideas and even as he retreats further under his blankets it begins a probing advance through the window and into the room where it ever so gradually begins to climb up the side of the bed and onto the sheets. He groans and tries to roll over and face away from the window but knocks the pillow from the bed in the process and in doing so catches a face full of sunlight. He clutches his hands to his head, expecting the worst...

... Nothing. No ache, no pain. Slowly he removes his hands and then sits there blinking in the morning light.


No hangover.


He stifles a yawn and then stretches.

He feels good. Really good.

Confused he pulls himself from the bed cautiously. Pale walls stare back at him, unadorned except for splotches of sunlight. The room is empty and largely unadorned, at the other end of the room plain green carpet gives way to tiles and a small kitchen. Had he wanted to he could have made it over from the bed to the microwave and the fridge (there is no oven) in half a dozen steps and would have only had to avoid the large brown suitcase that sat in the centre of the room and was overflowing with essentially everything that he owned.

He sighed: “Home sweet home.”

At least he had ended up here and not dozing on some park bench:- something that had happened before.

He tries to cover another yawn and moves over the suitcase. He had been living out of it for more than a week now and, he acknowledged, it was possible that he would be living out of it in the many weeks to come. He grabbed a towel and moved towards the shower, glancing at something that caught his eye on the kitchen bench as he passed. He stopped.

The flask.

He picked it up and looked at it, turning it over in his hand. Simple silver, no engravings, no marks. He shakes it. Empty.

Slowly he begins to remember the details of the previous night and he then looks around the room alarmed, as it suddenly occurs to him that he might not be alone. After a few seconds he chuckles to himself, and slaps his face lightly with his hand in a mild form of self-abasement: If he hadn't noticed anyone in the apartment yet it was unlikely that there was anyone here. After all there were not exactly too many places that that anyone could hide.

Though, it occurred to him strangely, he would not have been too surprised if the he had found the woman from last night hiding somewhere, there had been something odd about her.

He moved into the bathroom, looking around unconsciously before stripping off and climbing in to the shower. The water was cold and it stayed cold so he quickly towelled of and pulled on some relatively fresh clothes.

Back in the main room the sun has risen considerably in the sky and so everything is now bathed in light. He stands there for a moment, drinking it all in. He feels fantastic, he realises again and for the first time in what seems like forever he contemplates going out during the day.

It seemed clear now that he would not be going home again, for even if everything was forgiven, he knew that he would not be able to live with the guilt. He runs his hand through thinning hair and tries to push the feeling to the back of his mind, though in a way he was already feeling better for having made the decision.

Still, if he was going to be staying in the city from now on he knew he had to do something new, at the moment he felt so full of energy that just the idea of staying in the apartment all day was enough to drive him stir-crazy.

Grinning he pulls on his jacket and makes his way toward the door, feeling something he thought he had long ago lost - a curiosity for what the day might bring.


Little short, but it seems like as good a place as any to cut it off - the next bit is well and truly done, but the tone is quite different so it seems like a good idea to save it until later.

Next post will be up soon - and I may also be taking part in a play by post adventure at some point in the near future which I may link to on here.


M

Fly me to the Moon

I am a massive science-fiction and fantasy geek

This is something that, while probably rather obvious by now, is not something that I think I have said in so many words before here on the blog.

Fantasy and SF (particularly SF these days) is the one thing that pulls me in and excites me more than anything else, to the point where I will read and watch pretty much anything from within the genre if you put in front of me (there are some notable exceptions - I have issues with some fantasy such as Terry Pratchett and with most Sword and Sorcery stuff and I generally try and avoid some of the earlier 'pulp' SF which is, for the most part horrendous), so inevitably I have read and watched my fair share of crap - as the genre can be fairly up and down when it comes to quality.

With that in mind I always get rather excited when I stumble on to something really good, whether it be a book, TV series, Movie or whatever.

Such is the case with Moon:

Moon is set on a mining base located on the far-side of the moon and it deals with last few days of Sam Bell's solitary term of employment upon the station as he comes to terms with with the culmination of three years of loneliness and isolation.

This is a film that I had heard about for a while (it came out in 2009), and had been meaning to pick up for a while as well. Well I did the other day and I loved it.

I don't want to give anything more away - you can do that yourself if you want - but I think that it is an example of the very best of speculative SF - a sub-genre which generally does not get much appreciation or attention from the main-stream movie goer.

This is not some grandiose space opera - with a few vaguely philosophical (and often preachy) concepts tacked on to a series of action sequences. Instead, Moon is a film with a simple (though not simplistic) plot that is based around the exposition of a single idea and of a single question: that of the meaning of one's identity - and it is explored in a thoroughly thought provoking, moving, and most importantly, new way.

I have to say that (apart from the various references to 2001) it reminded me of some of the better speculative short stories that I have read over the last few years (i.e. selective works by J.G. Ballard, Clarke, Asimov and to some extent Niven) and, I think, can be taken as a display of one of the major strengths of SF: which is that, as a genre, SF is inherently without limitations - as it allows you to ask questions/or address concepts and alternate possibilities in ways that are beyond the capability and scope of other forms of literature or entertainment - simply because reality within SF is an entirely flexible thing - and that if this is done well (which it is in Moon, but it is not in many other examples) then there is the potential for the reader or viewer to feel something, or think about something, in a way that they have not felt or thought about before.

Anywho, that's enough prattle for the moment - next story will be up shortly, i'm just tweaking it at the moment and trying to find a good cut off point to end it on for a post.


M

Revenant

I've always found it fascinating on how attached people get to inanimate objects. For example: my old laptop, which is currently sitting next to on my bed, refuses to display any colours other than fluro pink and green and it will usually lock me out or freeze after about half an hour of use. In other words: It no longer works as it is supposed to. Yet even though I now have a perfectly good new laptop and it now has everything that was on my old laptop on it I know that it will be a while before I can bring myself to get rid of it.

Pretty much every post that has been written for this blog so far was written on it. Pretty much every story. I watched the little 'writing' folder on my desktop go from a small smattering of stuff to a collection several hundred documents that contain completed stories, attempted stories, edits, ideas, outlines, ideas, words I liked the sound of, sentences I liked the look of and even a few attempts at drawing up physical quasi-geographical maps for some of my earliest story ideas.

Ultimately, it's not all that much compared to what it might become if I want to take this seriously, but its a start and its a hell of a lot more than what I started off with - and browsing through it, even if a lot of it isn't very good, makes me feel something that borders on pride. As I associated all that work with my old laptop I get that feeling when I look at it now, even though it is broken, so I very well might keep it.

Weird.

Anyway, as you may have noticed, OBLOGOTORY, is back and I am happy to say that I have several stories on the go at the moment (not to mention a decent amount of free time on my hands) so updates should be both varied and plentiful (Also there will be no more poetry for the foreseeable future as I feel as if I've subjected you to enough).

To start us of I thought I might trot out the first bit of something new, which I am going to tell you nothing about until the plot reaches a certain point for reasons that will hopefully become clear.

The Life and death of Alistair Grout


The sun rises. The sun sets.

For Alistair Grout it is all the same and each day the whole world passes him by in a haze.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't even notice.

But sometimes things change.

For the third time in a week he finds himself in a bar: one that he has been to many times before. He sits. He drinks. He ignores the people around him and those that pass him by and for the most part they ignore him right back.

He likes it that way. It lets him wallow without having to remember exactly what it is that he is wallowing about. Lets him feel like he is surrounded by people when he really feels alone.

Light pulses and people dance. The heavy roll of the bass washes over him and dulls his already drunken mind. It keeps him distracted, keeps him occupied. Helps him forget. Each night it is the same, and each night it is just enough: The world becomes a dizzy smear as he drinks until he no longer has any idea where he is, who he is, and what he has done.

Each night is an escape, and each he prays that the next one will see one of the more wretched parts of the city swallow him up and then never spit him out and that will be the end of everything.

He knows that he does not have the courage to do it himself.

But each night it is the same. He he sits, he drinks, he forgets and then in the morning he wakes, in the gutter, or his hotel room, but still here, exhausted and feeling worse than he did before. Eventually he will sober up completely and the whole world will come rushing back in.

He knows that it can't go on forever: Sooner or later his money will run and and he will have to stop. He wonders how much damaged he will be able to do to himself before that happens. Wonders if he can numb himself completely to everyone and everything before he has to go home to face up to what he has done.

He shudders at the thought each time and then quickly downs another drink.

Things normally have a habit of progressing from there.

Normally.

Tonight something is different.

He sits at the bar. He drinks. All around him people writhe to the pounding music. He finds it hard to dislocate from it all and the drink sits heavy in his belly and does nothing.


He can feel someone watching him. A cold fire slithers down his fire and then tweaks at his ribs as he slowly shifts so that he is facing the other way.
Gradually he begins to feel warm again and the drink hits him all at once. After a while he finds himself chuckling to no-one in particular. The bartender gives him an odd look – pours another, takes his money – and then moves on, his face returning to his earlier look of quiet despair. Probably just another young person drawn to all the glitz and glamour. Thinking to try their hand at acting, hoping that they can break into fame and fortune. Ending up tending bar, for others like him, just so he can pay the bills. He snorts – more odd looks – he wonders drunkenly if he should give the whole acting thing ago? After all, he doesn't really need to go home. Not really. Maybe he could see the world, just like he had wanted to when he was young. He wonders and twists the wedding band around his finger as he wonders. He could just disappear. Take a different name. Find something new. He would miss the girls of course – but, he realised, not enough to justify going back home. Not that he would get to see them much once what he had done got out. Their mother would see to that.

From somewhere within him something seems to come loose and starts to rattle around around, the sound erupts from his mouth as another strained laugh that, louder this time, draws still more looks from the people around him, looks that largely spoke of disgust and disdain – a curl to the lip and a slanted brow that seem to say: “What the fuck is a guy like this doing here”.

He motions for another drink, swaying in his stool. The bartender looks at him as if he has just crawled out from one of the bar stools and tells him what Alistair can only assume is something along the lines of “You've had enough. You're disturbing the other customers. Fuck off.”

He grins at the barman and holds what is left of his drink up to the light - he isn't even sure what it is – he throws it back and then tosses the empty glass casually over his shoulder. The bartender roars at him noiselessly, his words lost amongst the music and making his movements seem exaggerated and almost comical. Alistair laughs, it's like a pantomime show. Obviously the bartenders gestures attract some attention however as seconds later a hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is unceremoniously dragged from the bar by one of the more ugly bouncers he has ever seen and then thrown out onto the street, where the bouncer delivers a sharp blow to Alistair's stomach that leaves him him on his knees, coughing and retching.

The bouncer pulls him to his feet and looks him over hard eyes, only slightly dulled by boredom, his voice rolls grates like gravel being rubbed together, “Be smart mate. Don't come back here again”, he punches Alistair again for good measure, his stomach heaves. The bouncer spits and turns to go.

It takes him a while to catch his breath and for the cloud of alcohol to seep back over his mind. Eventually he stumbles down the street and into a looks ridiculously similar to the one in which he had just been. He slips into a booth near the door and orders another drink.

The night wears on.

Much later he finds himself staring blankly at his watch as he slowly begins to sober up, then again and again. Each time he finds himself unsure if he has progressed from being curious about the time, to actually reading the thing, or if he has and just keeps forgetting what it said after he looked away. Around him things are beginning to wind down. The crowd has grown sparser and the dancing more awkward as people slowly begin to sober up and realise either that they can't dance in the first place, or that they are absolutely exhausted. Mostly of the time it is both.

Someone laughs in the booth behind him. A woman. He almost finds himself laughing with her, before he catches himself. Someone else says something to her and she laughs again. He suddenly is struck by something in her voice. Something familiar. He swaps from one side of the booth to the other and surreptitiously glances over the seat in which he had been sitting . The woman, talking with one of the bar staff as he refills her drink, laughs again. He looks at her puzzled, he has never seen her before. She looks up at him, as he shrugs and switches back to his original seat. He waves for another drink as another staff member moves away from the bar.

Behind him the woman is talking now and unconsciously he finds himself trying to hear what she is saying. Maybe she was just in bars all the time? Maybe she had been in the one he had been thrown out of? He snorts and tries to push her voice out of his mind. He doesn't want to think about women. He was done thinking about women. He grimaces at that and then a wave of self disgust rises in his throat like bile. He must be sobering up. He looks at his glass, empty – he doesn't even remember drinking it. He moves to order another only to find someone holding one out to him.
“Here”
He looks up. The woman has moved from her table and is now standing in front of him with a glass in each hand. Again she offers one to him. He looks at her, slightly confused, and is taken aback by how young she is. Gorgeous, but very young. He feels old just looking at her.
“You're supposed to take one.” Her grin touches her eyes, the light from the bar makes them look much paler than they should be. He apologises and takes the glass with a sweaty hand, all the while wondering to himself how long it had been since a woman bought him a drink. He honestly couldn't remember.

She smiles again and motions towards the drink. Lost in thought he has not touched it yet.
“Try it” she says, and takes a sip of her own “see if you like it”. He raises the glass to his mouth and she place her hand on his leg and whispers in his ear, “it's my favourite. I get it all the time.”

He nods dumbly and drinks and then world disappears into darkness with a dull roar.

He tries to pull his mind back together. There is touch and sound but they are somehow muffled and distant. He tastes something in the back of his throat and a hammer of ecstasy beats down upon him and turns him inside out. He feels as if a fire has been kindled in his mouth. It burns at him, hollows him out. The fog of the earlier alcohol is slowly leached out of him and he feels shockingly alive but somehow ill at the same time. A hot weight presses down upon his chest and he struggles to breathe as the feeling suddenly quickens and becomes even more profound. It spreads through out his body. Burning hotter and faster. Each second seems to drag by both pleasure and pain in equal measure until he feels as if he cannot take it for a second longer.

He feels her hand on his arm and he comes crashing back to reality. She looks at him coolly, as if studying him. He finds himself suddenly afraid, “what did you put in this?” His voice stumbles over each word. He tries to stand, fails and looks at her confused.
In response she sits down opposite him and leans towards him.
Her voice purrs and she gives him a wicked smile, “Why? Did you like it?”
Alistair swallows and looks back down at the glass, he feels a need growing deep down inside him, stronger than anything he was ever felt in his life. She moves closer. As if hypnotised he moves closer to her as well. Her lips press against his ear again,
“You looked sad.” She croons, “I thought it would cheer you up.” He can feel her smile again. “Have another taste.”
He tries to move away, but again nothing happens. His hand moves toward the glass of its own accord. Picks it up. She whispers something he cannot understand and his brain feels like it has begun to boil. His hand shakes and then in an instant he downs the entire glass and then the whole world seems to fall away again, bit by bit, piece by piece, until only her face and a searing emptiness is his veins remained.

Too be continued.

All right, that's it for the moment, feedback and stuff are appreciated as per usual. The next part should be up within a few days as it's mostly done, but just needs some tweaking and maybe some additions.

Until then.


M

Brief Hiatus

Well I've been absent for a while, which kinda sucks, and it looks like I'll be absent for a little while longer, which sucks even more.

The primary (and really only) reason for this is that my laptop is completely fucked and it's rather hard to get any decent writing done without it.


So, long story short, it looks like the I won't be posting anything for a little while longer - or at least until I get my hands on a new computer thingy (which hopefully should be soonish - money being the major issue).

On the positive side, however, I will have plenty of material to run with once I do get everything up and running again as I've been working on several things lately that I would very much like to finish and put up.

Until next time,


M

Up against the wall

Damn I hate writers block.

I've been trying to ease myself back into writing non-poetic stuff over the last little bit and it's taken a little while for things to jell properly so I'm afraid you will have to wait a little bit for a new short story. For the moment however I still have some unused poetry sitting around so you can have a read of that while you're waiting.

Freyja

Dear Freyja,
old Edda told of thee
of withered hand
and feathered cloak
long moulted
and throne away.

Do you shiver,
dear Freyja?
With shoulders bare
and alters empty?
With hair cast off,
to wither in the soil?

Do you hate,
dear Freyja?
at the lovely maid,
or the virgin thief?
Who took from you,
all once you had?

Or are you proud,
dear Freyja?
A queen amongst
a special few?
Who still holds court,
clipped wings or no?

My dear Freya,
old Edda told of thee.
Of healing touch,
of red and gold.
a midnight queen,
a pretty lass.

A missing god,
long gone,
made new,
and people ask,
with open arms:
who now holds you?



Not really sure what I think of this one now that I'm reading it a bit after writing. The original idea came about while I was poking through an old essay I wrote on the archetype of the trickster in ancient mythology (one of the examples I used was Loki, which led to reading up on some mythological Norse poetry, which somehow lead to Freyja) and I seem to have got the idea I was aiming at across, but I think it still needs one or two alterations.

Anywho, have a read and comment etc etc.

Will have a short story up in a bit. Maybe even a nice little picture to go with it.




M.

Done and Dusted

Phew!

It took some doing but I've finally finished up with all of the major essays and assignments for the semester, and technically, barring one last exam, that means that I've essentially finished my degree as well.

Wow that went fast.

I feel like I should say something momentous to cap the whole thing off, but to be honest I don't think the whole finishing uni thing has quite dawned on me yet, so maybe I'll save that for after my last exam.

Still it's been an interesting semester and in terms of writing I think the blog as come along a little bit. I've learnt a couple of new things, and I think I've managed to open myself up to and gain interest in new forms of writing. Which can only be a good thing, otherwise I'm just going to be beating the same cat against the wall time and again and everyone, including me, is just going to get bored.

From time to time new stuff might include poetry, I ended up liking the unit I did on it a little more than I expected, though at the moment I'm still sort of digesting what it is that I got out of it, as pretty much all I can say for sure at the moment is that poetry as a medium of expression is a mess. A crazy, glorious mess where no one can agree on anything. This particularly applies on what is 'good' poetry and what is 'bad' poetry: everything has context and everybody seems to like different things - I can, for example, say rather comfortably that some of the stuff I read this semester was fantastic (the sort of thing you wish you that thought of first) while other stuff was horribly horribly bad (the sort of stuff that makes you squirm and then light yourself on fire) but I can only say that for me. Anyone else I would just have to tell them to read it and make up their own mind.


Where my own stuff fits in I have no idea (either in my scale or in other peoples - i'm hoping for somewhere in the middle), but I've had fun writing it so far so I may as well keep at it and see what happens.

That said, I've also done some editing on a couple of pieces that I've already put up and I did say that editing needed to become a bigger part of the blog, so here:

The Tree (v.2)



The wind blows uphill then wanders down
whispering promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s hold decay.

Bare branches spread like hands,
while roots tremble and crack below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.

Rain comes, scatters like string, held
taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Voiceless I whisper to my children,
as they lie upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.

I dance in the wind as the sun returns,
Young growth basking in its lazy glow.
Leaves unfasten and seeds uncoil;
to tremble in the heady breeze.

Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.

But like all good things it does not last,
My children slowly crack and fade.
Dead leaves form a broken crown,
A memorial to what once had been.

I shake like beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and naked in the autumn breeze.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
My branches groan as the cold seeps in.

The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
A neon glow that cuts the sky.
A static bolt, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me and casts me on ground.

I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
That writhes and turns as sap turns ash
and climbs as vapour into the sky.

The rains roll back, flames hiss. Too late.
I am broken and burnt; disembowelled.
With no hope of healing I give in. I am done.
The new snows bury me. A folded blanket under which to sleep.

When the next spring comes I barely wake,
Anchored only by the bits not black and burnt.
The snow melts and digs me up, both living bits and dead,
I feel as if a skeleton, all blunt and tamed.

Time passes. I spend it most in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. None is mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant buzz.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.

They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
They calmly take to me and those around.
I feel distant fear, I shake and shudder
at the sudden force, the biting axe.

Rough hands break me down
and say I'll find some use. Perhaps a chair or table?
Something polished and refined.
I know it won’t be me.


Anywho, got plenty of time to kill now so new posts should be coming thick and fast - with plenty of new stuff to kick around.

Till then,

M

Darkest before the Dawn.

Phew, uni is really starting to heat up so my posting may be a little erratic over the next few weeks - but I've been enjoying writing and posting stuff so much lately that I'll be damned if I let the blog fall to the wayside, even if I end up posting edits of pieces that I have put up before (I will have to do this for one of my assessments anyway so it seems rather logical, not to mention the fact that I said edited versions would one day become part of the work that I post).

Lucky for you however, I have one new piece for you to read before we get to editing. Unluckily however this piece was, once again, written in response to Maldoror (don't worry though, this is the last one that I wrote - the assignment they were for only asked for three) so it has some similarities to 'The Executioner' (more so than to 'The Beast', as it is definitely the least surreal of the three).

Anyway, I'm running rather low on sleep, so before I write too much here is -

The New Man



From the beginning I only sought to survive. I had tried all that I could think of, all that would keep me from what I would later come to so enjoy. Tried and failed, as there came a day that I could no longer bare it, on the day when I was sick of having no coin in my pocket, or food in my belly, I took to the streets, a rough cudgel held tight in my hand.

The first one was wealthy. I caught him in the night as he stumbled his way from one tavern to another, his pockets full of the tinkling of tiny bells. I preyed upon his weakness: The drink had made him slow, had made him trusting. I walked with him, I placed my hand about his shoulders and joined in his bawdy songs. We laughed and smiled like old friends and then, once the streets had fully emptied, I gave him a smart rap behind the ear and dragged him away from the street so that I could pick his pockets clean.

This first time I had not meant to kill, simply to take and go, but no matter how hard he may have tried, the first forgot how to breathe and never again did open his eyes. Leaving him where he lay I would not find this out until morning, until I heard the whispers on the streets. I returned to the scene, to find a crowd huddled round the gaping mouth of the alley where I had left the man that had now spat him back out into the world.

The people muttered to each other, asking 'what it was the world was coming to'. Walking among them I felt sure that I would be discovered, that some errant look on my face would give it all away. I felt the man's money grow heavy in my pocket. I felt myself grow still, waiting for the cries of discovery.

I waited for nothing. Constables came and dragged the man away without a backward glance and then, slowly, the crowd too dispersed. To my surprise it was in this moment that I came to know true joy. True delight. I had bested another human being in truest way that I have yet been able to discern. I had deprived him of both his money and his life, without a single repercussion or the slightest chance for him to seek revenge or a repeat of our competition.

From that moment onwards a new knowledge burned in my brain. I saw now how the world should be: absent of the clutter of rule and law or good and evil, where life and death were decided by ones ability, by their strength and cunning.

There would be many after the first. I found I could not stop. Each night I stalked the deepest darkness of the streets, each night I would catch a new victim in my web and then we would compete. I made a mockery of the qualities so valued by society and hoped that one day they would realise that wealth and beauty and piety were as nothing, if one could not hold onto them.

But they did not seem to learn and it became all too easy. I craved a challenge, craved someone who might best me. Each night the city heaved more violently under my feet. Fear began to choke the streets as people cowered, knowing that there was something out there that hunted them. I revelled in it and slowly came to realise that if there was no-one out there who was worthy, with a will as strong as mine, then maybe I could create them.

Very quickly was I drawn to a young officer in the constabulary. A family man. With verve and principle. A staunch follower of his laws and codes. I left him letters, I left him notes: always mocking, always hinting. We became opponents, even if he did not know it. Many times I would let him think that he was close to catching me, and then I would pull it all away.

I watched as he slowly lost himself to his frustration and began to cast of the bonds that society had given him. That he had given himself. He became violent and reckless in his investigations. Quick to anger, quick to follow through. I sculpted him into a new man.

Eventually the time came when I knew he was close to breaking. Knew he was close to casting it all away so that he run out onto the streets and hunt me like I hunted others. He teetered at the edge of the abyss, only needing a single, small, push...

I took his family.

His grief was brilliant. His rage startling. He wept and swore, hammering at walls and leaving bloody smears. He called for me. Told me of his hate, of what he would do once he found me. I drank it in, savoured it, and then, when I was full I let him know where he could find me.

We met in the deepest pools of shadow that hung between the streets. His eyes flashed hatred, from his throat he let loose a animal snarl. At that moment I new rapture. Finally! Here was a man who was worthy! A challenge! I laughed with glee. We threw ourselves at each other like beasts.

For an eternity we fought. Trading bites and blows in equal measure. We rolled upon the ground. , trashing violently, carelessly, mindlessly.

In the end I saw my mistake. I had driven him to far. Given him too much. Now his fury outstripped my own. He gained leverage, his hands snaking around my neck. Squeezing. In the last few moments of my life I knew fear once, but very quickly it was replaced by pride. I had set my own rules and now I would lose by them. Lose to my own creation. As the last whispers of air left my lungs and the world reduced to pinprick lights, I felt that there was a small matter of satisfaction in that.




Alright, might be a little bit before the next original one (I'll see what I can squeeze in between essays) but I should update again soon with an edited version of one of the last few works that I put up - probably 'The Tree' as I've got some good feedback on that and I am now of the opinion that it is in need of some heavy trimming (horrible pun intended) as I (and this is something that I will admit as it bothered me at the time) let trying to fit it into a vaguely uniform syllabic structure get in the way of writing what I wanted to write.


M.

The Beast

The human imagination is an amazing thing and so it is often incredibly interesting to mentally chart the stages in the development of a story, both during the period in which it only exists in your head and during the time that you actually begin to get it all down on paper. Even when a story is inspired in part or completely by another, new ideas can take you in rather unique directions, leaving the resulting story with subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) references to other stories and concepts. - A mishmash of ideas if you will - Something that seems to fit in nicely with that old adage 'there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt,' that is if you believe in that sort of stuff (frankly I think there are plenty of new ideas, although I'm not sure I could lay claim to any in my writing).

Anyway, that sort of leads me into the story that I've got for you today - like 'The Executioner' it was written in response to Maldoror, but as you will see it is rather different, for while some of the key themes from Maldoror are still there (though not necessarily the same as those that were focused on 'Executioner'),there is a much greater emphasis on the surreal and it also contains (I think) much more in the way of conceptual imagery.

Still, I don't won’t to do too much deconstruction before you've read the damn thing, so here it is:


The Beast


Far beyond the time of man is a place where nothing lives and nothing dies. High above the sky lies blank as canvas that every now and again billows as the cold wind pushes itself across the bitter swelling of the sea, so stained by those that came before. Their remains now twisted into some cruel bower that lies just beyond the shore, a reef of bleached bodies and broken limbs. Devoid of thought and memory.

Rotted ice takes the place of continents, withered into thin lines and jagged edges: a scattering of glass upon a stagnant pond. A broken chandelier in a bathtub. Some contain the bones of buildings, marked by soot and ash, while others cradle themselves around the fallen branches of the great tree.

The old roots still hang from above, ever ignorant of gravity, they are held up by their own weight but no longer grow. Here nothing lives and nothing dies. They are wilted and scarred from an age of misuse, the bark long ago stripped away to expose once tender flesh to ripping and tearing of claws and gnashing teeth.

This is the work of the beast:

The last whole thing with a half a mind, it circles through the seas. Heaving through the bitter shallows to blink and sniff at a world that it no longer understands. For the beast looks but it does not see, it stares out upon the
endless sea with empty eyes, with sockets scooped out.

So it spends its days twitching blindly in the wind and chewing on noise that may have once been words. Always hunger pulls at it; it shivers and shakes in need. A mess of ragged skin and muscle long soiled and stained by sea and sap, it bays at the empty sky because it cannot understand why it needs.

It is a hunter that has forgotten how to hunt. A man that has forgotten that it is a man. What it is to be a man. So it wanders and it searches and sometimes it stumbles upon roots that it has not yet touched and for a time the hunger can be hidden away and it can think, but those times a few now. Once drained the roots stay drained, as here nothing lives and nothing dies.

Too often it finds itself returning to old roots, searching for sap that it may have missed. Sometimes it meets with success and so, driven wild by need, it tears at the tired roots and they in turn twist and shudder in helpless agony. The beast pays no mind. The root cracks and splinters and in a frenzy the beast tries to suck out what little marrow remains.

Black ooze. Black tar. Thick drops slide down into the sea – and float, refusing to mix. The beast cries in anguish and falls to its knees, cupping ruined hands and trying to sift the black from red.It gulps down what it can. The red sea is bitter. It burns at the throat. The beast claws at itself and cries, and then, helpless, cups hands and drinks again.

For here, nothing lives and nothing dies and the beast knows only hunger.


------------

Originally the idea was simply to write a short piece around need and the sometimes animalistic nature of man (ideas presented in Maldoror) and I think that for the most part I accomplished that, although most definitely not in the way that I had originally envisioned, with a lot more references to other things apart from Maldoror creeping in to it.

All in all I rather like it. It's different and I think I may have actually managed to describe the landscape that was present in my head while I was writing in a way that others may end up seeing the same thing and I like the idea of that very much.

Still, stuff doesn't just go up here for my pleasure, I'm trying to get feedback so once you've read it let me know what you think.

Until next time,

M

The Changing Seasons

Simple observation is something that has always fasinated me.
The idea of watching something just for the sake of watching it. Not playing a part in too and frow of events simply because you want to see how things turn out on their own.

I've often wondered what it would be like to spend a lifetime, or longer, just playing the part of the observer. Divorced from all base emotions and needs. To be comfortable and fulfilled with merely watching the world go by.

Of course I don't have to tell you there are a number of problems with this idea (Basic human needs/boredom/attention span problems that could only be solved by the ability to convert everything into a montage...also people have a habit of not living forever) but the idea still interests me enough that it served as the seed for the following piece (then I sort of messed with it).

Anyway, brace yourselves for more poetry type writing and let me know what you think in the comments.

Broken Circle.

A heady wind blows uphill then wanders down
leaving promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows childlike in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s sullen hold decay.

Bare branches spread as hands placed upon the sky,
while roots tremble and crack the glass below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
now ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.

Rains come, a scattering of grey string, held
Taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Without a voice I whisper to my children,
Curled up upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.

I dance in the wind and the sun returns, ashamed.
Young growth begins to bask in its guilty glow.
Leaves unfasten and small seeds uncoil;
I listen to the chatter of my children flow.

Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The glutted sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.

It does not stay, it does not last, my children
Crackle and dry, fading as quickly as they came.
My crown becomes a husk, a memorial
To the dead and dying and I shake with my sorrow.

I shake as if a beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and bare and alone.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
Given voice by cold wind I feel my branches groan.

The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
They give forth a neon glow that cuts the sky.
A bolt of static, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me then casts me upon ground.

I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
I writhe and turn, delirious and aloof.
My sap mixes with the ash, turned vapour in the sky.

The rains roll back in, flames hiss with hate. Too late.
I lie broken and burnt; I lie disembowelled.
No hope of healing or growth. I am done.
The slow fall of snow burries me. Folds me over. I sleep.

I barely wake in time for the return of spring,
Anchored only by the bits not blackened and burnt.
Melting snow exhumes me, both the living and the dead,
A skeleton that will not grow; a being all blunt and tamed.

Time passes. I spend most of it in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. But none are mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant roar.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.

They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
Then calmly take to me and those all around.
Laid low by servile fear I shake and I
Shudder at the sudden force, the biting axe.

Rough hands break me down into little pieces
They say I’ll find some use. Be something new.
A chair. A table. Something useful.
Something polished. But I know that it won’t be me.


So there we go. Like the last piece I put up this was part of a recent poetry assignment and apart from being inspired by the idea of the eternal observer that I touched on above it was also written in response to another poem - the Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud (which he wrote when he was 16!) which can be found here (http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Boat.html) - in that it follows the journey of an inanimate object that is described as being both conscious and unconscious of itself and its surroundings at the same time.

So have a read of Rimbaud if you are so inclined, but, keep in mind that it was originally written in French and so the translation linked above is rather different (and in my opinion not as good) from the one that I first read (if you are capable of doing so maybe read it in its original form?).

Anyway that’s enough from me for the moment. Think I’m getting into a good place with writing at the moment (The way The Executioner turned out has got me thinking about whole new avenues of writing) so the next post should not be too far away (Also, no, I haven't forgotten about my promise of pirates - so that will turn up at some point too).

Until then,

M

Beyond the Pale

Well you're in for it now...

The last couple of weeks have been pretty full, what with uni and heavy doses of procrastination - all the good stuff.

Sometimes this isn't so bad, procrastination by definition is doing something other than what you're supposed to be doing - and so at times not working on the essay that I'm supposed to be working on can lead to me writing something that turns out to be a half decent attempt at a story instead.

Thankfully that's how it's been working over the last few weeks - I kept putting off working on History and Human Rights pieces so that I could jump into working on the bits of the assignment that I have just handed in - the mid-semester assessment for my Poetry unit - which (now that I've finished) I thought I might put up here.

As I’m reasonably sure that most of my readership (you guys are still reading right? Comments!) doesn't actually read a lot of poetry I'm not sure what you'll think or what you'll say seeing that poetry criticism can be a messy affair at the best of times: One of the pieces - that I may or may not put up - is a response to 'as a wife has a cow' by Gertrude Stein, which (aside from the rather ridiculous name) could either be described as an interesting exploration of language or as the nonsensical blathering of a mad woman (you can make up your own mind).

The piece that I'm going to put up today however isn't that much of a leap from what I normally do - as it was written as a response to 'Les Chants de Maldoror' which is a prose poem (the line between prose and poetry is rather shaky) which was written by Isidore Lucien Ducasse under the pseudonym - Comte de Lautreamont’s. I haven't had much luck in finding it on the internet (at least not in English) but it can best be described as a study of evil, via the titular character 'Maldoror', who is portrayed as just a little bit of a prick (you really do have to read it to get the idea).

That is not to say that Lautréamont was a nasty bastard himself as he was supposedly writing a companion piece to Maldoror (a study of good this time) at the time of his death (at the age of 24)So this is probably those occasions where it is best not to make any assumptions about the authors characteristics based solely on what he has written (and that goes for me as well).

Anyway that is definitely enough prattle - so here we go:


The Executioner


Their questions are all the same. All made in that plaintive voice of those who know their time is up: “How can you do this? What gives you the right?” Each time I sadly smile and say simply, “Because I can.” They do not understand. Some will yell and shout, pulling at the bars. Others will simply sit and weep, pushed over by their fear. Still others, though fewer in number, will let their eyes go cold. Will spit and sneer and make sullen accusation. “You are a tool” they say: “A dog that does his masters bidding, a coward too afraid to show his face.” I weather their onslaughts with stoic pose. They do not understand and so I must explain. “I am no tool, for there is no authority greater than mine.”Some are given courage by this; their faces turn to smirks and they spit dismissal. “You do the work of the wealthy” they say. I tell them that I do not take money for my work, that more often than not it is the wealthy that end up here. They say: “Then you serve the King, you serve his ‘law.” I tell them that I have outlasted both before. At this they grow angry and sulk like a petulant child. “Then you will be judged by god.” I flash white teeth. “God plays no part in my work. I do what he will not. What he cannot bring himself to do.” At this they wail, cry and stamp. Fear finally mingles with them in the dark and the buck and heave as if they were a horse trying to throw off a rider that has taken too much of a liking to his spurs.



On the night before they will not sleep, but will turn to begging, to prayer: Both will go unanswered.
In the morning I will unlock their cell and pull them out and march them to the gate; their eyes distant, their countenance cowed; weighed down by knowing. Some forget to blink in the light. Most ignore the jeering crowd that flaps around them, swooping and squawking and screeching for blood. They only come alive again when they see it perched upon the hill: The great machine. The child of some giant’s chair and an infernal mousetrap made man-sized and sharp. It seems to quiver with an energy barely contained. They grow skittish, eyes darting for a place to hide, an avenue of escape: knowing full well that there is none. I strap them in, face down. Their eyes grow dull. The crowd jeers. From this point on there can be no intervention either by luck or chance. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty! There is a ‘thunk’, a spray of mist upon my mask. The crowd reaches its crescendo.

Soon some official will arrive: To talk of justice. Of how humane a quick death is. At that the executioner will slip away. Already forgotten, he is a part of the machine, a faceless cog, even though it is he who pulls the leaver; who makes it work. The world changes, but he remains. There is talk of democracy: of equal rights. The king knows fear; and so lashes out at all around. Nobles and commoners, the rich and the poor, all are equal under the sweep of the scythe. The people cry out at such abuse. At the horror of a machine that decides the fate of man. They pray to their god. He remains silent, though his servants make hollow threats of hellfire and excommunication.
The king sends churchmen to the executioner. They ask him to pray for them and then break down when he will not. Cursing and crying like common men. Outside the cells he stays hidden in the shadow of the great machine.

Then comes a time when all the fear can no longer be contained. It breaks loose and washed out into the streets as blood and flame. Revolution comes. The people march on the king and drag him from his throne. Their teeth gnash with talk of justice and of all being equal under law. They forget the cries they raised against the great machine and instead ask it now to become their impartial judge, the dispenser of their will. They bring the king out. Beaten and dirty but still crowned. They march him to the great machine. The executioner stands ready; winds back the blade. The king is full of gnawing horror as he stares into the abyss. The crows all come to see. Shrieking and tearing at their clothes in anticipation. They strap the king in and he cries like a common man. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty!
The ‘thunk’ and spray are greeted by a new rattle as the crown rolls off and into the crowd. They grab it and raise it high: An idol to their work. As men talk and puff and preen I slip away. They think I serve their use, but in truth do they serve mine. I whisper to the dark: “After all, there is no authority greater than mine.”


Alright, so that's it for the moment

It felt alright to me once I was done with it - although I'm not entirely happy with some of the metaphors and some of the symbolism (I may be describing I little too much rather than evoking). But it's not my opinion thatI'm interested in - so tell me what you think!

M

All the world's a stage

Alright, it took me a little longer than I expected (at first, once I figured out what I was going for and how I was going to format it, it was actually rather easy) but it's done. My first stab at something that may or may not vaguely resemble a play.

Now it's not finished yet, with this only being the first two scenes of act one, but I thought I would it would be better to release this in short doses so I can get gradual feedback on whether it's any good (I have the next few scenes mapped out at the moment, but not really any more than that - so recommendations are welcome).

So here it is - (Haven't really thought of a name yet).

Gabriel
Malcolm


ACT 1
Scene 1



Winter.
The murmur of distant voice comes from a country bar.
A stray dog sniffs around in the dark outside.

A door slams. A figure stomps out into the snow.
Another follows.


MALCOLM
Oh come on Gabe! Don’t be like this!

GABRIEL
(Sarcastically) Like what?”

MALCOLM
“Like this (grasping for words)... I mean... I just got here and you’re going to leave. I think you owe me a bit more than that...”

GABRIEL
(Turns around and looks Malcolm in the eye) Owe you Mal? (spitefully) What on earth could I possibly owe you!?

MALCOLM
(Holding arms upon in front of him, exasperatingly) I don’t know Gabe? It’s been like what? Three years? Three years without a fucking word. (Angry now) How much you reckon that’s worth?

GABRIEL
(turning to leave) Not as much as you would think. Try coming back in another three.

MALCOLM
(Stomps after Gabriel. Grabs him by the shoulder. Swings him around) Fucking hell Gabe. I’m your brother and it’s taken me weeks to bloody find you. You are not walking away.

GABRIEL
(Gabriel stares at him for a long time, then looks away. Defeated.) Or what? You’ll hit me? Real original Mal.

MALCOLM
(sighs) That’s not fair. And no. (He lets Gabriel go) I was hoping that you could put aside the fact that you’re a cranky bastard for a second... I do remember that about you by the way, so you don’t have to put on a show to remind me... and come back inside and have a beer with me, because I’m your brother and I’ve come all this way and you have in fact missed me. (begins to grin) Plus if you say no, I’ll just follow you around and be generally annoying until you change your mind - and you know how good I am at that.

GABRIEL
(Shrugs, slowly starts to grin as well.) Well when you put it like that I guess I don’t really have a choice.

MALCOLM
“No. You don’t. (Gabriel looks at him. He smiles) And I’ve missed you too, in case you were wondering or anything, though you do seem to be even crankier than when you left...”

GABRIEL
Thanks.

Malcolm puts his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder, Gabriel hesitates then smiles, embarrassed. Together they walk back inside.


The dog looks at them go. Whines.

Curtain




Scene 2

The bar. A little while later.
Malcolm and Gabriel sit across from one another in a booth near the back, a number of empty glasses sit on the table between them.
The same murmur of talk fills the room, except louder and closer.

GABRIEL
(More relaxed now. Cheeks slightly flushed from the beer) What d’you mean he’s in prison? (excitedly)How the hell did that happen?

MALCOLM
(grinning) Thought you’d like that. (takes a gulp of beer) He got drunk and picked a fight with someone...

GABRIEL
Ha, that’s it? Way I remember it the fucker used to get pretty pissed off if the end of week came and he hadn’t managed to pick a fight with someone.

MALCOLM
(feigning annoyance.) Hold on, I haven’t finished yet. But yeah, it got worse after you left, if you can imagine it. (Gabriel shudders.) All the usual places stopped letting him in, so he had to go looking for trouble (Malcolm spreads his hands.) So... Somehow he got into some dinky bar in the city, probably got lost or something; ended up beating the shit out of some kid.

GABRIEL
So he got arrested for that?

MALCOLM
Eventually. Turned out though that the kid had some friends with him and they didn’t take to kindly to dad’s methods of ‘socialising’. He tried to do them over too, but one of them pulled a knife on him and stuck him a couple of times.

GABRIEL
Shit...

MALCOLM
Yeah. Pretty much. (Pause) He ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks. Lapsed into a coma on the way in and by the time he came out of it the cops had had plenty of time to figure out who he was. As far as I know there were a couple of them there to greet him the moment he woke up.

GABRIEL
Shit.

MALCOLM
That was about a year ago now. Trial started pretty much as soon as dad had recovered. Think the government had been after some of the people that dad used to work for for a long time. So they fast-tracked the whole thing. Think they were hoping that he could help pin some stuff on them...

GABRIEL
Except he didn’t?

MALCOLM
No... Out of some misplaced loyalty or something dad kept his mouth shut. I think he thought he knew enough people that he would be protected, but they looks like they thought exactly what the cops did, cause they sold him out just like that (Malcolm snaps his fingers). Apparently I lot of evidence just started to turn up on him. Stuff bad enough for them to give him fifteen years in Byron.

GABRIEL
Jesus Christ... How... How are we feeling about this? (Concerned) How’s mum?

MALCOLM
Mum’s okay. The trial was hard, dad kept asking for her. I managed to convince her to stay away. He never hit her, what with his fucked up sense of honour and everything, but you know as well as I do that it was still an abusive relationship. She’ll be better off. (Malcolm pauses) But yeah, I don’t know Gabe. Dad was a fucker, you’re right on that. The stuff he did... to me... to you. It’s unforgivable. But... Fuck. He’s our father. Though I don’t know what that means anymore. Or if it means anything.

Malcolm finishes his beer. Gabriel looks away. Both are quiet for some time.


GABRIEL
(Looking suddenly at Malcolm) You want me to come home with you, don’t you?

MALCOLM
Yeah... Yeah I do.

GABRIEL
(Looking away again). Huh.

MALCOLM
We all miss you Gabe. Mum. Me. (Grinning) And seemingly that girl you used to hang out with... what was... Julia? She’s the one who told me where to find you. Says you’ve been sending her letters this whole time. (Gabriel blushes) I take it that my letters got lost in the mail eh?

GABRIEL
(Sheepishly) Something like that.

MALCOLM
Ha! (Then seriously) But Yeah. Whatever our issues are with dad. He’s going to be away for a long time. He can’t hurt you if you come back.

GABRIEL
I’ll think about it.

MALCOLM
Good. (Nodding) Not that we would have to go back immediately mind you. Tickets to Europe aren’t exactly cheap , least you could do is show me around a little bit while I’m here.

GABRIEL
(Chuckling) All right, but in the morning. For the moment let’s just find you a place to stay.

MALCOLM
Deal.

Malcolm and Gabriel leave the bar and make their way out into the night.


Curtain


Alright, hope that was half decent and the dialogue was alighted and the characters consistent (or understandable in their inconsistencies) - let me know what you think*. Was reasonably happy with the way it turned out - I'm not entirely happy with the 'criminal father idea' (though I'm not entirely sure why).

Going to be rather bogged down in assignments over the next couple of weeks, but I will try to get something up, though it will probably something SF again, just to make things easy. We'll see.

*might be a good idea to read some other plays as well first/at the same time (this being aimed at Sam mostly, as I'm not sure if you have since high school - and that was mostly Shakespeare (I’m not looking to write anything in any way reminiscent of Shakespeare).

Try (if you can be bothered) - http://www.samuel-beckett.net/Waiting_for_Godot_Part1.html (Read this in second year - rather liked it - copied the basic formatting for this - though it is a very different type of play...).


M