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

I could see the sky, but for the trees.

Damn time goes by quickly when you're busy (busy mostly equalling: study, assignments and/or being sick - not necessarily in that order).

Still I feel bad for neglecting the blog, especially after my last spiel (I have been writing, I just like to get stories to a partially rounded off state before uploading - so that I don't cut them off right in the middle of a particular segment of plot) so I thought that I would give you something new (and comparatively longer than my last few updates) to chew over.

Just a few things before I get to it though:

- No it's not a continuation of the pirate story or an attempt at a play/play like dialogue - both those are coming along, but I started this up on a whim the other day and sort of got stuck in it.

- Yes it is fantasy - though is hopefully not terribly cliché (though undoubtedly I will have the clichés pointed to me).

- yes it is in a way part of the series that I have been working on/talking about for forever and ever - though it is not a main part, but is instead me playing with a new character (who may or may not be important) and their role (or lack there-of) in major events within the world/universe.

(As I think I have mentioned to people in the past - If I do at some point write this series I don't really want it to be a big unwieldy series, ala The Wheel of Time, but would instead be aiming for maybe a few smaller series of stories and stand alone novels set within the same universe (think Larry Niven's 'Known Space' series or Iain M. Banks 'Culture' novels if you are in anyway familiar with them - which is a probably not given my current readership/me not really knowing anyone else who has read them).

Anyway without further nonsense, here is a story which I would like you to read, rip apart and generally criticise in a (possibly/hopefully) helpful way (also comments on last post would be cool too).


Wildwood

“Rowe!”

The boy froze, halfway over the fence.
“Where do you think you’re going!?”
Under his breath he cursed his bad luck. He was so close; he could almost touch the trees. He’d been so sure that he would be able to get away this time. So sure that she was too busy to pay attention to what he was doing, but now somehow he knew that she had been watching the whole time. She was always watching. He thought of the punishment to come and a hot and prickly sensation trickled down the back of his neck. There was no way that he was going to avoid the switch this time, not after being caught for the third time in almost as many weeks. He could hear her moving closer.
“What have a told you about going in there!” She was genuinely angry now. He swallowed, and then sighed under his breath. So it was going to be the usual lecture. He had heard it so many times now that he could almost quote her word for word: She would go on about how that now he was older he had to take on some responsibility. She would mention how sick his mother was. How he was causing her to worry. How that worry only made her condition worse. He hated her for saying that, knowing full well that he was not allowed to visit her had no way of knowing if it was true.
Normally he tried his best to ignore her, only coming back to attention when she came to mention his father and ‘what he would think’ or ‘what would he say’. It always came down to that and normally enough to drag him back in to line, normally. His father always knew when he was paying attention or not and a look of disapproval from him was always a hundred times worse than the switch his aunt seemed to prefer. He kept his back to her, hiding a grin.

His aunt had a fearsome temper when angered, which seemed to be most of the time as of late, but she had never been known for her originality. Always it was the same routine. He would have listened if the threat had any weight, if his father was here. But he wasn’t, he had left weeks earlier on business and would be away for weeks more; the fear of angering him was a distant one.
So, he thought, he may as well have some fun now, while he could get away with it. The old wood flexed as he completed his vault over the fence and then in an instant he was in amongst the trees. He could hear his aunt shrieking profanities; rushing towards the fence. She must be really angry now. Even more reason to disappear. He was running as soon as his feet hit the ground.

It didn’t take long for her voice to fade off into the distance; although this close to the village the trees were still relatively thin they had a way of muffling voices and making it sound as if people were in places that they were not. It was supposed to be like that all through-out the Wildwood, though the trees only began to thicken if you made it over the Northern Hedge and into the forest proper, something he had only done once before. In the outlying forest the distance between the trees meant that even from far away it was still easy to find the fingers of chimney smoke from the village drifting up lazily to clutch at the sky overhead; In the Wildwood proper you were lucky if you could see anything overhead besides the drapery of branch and leaf.

He knew no one would bother him for the rest of the afternoon. For reasons he had never understood the people from the village always avoided the Wildwood. The other children tried to explain it away with the usual ghost stories: sometimes the wood was a hiding place for murderers or madmen; sometimes it was home some sort of monster, or if they were feeling particularly imaginative, it was the forest itself that was out to get you, because it was haunted or old magicked or ensorcelled or whatever. The only thing the stories ever agreed on was that if you went too far in, it wasn’t too likely that you would ever be coming. For the most part Rowe ignored these stories. It doesn’t take much to scare children. What interested him more was the way the adults behaved: They simply ignored it. Never went in, never talked about it (unless they were telling their children to keep away from it). They even avoided looking at it; instead they seem to look through it or just at the fence that marked the border between forest and village. They went to a lot of effort to try and hide it, but Rowe knew that they too were afraid of the forest and that they had been afraid of it for so long that it had become habit forming. Firewood and lumber were brought all the way from the part of the wood that curled around the eastern side of the village, never from the Wildwood itself, even though it was right there in front of them. As far as Rowe knew, the only time an axe had ever touched Wildwood trees was when the fence had been built and that had been before his father had been born, when the trees near the village had been as thick as those further in. Before the villagers had cut and burnt the forest back. Making his way down one of the innumerable animal trails that wended their way through the young growth he could still see some of the left over traces of the fires; black scars on the trees which had by chance survived, and the desiccated remains of those that had not. Many of the more brittle ones had since collapsed into little more than piles of ash, either under their own weight and the simple passage of time or because they had been taken to with stone or branch and a youthful desire to break things when angry. But today was not one of those days. Instead he had just wanted to get away, away from the crowding and the heat of home and out the open, where the crisp air carried the hint of coming of cold and winter.

Eventually he came to his favourite place in the forest, a copse of elder trees which, huddled together, had somehow managed to make it through fires largely unscathed. With a sigh of relief he pushed his way through the thick knotting of branches and into the small glade hidden within. In a way it was like coming home, he had been coming here for years and the clearing was littered with things that he had found, made, or had simply wanted to keep hidden. Various attempted fishing poles were sat haphazardly by the small pond that bubbled up from somewhere underground - a few discarded fish bones lying in a rough fire-pit suggesting that at least one had at some point been successful. Out of habit more than hope he went down on hands and knees by the water’s edge, trying to see below the surface; it had been several weeks since he had seen, let alone caught, a fish. The water was cold and clear, but as usual it was empty. He wondered what had happened to them and hoped that he had not scared them all away. Though he had been much more likely bring them food than to catch one of them to feed himself, having only done so if he stayed the night and so missed dinner, something that had become increasingly common over the last few weeks. More often than not he would simply gather up some leaves and a cloak and sleep out in the open, but as it had grown colder that was becoming less and less comfortable and so instead he had put together a slightly more permanent area to bed down below the overhang of a large boulder that sat on the edge of the clearing. It was dry place to sleep but was not very comfortable, so he had ‘borrowed’ a sheepskin blanket from an old chest he had found in the attic. He sat down on the blanket and closed his eyes, wondering if it would be a good idea to stay the night again and wait until tempers had cooled off. Out of habit his hand moved to a small hollow in the rock face where he kept his more prized possessions. There were a few stones and odds and ends, pebbles with odd patterns and hard chucks of what looked like stone but let the light through when held up to the sun. The silver coin he had found one day when his father took him into town. Some feathers and some scavenged fish-hooks. Instinctively he grasped the handle of the heaviest weight he could find, bringing out the dagger that had been a gift from his Uncle he last time he had come down from one of the great cities in the North. Taking it from its sheath he tested the blade against his thumb, though not with enough force as to cut the skin (he had learnt that lesson within the first hour of owning the knife and it was for that reason that his aunt had decided that it was best that he not keep it – which was exactly why he had hidden it).
He slashed the short blade through the air experimentally, before sheathing it and tying it to his belt. The day was still young and he was starting to feel adventurous.
From the glade it was only a small trip to the Northern Hedge and he found himself wandering toward it before he knew where he was going. He found himself tingling with apprehension - If he was going to face another switching for going into the Wildwood he may as well actually go into the REAL Wildwood. Through the trees he could just make out The Midmost Mountains. He wondered if Wildwood stretched up all the way to meet them and, if they did, how long it would take him to walk there. Not for the first time he thought of running away. Maybe he could climb the mountain, or at least go and see if anyone lived there. His Uncle had told him of people in the far north, beyond the great inland sea, who lived in mountains. Though now, looking up at the snow-capped peaks, he was sure that it must be too cold to stay there for more than just a little while.

Slowly the trees began to thicken and grow taller. Gone entirely were the young saplings that made up the forest close to the village, here almost everything was old growth with no sign that the fires had ever touched them. Rowe found himself on edge, scared and excited at the same time. It was said that the animals grew strangely vicious this close in to the Wildwood proper and unlike all the other stories this was something he was inclined to believe. The last time he had crossed over The Hedge he was sure that he had seen a wolf, though he had been too taken by panic to really be sure. But, he told himself, he had been younger then and smaller and he had not had the dagger.

Then, all of a sudden the trees gave way and the Northern Hedge lay before him. If the other trees had been old, then these were truly ancient, but where their younger siblings had had room to spread out and grow in all directions the trees of the hedge instead sat shoulder to shoulder, with limbs that so closely intertwined that it was impossible to see what lay on the other side. He took a deep breath and pushed his way through.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust; everything was darker, with only brief slivers shining through the cracks in the leafy ceiling. The air was still, almost heavy, but still the trees seemed to sway to some unfelt breeze. Almost imitating them he began to shiver, though he was not sure whether he did so out of coldness or exhilaration.
He tried to move in a straight line, knowing that if he lost his sense of direction that he would most likely end up getting lost entirely, but that was easier said than done. Like the outer woods there were trails left by animals, but here they seemed much more chaotic and indecisive, crisscrossing over each other and often looping back upon themselves. The birds too acted oddly, as he heard no calls or cries of warning as approached, only the soft fluttering of wings and the moving of shadows.
Very slowly he got the impression that something was watching him. It started as a tingle on the back of his knew, a vague concern about what could be behind him and then gradually began to develop into something more. He had stopped to investigate a small stream that slipped almost silently between the trees when the feeling surged so strongly that he went into an instant panic; turning this way and that, clutching the knife and trying to see everywhere and everything at once.
He felt hot and clumsy and sick all at the same time. His eyes flickered from tree to tree and he began to wonder if this had been such a good idea. Something moved behind him; brushed against his shoulder. He bolted.
He ran and ran and ran. Absolute terror ripping each breath from his lungs. Branches whipped at his arms, at his face, he felt one or two cut the skin but was too pre-occupied to care. Not once did it occur to him that he was running in the wrong direction. He stumbled up and over a hill and into light and open air. He fell.
Something poked at him, rolling him the right way up. People were talking. He groaned, trying to push the needles of light back from his eyes. He blinked. He was on a road and there were people everywhere. A voice in the back of his head began to laugh. There are no roads in the Wildwood. It’s supposed to be secret. Full of dark things. Not full of people.

One of the men, and he realised that most of them were men, jabbed at him with his boot and said something. He looked up at him, at his dark green livery and the plate of burnished steel that was wrapped around his chest. Soldiers. Soldiers on a road in the Wildwood.
“Hey kid! I said ‘where the hell did you come from?’”

Rowe began to mumble dumbly in response when the soldier looked away and snapped rigidly to attention as a man in a dark blue tunic moved through the other men, likewise at attention, to come and see what was going on. He looked from the soldier to Rowe, crossed his arms and made a surprised but yet unworried exclamation.

“Huh.”
He turned back to the soldier and asked, “Where did he come from?” The soldier seemed to somehow go more rigid. The man in blue had bolts of lightning stitched into his sleeves.

“I was just asking him sir. Doesn’t seem to talk.”
The man looked back at him.

“From one of the nearby villages by the looks of it, though I thought they were all supposed to be terrified of coming in here.”

Rowe tried to say something, but the patted him oddly on the head and then turned to move away.

“Not that it really matters though. Seeing as what we’re doing here isn’t exactly on the books and we’re running short of time, we can’t really have him running back to whatever hovel he crawled out of and telling everyone he can that he saw a Magister and some of the imperial watch traipsing around deep in the Wildwood.”
The man’s voice seemed to echo and repeat itself. Rowe, found himself yawning deeply and then in an instant his eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp from head to toe.
“Just tie him up or something so that he doesn’t try and run when he wakes up.”
One of the soldiers nodded and the Magister smiled sadly.

“Looks like we’ve got another volunteer for our little trip. Poor kid.”



TBC

Next post should be up sometime next week - either pirate or play, I promise - though I do have a weekend away and essay proposals and a presentation to get through first so we'll see how we go...