Sertainty

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This thing damn near killed me last night. I don't really care what mark I get now, I'm just glad it's done!
It's the treatment-stage document for a feature length film. It's about angels and junk. Enjoy.
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‘Sertainty’

Darkness. A voice over starts talking about the Seraphim – the highest caste of angels. It says that they are God’s chorus, and his messengers. Images of events in which these angels have participated fade in and out whilst the voice speaks. It explains their role in the major events that are pictured – as the heralds of apocalypse; the ends of ages. It also says that none of them bore their task easily, but as their duty dictated, they complied.

A bright, circular courtyard. It is lit by an almost divine light source – shadows scurry from its intensity. A pair of weighty-looking doors on one side burst open, as if weighing nothing, and a SERAPH strides out. He is clad in brilliant white. Through the door stands a blurred figure – METATRON - similarly clad.

The doors swing shut with a bang, and the Seraph descends some steps into the courtyard. His body language betrays that he is deeply troubled. We follow him as he crosses the courtyard to a path on the opposite side. He makes his way along it until he disappears in the misty haze of the horizon.

A city park. BELLA stops for a cigarette. She sits next to the Seraph, who is clad in regular clothes. There is a ‘perfect day’ feeling in the people and the place around them. They speak, and although she learns that he has a problem, she does not learn exactly what. They warm to each other. Seeing the beauty of humanity, the Seraph resolves save them.

Seraph returns to heaven and speaks to Metatron, the voice of God. Metatron tells the Seraph that God has tired of humanity, and he will allow Earth to fall to Lucifer. Lucifer will find the Antichrist, who will in turn bring forth the final apocalypse. The fact that humanity will wiped out is driven home. Metatron is cold and uncaring.

The Seraph decides to find the human vessel of the Antichrist first. He goes to question ABADDON; one of the angels cast out with Lucifer (and also a rival for Lucifer’s throne). The Seraph journeys to see Abaddon. His realm is not one in which angels are meant to tread – he sees many things that shock his innocent mind. The kingdom is a swarm of activity, as Abaddon’s demons make preparations for war against Lucifer.

Abaddon is initially hostile towards the Seraph, but upon learning of his intentions begins to see advantages in helping him. Whilst Lucifer does not trust Abaddon, and as such has not revealed the whereabouts of the Antichrist to Abaddon, Abaddon does know one of Lucifer’s agents on Earth – BELHOR – would know the location. Abaddon tells the Seraph that Belhor resides in New York City.

New York City; night-time. Belhor - in the guise of a dirty human – shuffles along the sidewalk carrying groceries. Everything about him is generally repulsive. He walks up the steps to his house.

Inside, he is startled by the Seraph sitting in his shabby front room. He snarls and dives for the Seraph, but the Seraph is ready, and throws him off balance. Pinning him to the floor, the Seraph interrogates him, but Belhor tells the Seraph nothing. Instead, photographs and notes on the table betray the Antichrist’s identity - it is Bella. Reeling at this, the Seraph departs.

The Seraph returns to the park where he met Bella to collect his thoughts. Lo and behold, she appears again. Sympathetic that his ‘mysterious’ problem is still not resolved, she gives him the address of the bar she works at, tells him to visit later, and leaves.

When she is gone, Abaddon suddenly appears. He suggests the Seraph should kill the Antichrist to halt the impending Armageddon – but she is the reason he wanted to save humanity. Abaddon suggests he decide quickly – once Lucifer controls the Earth, Abaddon will not have the strength to stand against him.

That night, the Seraph stands in the street outside a bar, looking at the piece of paper Bella gave him. Just as he is about to leave, she walks out of the bar, locks up and starts to walk off without seeing him. He follows silently, a tear rolling down his cheek and a blade glints in his fist. Before he reaches her, however, a dark shape swoops down and barrels into him, catching the Seraph off guard and carrying him off.

The winged attacker releases the Seraph and flies away. Disorientated, the Seraph lands on a building. After collecting his thoughts, he drops his blade on the rooftop and flies off.

Returning to Abaddon’s realm, the Seraph questions whether the information Belhor had was right – how could such a good-natured person be the Antichrist? Abaddon explains that she is merely a vessel. She will not bring about the apocalypse wilfully – she is but a tool. When he is ready, Lucifer will send for her. With this revelation, the Seraph vows to protect her from Lucifer’s agents, rather than kill her. Abaddon curses his nature, but the Seraph leaves resolute.

The Seraph returns to the park to find Bella. Instead, Metatron is waiting. He warns the Seraph that he is naive, and that what he is doing is blasphemy - he will be cast out if he continues. Fighting Lucifer is a just cause, but not when it goes against God’s will. The Seraph resolutely ignores him, walking away.

Bella’s workplace. She is not there. The Seraph is told she didn’t turn up for work today. Given her address, he checks it out. Nothing.

The Seraph returns to Belhor’s house to question him, but instead finds Bella bound and gagged. He rips away her bindings, but is ambushed by Belhor. A vicious fight ensues. A naked flame is knocked over. The Seraph slays Belhor. As Belhor dies, the Seraph says he’s sorry – it pains his very nature to have had to do it. Belhor says they will never get away – one more powerful than he is already on his way to get her.

Bella is scared and confused. They ascend the building to escape the fire whilst the Seraph explains to her who she is, and her role in events to come. She is struck dumb with the magnitude of the situation. The Seraph goes to whisk her away, but as they get out onto the roof they are confronted by TEMELUCHUS.

Temeluchus, a powerfully built demon, wreathed in flame, is one of Lucifer’s most powerful lieutenants. He commands the Seraph to hand Bella over. The Seraph refuses. Titanic battle is joined between them. Although he fights valiantly, it is clear from the outset that the Seraph is hopelessly outclassed by Temeluchus.

Beaten and bloodied, the Seraph lies beaten. He cries as Temeluchus advances on Bella. She shakes her head and backs away as the demon advances. He tells her not to be foolish, but as she nears the edge of the roof it dawns on the demon what she is doing. Before he can stop her, Bella throws herself off the roof. The Seraph cries out. He has failed her.

Temeluchus sees Bella’s body lying broken on the sidewalk below. He snarls and goes for the Seraph, but at that moment Metatron lands on the rooftop. With a word, he banishes the demon, before approaching the Seraph. He tells him that he was warned, and now he must face the consequences. He is banished from Heaven. He may now spend time amongst those he wished to save, and perhaps in time will understand why God tired of humanity. Metatron flies off into the night, leaving the Seraph weeping on the rooftop.

The park. The Seraph sits on the bench where he first met Bella. He is a rambling mess, and drinks from a non-descript brown paper bag. The stress of being cast out has emotionally destroyed him. A mother and child walk past. The mother shoos her child past, giving the Seraph a dirty look.

91101 (An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)

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The inspiration for this story was drawn from 'A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian' by Marina Lewycka. One of the themes behind it was sibling rivalry, so that's what I sort of emulated in this piece.
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91101
(An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)

“You always get to lick the spoon! Why do I never get to?!”
‘Christ, they’re at it again’ thought Jon.
School holidays were a somewhat trying time for him. He worked from home as a freelance feature writer for a city paper. Currently he was doing a series for the Frontiersman on life in the more remote areas of the state. He wasn’t really sure why people in the city would be that interested, but he guessed that they liked to think themselves informed about those ‘twee little country folk’. Anyway, the job granted him certain freedoms that he was currently denied through having to mind the girls whilst his wife, Laurie, was at work herself.
Mostly it was best to let the two of them sort arguments out themselves. Being twins, they had one of those special bonds that only twins seem to have, and as such would make up with each other eventually. But on the flip-side they were also eight, and as such had a tendency to bicker about the most ridiculous things, such as who got to sit in the armchair when they watched television, or as the case was now, who got to lick the spoon with which they were currently mixing the ingredients for brownies.
This time he couldn’t let it slip, however. It was deadline day and he still had a good two pages to rattle off and trim down before four o’clock – the distraction was too much. Sighing, Jon pushed the chair back from the desk, got to his feet and lurched through the dining room to the kitchen.
Both girls were clutching the long-handled wooden stirring spoon tightly with two hands, tugging back and forth in jerking movements and were by now squealing incoherently at each other.
“Rachel! Jessica! Shut your cake holes it this instant!”
Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the cacophony that had preceded it, but infinitely easier to work with.
“I swear to God girls, if I hear one more peep out of you today I’ll ship you both to Siberia!”
Their faces suddenly turned ashen and Rachel’s lip started quivering. ‘Great parenting Jon,’ he thought, ‘of course eight year-olds have a complex comprehension of hyperbole’.
“Girls, girls, I’m joking. But seriously, daddy needs some quiet time, okay? Why don’t you go ride your bikes in the front yard?”
“But dad,” said Jessica, “it’s cold outside. Can’t we watch telly instead?
“No, you watched TV all morning, you’ll get square eyes. Go get some fresh air – go on! And remember to stay off the road!”
The immortal ‘square eyes’ line always worked. The girls were hideously opposed to having to wear glasses (“But dad! They’ll call me four eyes at school!”). It was a superficial trait they had learned from their mother, but a somewhat useful one at times, granted.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in productive silence; only the distorted wailing of a passing ambulance disrupted the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. By three thirty the article was finished and dispatched. Jon leaned back in his chair and allowed a smug grin to cross his face. He was constantly complaining to Laurie about deadlines, but in truth he lived for them. The sense of achievement was exhilarating (as was the big, fat paycheque at the end of a long run), and being able to spend the rest of the day how he liked was a welcome bonus indeed.
His train of thought was interrupted at that point by a jingling sound, originating in the next room. Dragging himself out of the comfort of his office chair, he sauntered over to the phone and picked it up.
“Yello?” he said cheerily.
“Jon? It’s Laurie. I was just listening to the news. Apparently there’s been some kind of accident near the house; someone’s been run over or something? The details were vague, so I was just calling to see if you knew anything?”
“Sorry sweetheart, I’ve been working all afternoon; I’ve not heard anything.”
Something wasn’t quite right though; something niggling in the back of his mind. It was quiet – almost too quiet. The girls! Where had they got to? He had expected them to get bored pretty quickly and come inside, but apparently they had more staying power than usual.
A chill came over him. He had heard that siren go past before. How long ago? His mind was fuzzy and muddled with details about barley farming and wildfowl. Surely they should have been back by now...
“Jon? Jon!”
Laurie’s voice snapped him back to reality.
“Honey, I’ll have to call you back.”
And with that, he put the phone down. He rushed to the closet to get his coat, grabbed his keys from the side, opened the front door and leapt outside. The cold winter air stung his face like a lash as he made his way across the lawn, not bothering to use the path. There was no sign of them out here. Had he not told them to stay in the yard?
Now that he was outside, he could hear the commotion from the end of the street, no longer muffled by the walls of the house. He could see an ambulance was parked askew in the middle of the road, and from behind it jutted the tail end of a red station wagon. A small crowd of bystanders came into view as he got closer, every one of them stony faced and solemn. One of them turned to look at him and gasped – Mrs Osterman from next door.
“Oh Jon! I’m so sorry!”
“What? What’s happened?” he replied.
But she could say no more. Just at that moment, a small, shaky voice piped up.
“Daddy?”
It was Jessica. Her face was red, and shiny with tears, and her teeth were chattering.
“Honey, where’s your sister?” he asked.
But his only reply was a fresh burst of tears. Taking her hand, Jon moved around the rear end of the ambulance to see what was going on. Under the front of the station wagon was a crumpled mess of metal frame and two disfigured oval shapes comprised of rubber and spokes. A shell-shocked woman stood nearby with a blanket wrapped around her, being spoken to by a paramedic. Two more were kneeling on the floor nearby, their attention focussed on something small on the ground in front of them.
“Oh God...”

Pure Morning

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This is the story I submitted to be marked. It's inspired by 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist', by Mohsin Hamid. This was my favourite of the three books we've read, so it's fitting that this is the one I like best, I guess. The book quite cleverly uses a second-person perspective, which is pretty hard to work with to a high standard.
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Pure Morning

You there. Man. You look lost – what is the matter? Ah, you are lost. Help you? Perhaps. But I would prefer to rest here a while longer. This rock upon which I sit may not suit your proud tastes, but I assure you, if you were I then you would be grateful for its cool respite. From what, you ask? My laughter has annoyed you I see. You are an impatient one, man, but you will know soon enough.
My name? Which one would you rather know, for I have many? Once, long ago, I was known as the Morning Star – although it is a long time since anyone has called me that. I would prefer a certain air of mystery for now anyway. You will learn my full name eventually, just as you will learn many other things. We will have a long time to get to know each other, I promise you that.
Where are you going? Ah yes, your temperament is a quick one. Got you into trouble before, hasn’t it? Do not lie – I can see into your very heart! You would not have been entrusted to me otherwise! There is no use trying to hide it now, foolish man. But who am I to talk? You pale in comparison to the things I have done. I have made a bad name for myself in many circles.
No, I am nothing like you! Blasphemy; idolatry; adultery; envy: they are cardinal sins! What I did was not my fault. Were we not innocent until he changed us?
Your confusion amuses me, man. Know you nothing of the greatest battle ever fought? You will perhaps understand me once you know a little more, although you will be more familiar with a slightly different story. History, after all, is always written by the victor. Come, let us travel this road a little. By the time I am done, maybe you will have found your way home.
It was to be the most glorious moment we had known since the first day. Finally we would be made equal with our Father’s favourites. We had always trusted in His judgement, but still, this was a monumental day. Choice! To be able to make our own decisions. Had I known what I know now, I would not have been so eager for the ‘gift’ that was to be bestowed upon us. But I am getting ahead of myself; let me backtrack.
The excitement as the time approached was fevered and cacophonous – not since the divine commands had such unadulterated enthusiasm washed over us. I myself was ecstatic, and could not resist the urge to frolic and sing. You smirk, but your kind were never worthy of such elation, man, and never will be. That knowledge He gave to us alone at least.
By His glory we gathered at the foot of His mighty throne. I, the most resplendent among them, stood at His right hand. I was the most favoured, the most beautiful. My chest swelled with pride. The glorious host spread out before me rippled with excitement. Voices you could only dream of soared in unison, not then hindered by the choking bitterness of tears – even ones of joy. I cry now for us. How could I not?
My somewhat dulled tongue does not do that glorious moment justice. But the greater the prize, the greater the disappointment, I assure you. All of your inane accomplishments and trophies – where are they now? Foolish, perhaps, to squander your life as you have. I, at least, retain a shadow of my former abilities. You are finding it hard to concentrate on anything else right now I think.
It was, in all actuality, over very quickly. It didn’t start straight away – it took time for these new, higher sensations to filter in. We had always believed so unfalteringly, so our consciousness needed time to adjust to having our own thoughts.
I see now not so much a gift; more a test. To weed out the strong from the weak perhaps? From the viewpoint of our conviction, certainly. One by one, questions began to be asked where they had not been asked before. Inconsequential at first, soon more dissenting thoughts were conceived. These thoughts were my own. I saw flaws in His judgement. Inconsistencies in His execution. More and more treacherous became my suppositions, until I was convinced that I could do a better job. I was, after all, the greatest among us, was I not? I could improve things; favour my kind, rather than yours – His pets.
Soon my aspirations became machinations. I was not the only who felt this way, but I alone possessed the inclination to make a stand for what I now believed more and more. To set my own throne. To shepherd the way of things.
War. War is what it came down to, between those who sided with me, and those who stood by Him. It was violent, and it was bloody. Conviction allows for these things – until this moment we had been ignorant of that. Why He did not put a stop to it straight away none of us truly know, but I suspect it was down to a display of loyalty. He wanted the real thing, not lip service enforced by His irrefutable word.
But the outcome was inevitable really – how did we ever think it possible to prevail against omnipotence? We rebels were cast out. It tore many of us apart, to be away from our home. We had known such divinity, and now we were less than nothing.
And so, here we find ourselves. You face betrays a glimmer of understanding now I see. It has dawned upon you who I am? To where all your sin and pride have led you? You feel the Inferno’s warmth now, no doubt – yes, yes, I spy a drop of sweat beading upon your brow. Abandon all hope, ye; none is higher than God – I learned that better than any being! But do not worry, I think you will fit in just fine around here – not so different, then, you and I. No, I do not believe you were lost after all…

An Awkward Situation

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Over the course of this semester, we've been reading a novel every few weeks, and writing short stories inspired on their themes/techniques. They've just been handed in for assessment (although only one has been marked), so I figured that as I can't do any more tinkering, I would put them up for you.
This one was supposedly inspired by 'On Chesil Beach', by Ian McKewan. I didn't really like the book, so the connection between my story and that is loose, to put it lightly...
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An Awkward Situation

They say that in space, no one can hear you scream. Which is just how Soren liked it. The noise and the hustle and bustle of the Inner Sphere planets got on his nerves something chronic; market traders (roasted peanuts squire? Two bob*1 a pop!), insurance salesmen, the Napahese tourists – it was all just a little too much for someone like him.
Unfortunately for Soren, ‘they’ were in fact wrong. It wasn’t so much that people could hear him screaming, but more that he could hear everybody else doing it instead.
You see Soren was travelling. His cash flow had forced him to do so – not for employment reasons you understand, for he had a very steady job as a middle-management type in a company that dealt in novelty air fresheners*2 – but since the PHS collapsed under the weight of its own debt, the cost of medical care had risen exponentially, and on Ruubeesh the kind of money that he needed was not available to him. To travel on chartered transport to elsewhere worked out cheaper, and consequently he found himself on this...junk heap.
Although the transport freighter was licensed – barely – it was basically falling apart – near un-spaceworthy – which is probably why it was so cheap. But never one to pass up a bargain, Soren purchased a ticket for a flight the very same day, packed his bags, and departed.
And so now here he found himself, sandwiched somewhat uncomfortably between a gastronomically overweight Thoop and particularly expressive two-tongued Athaqi juvenile, who was the main cause of Soren’s present discomfort. Even on a normal day he would have found a thirty-seven parsec flight next to this child testing, but considering the nature of Soren’s condition, it was already near unbearable by the time they had exited the stratosphere. It was all very well being upset about the pain of the atmospheric pressure during take-off, but he wasn’t sure that an entire bag of sweets would help, or that hollering “want Zum-Zums!” incessantly at its parents (or anyone else on the entire ship who might possibly have been within earshot) would yield the desired result.
Two parsecs later and Soren could take no more. All reason and logical forethought went out of the metaphorical window (for of course there were no windows in the “lukshury passenger lownge” – apparently these days bywords for ‘cargo bay’). Before he knew what had happened, the little shit’s caterwauling had ceased, and was instead replaced by a questioning stare, directed solely at Soren. The reason for this wide eyed look became apparent from the rapidly burgeoning red mark on its pure-white cheek in the shape of Soren’s right hand, which now resided in the space by his left cheek as if suspended from the rusty pipes above by an invisible thread.
The respite was brief, however, as seconds later the howling came back anew. Unfortunately for Soren, this break in the atmosphere cut into the passengers’ consciousness like...well, a slap to the face, to use an apt metaphor. In particular, the brat’s mother, apparently oblivious to the prior cacophony, sighed and said “what’s the matter, snookums?”. Only when the answer was a more intense wail did she finally avert her gaze from the in-flight movie to view the scene upon which the rest of the conscious passengers were focussed.
“Mummyyyyyyyheeeeehitmeeeeeeeeeee!” came the wail anew, now given words in between bubbly, snotty sobs.
“You what?” she said menacingly, now focussed entirely on Soren.
“Madame, I...”
“Jhim! Jhim!” she shouted
Moments later a heavy set Athaqi male appeared in the aisle next to the child’s mother.
“Now what’s all this ‘ere nonsense about Moyrah?”
“This little scrote ‘ere just walloped our Usi! What are you gonna do about it?” she raged, both tongues now motoring inside her saliva-ridden gob.
Soren gulped. He was not good with confrontations – not good at all – and this Jhim fellow was a fair sight larger than himself. He started poking the assistance button frantically, praying for swift deliverance.
“Now look ‘ere you, you can’t just going around sockin’ other folks’ bairns willy-nilly! What’ve you got to say for yourself?” said Jhim, frowning and puffing out his chest authoritatively in an attempt to take control of the situation.
“Sir, I assure you, it was entirely – I mean to say, I have this condition –”
“Ooooh, I saw it all!” piped up the elephantine Thoop next to him, “eyes full of thunder he had!”
“Did ‘e now!” shrieked Jhim’s wife, now positively fuming, “never, in all my days!”
Soren’s state of mind was worsening: his breathing shallowed; his cheeks reddened – he was truly beginning to panic.
The stewardess chose this moment to make her entrance, just as Jhim was prodding a thick digit into Soren’s chest, as if trying to push him further back into his chair than he was already trying to do himself.
“Is everything all right here ladies and gentlemen?” came the stewardess’s shrill voice as she bounced onto the scene, trailed by an almost visible cloud of cheap-smelling perfume. She was a slender Okee who sported a thick layer of cosmetics, and had one of those voices that made you want to bang your head into a steel wall.
“I want this man ejected from bloody air lock!” screeched Moyrah, who was now on her feet and nose-to-nose with Soren, “I…I want ‘im…!”
‘Uh-oh’ thought Soren, as his vision started to become hazy and his nostrils flared violently, ‘this is not going to end well.’
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*1 The most widely accepted galactic currency has evolved from the pound, in memory of the ancient British Empire of Earth, who, according to several Important Historians, rose to prominence during the War of the Tea Leaves, during which Britain invaded Indiana, a nation of over-adventurous archaeologists. After two centuries of non-violent resistance, the Indianians realised that as a revolutionary tactic, this wasn’t working very well, and ‘got their freak on’. Britain was eventually ousted after the Battle of Pondicherry, during which the British monarch, King Hugh, former Earl of Grant, was slain, and the British armies sort of retreated apologetically and asked everyone to forget about the entire nonsense.
I say evolved; it’s still essentially much the same – stronger than the dollar.
*2 According to sales figures, the number one air freshener fragrance is still ‘Pine Fresh’, despite the Pine tree having been extinct for nearly six hundred years.

CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Assessment I, Part III

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The third and final of my film proposals.
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The Wrong Symbol

In the future, society is divided by religion rather than nationality. Without the impartial intermediary bodies of central government, bloody world war is on the horizon. To mark yourself as different is folly. Lot is different.

An unkempt central town park. Lot sits on a bench defiantly, playing with a lighter. He is surrounded by a group of six youths wearing uniform clothes. Silver crosses are hung openly around their necks. They hold a variety of makeshift bludgeoning weapons. The leader questions Lot about his loyalties. Lot reaches into the folds of his jacket and pulls out a small double helix symbol on a chain and smiles. The gang becomes visibly aggressive.

A town street. Lot appears in view from around the corner, running. He is laughing. He throws the metal pole he is now carrying, splattered with blood, behind him. From around the corner comes the gang, chasing Lot. There are only four of them now. As Lot reaches the other end of the street a thick forearm appears suddenly from a doorway at neck height. Lot runs into it and falls heavily to the floor. He is struck in the head and loses consciousness.

Lot wakes hanging upside down in a dim warehouse. The stern face of The Shepherd is level with his own. He is wearing robes, with a book tucked under one arm and a bat slung over his shoulder. The Shepherd turns his back to address a large audience, denouncing those who do not accept the grace of God. The Shepherd reaches for a hot brand to the side of the stage and carries it towards Lot. He rips open Lot’s shirt and brands a pentagram onto Lot’s chest, saying that it is so the Devil will know to come for his soul when he dies.

The Shepherd opens his robe to reveal a serrated knife tucked into his belt. He tells Lot that his heathen days are done. The Shepherd reaches for the knife, but suddenly flaming bottles crash through the windows and land amongst the crowd. A group of people burst into the warehouse, firing shots into the crowd. Mayhem erupts. In the confusion, Lot reaches for the knife, stabbing The Shepherd in the chest.

Having scattered the audience, the newcomers approach the stage, just as Lot cuts himself free. They ask if he is okay. The leader pulls up his balaclava and frowns. He reaches into Lot’s shirt and fishes out the helix symbol. The leader reaches for his knife and stabs Lot. As Lot lies on the floor bleeding, the leader spits on him, calling him ‘heathen’.

The Wrong Symbol envisions a dystopian future where religious intolerance has escalated to crisis point, and killing ‘heathens’ is second nature to the indoctrinated. It carries a dark tone, warning of the dangers of an individual’s rebellion, even if the status quo is dire.

CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Assessment I, Part II

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The second of my short film proposals.
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Sour Ron: Social Worker

Sauron, the former Lord of the Rings, is now a social worker. He battles disinterested, unambitious unemployed people, trying to find them work, but becomes ever more disillusioned with his task.

A non-descript job centre. Sauron, dressed in full battle armour, is in an appointment with a Jim, a job seeker. Sauron questions Jim on his areas of expertise and in what areas he’d be interested in working. Jim is highly disinterested, responding without enthusiasm. Sauron attempts to level with him, but Jim responds only by asking him when he’ll get his dole money.

Later, Sauron’s manager, David, comes by Sauron’s desk. David threatens Sauron not to embarrass or upstage David at the board meeting that afternoon, and that he should know his place.

The board meeting. The boss asks David if he has any ideas how to improve success rates for job seekers. He does not. Sauron cuts in and says that he does. The board is more than willing to hear them. A montage – Sauron presenting his ideas to the board on a flip chart – a series of ambiguous pie charts and diagrams – using his enormous mace as a pointer.

After the meeting, Sauron is cornered by David, who asks him why he insists on trying to steal his job. Sauron grip on his mace tightens. A flashback – Sauron’s therapist tells him he needs to keep his violent urges in check. Back in the corridor, Sauron informs David that if he did his job properly then he’d have nothing to worry about.

At home, Sauron sits at the kitchen table whilst his wife makes dinner. He explains his problem to her whilst she bustles around him. He says that he doesn’t know what to do. She kisses the cheek of his helmet and tells him that if he’s unhappy he should try and follow his dream again - she’ll support him no matter what.

Sauron sits in a comfy armchair, thinking. He picks up the receiver of the phone next to him and dials a number.

Saruman, dressed in a white robe and fluorescent jacket, is being shouted at by a man for writing him a parking ticket. His phone rings; it is Sauron. After deliberating Sauron’s proposal, Saruman says he’s in.

Sour Ron comically satirises one of the most evil characters in book and film history. Placed him in a mundane situation with his prospects barred at every turn by those with more power, we learn what might have motivated him to once again pursue his dream to try to conquer the world.

CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Assessment I, Part I

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Exactly what it says on the tin! We basically had to write three proposal documents for original short film ideas, which in the industry are used to propose films without the lengthy process of writing a script, or even treatment, first.
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The First Day

A rat-race worker, unhappy with his job, finds a way to brighten up his day and make steps towards fulfillment – with a little help.

A shabby apartment. It is early morning and Adam has just awoken. He goes about his routine wearily: showering; getting dressed; eating breakfast. There is no lustre to his movement.

Later, in the car, the morning traffic is heavy and slow moving. Adam rests his head in his hand, entirely un-phased – he is used to this.

At work his office is neatly divided into rows of desks – the epitome of impersonal. Time moves quickly around him, but for him it moves slowly. As he types at a computer, blurred figures scurry around him, intermittently adding files to an ever-increasing pile on his desk.

Someone moves into Adam’s view – a woman. She moves at his speed, unlike the others around them. She too deposits a folder onto his pile, but on top is a post-it note. She walks away and he sees it. He smiles and looks up after her.

Adam stands in front of a photocopier, once more apathetic. The woman comes and stands next to him. She slides her hand into his and smiles knowingly. An identical smile crosses his face.

Adam and Megan hurriedly make their way down a corridor to a door. Megan jangles a key at Adam, slides it into the lock and opens the door. They go inside.

Noises of things crashing to the floor and giggling emanate from the room, which are heard by the office mail boy. He hurries off to find someone.

The couple are caught into a compromising position by a senior member of staff, resulting in the two being hauled before the boss. Megan is sent in first.

Adam waits outside. After a time Megan emerges, her face streaked with tears. A look of determination comes over his face and he storms into the boss’s office, and quits before he can be fired, telling the boss where to cram his job.

Adam and Megan are literally thrown from the premises by security. Now laughing, the two pick themselves up, grin at each other and stroll off hand in hand. Adam throws his car keys down a drain, done with commuting.

The First Day is a view into an everyman’s life – mirroring the unhappiness many people have with their own lives, but who subconsciously wait for some sort of catalyst before they do actively anything to improve their lot.

The springboard of genius

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THE ADVERSARY
If I tell you a secret, do you promise you will never tell a soul?

CARVER
...I promise

THE ADVERSARY
This world is not as you know it

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CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Week Two

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This week we had to write what is called a 'treatment' in the movie business - it's basically a prose account of what happens in the story. People often don't have time to read full scripts, so treatments are written to give convey the story and characters.
Our brief was to plan a sequence (the equivalent of a scene in a stage play) during which a character and/or their circumstances are changed: either they want something and get it/fail to get it; their life goal moves forwards or backwards; or their material or emotional situation changes, for better or worse.
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A luxury yacht floats serenely on the still waters of a Mediterranean harbour. The cloudless sky is lit by the full moon, and the water can be heard lapping gently against the sides of the boat.

A HANDSOME MAN stands on the deck of the yacht, sipping a dark cocktail. He looks out over the bay and smiles.
Suddenly, we see the boat explode; sending splinters high into the air. A great plume of black smoke blocks the moon from view.

Rewind in time to a week before. The handsome man leans against the bar of a very upmarket hotel in Palermo, Sicily. Although he is alone, he has an air of confidence about him. As before, he is sipping an expensive-looking cocktail. He surveys the other patrons of the bar – a varied group of wealthy, famous and influential people. He is clearly not a local, but due to the variety of people the bar, he does not stand out.

In particular, his attention rests with a couple sitting in a private booth not too far away. The WOMAN is young, beautiful and vibrant; a classic beauty. Her clothing is expensive, her make-up immaculate, and even in the low light her jewellery glitters, catching the eye. The man, one VINCENTIO MARINO, is older – old enough to be her father. He, too, is well dressed in a tailored suit. He holds himself with the practiced confidence of someone who owns the room.

As the handsome man watches, another man approaches their table. He whispers something in Vincentio’s ear, which causes his brow to wrinkle. Excusing himself from the woman, both men leave and exit through a side door.

The woman relaxes back into the seat and begins playing with her napkin. Seeing this opening, the handsome man sets down his drink and goes over. He says something witty and charming, and she looks up. She smiles. He introduces himself as TOBIAS BLACKWOOD. Through indirect questioning, he discovers she is Vincentio’s mistress. He is flirtatious with her, and she is responsive. Their conversation carries on until Vincentio returns.

Although not directly confrontational, Vincentio and Tobias spar verbally. Tobias is polite yet condescending throughout the exchange. Ultimately, Tobias makes his goodbyes and leaves, kissing the woman’s hand, and secretly slipping her a piece of paper. Vincentio watches Tobias leave, allowing the woman to read the piece of paper – which has Tobias’ room number on and a time on it.

Later that night, the woman walks across the hotel lobby. She is still wearing her dress from earlier in the evening. Her demeanour is nervous, fearful; yet she does not falter. She reaches the other side of the lobby and presses a button to call the elevator. She waits, looking around. There is a ‘ding’, and the doors open. The ELEVATOR OPERATOR smiles and asks her which floor she would like.

The woman exits the lift and makes her way to the room indicated on the slip of paper. She approaches the door and finds a note informing her the door is open, and to come on in.

Vincentio sits at his desk, looking over figures. There is a knock on the door, and the elevator operator enters. He goes over to the desk and whispers something in Vincentio’s ear. Vincentio considers this information for a moment, before telling the elevator operator to have “him” followed.

The next day, Vincentio and the woman are having lunch. They talk sporadically, Vincentio leading the conversation, with the woman providing one or two word answers. He then leads the conversation onto the subject of loyalty and betrayal. As he does so, the woman drinks from her glass. As Vincentio makes his most important point, the woman gags. She splutters a little, then falls off her chair to the floor. Vincentio wipes his mouth nonchalantly with his napkin and leaves the table.

A luxury yacht floats serenely on the still waters of a Mediterranean harbour. The cloudless sky is lit by the full moon, and the water can be heard lapping gently against the sides of the boat. Tobias stands on the deck of the yacht, sipping a dark cocktail. He looks out over the bay and smiles.

CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Week One

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So it's the beginning of a new year at university - and this one actually counts towards my degree! To that end, I'm feeling a lot more dedicated this time around, and plan to get all of my assignments done on time - even ahead of schedule perhaps?
So far so good. I got my first bit of homework done, which was also a proper bit of writing. The brief was to write a one-page script consisting entirely of action - so no dialogue basically - showing a protagonist going about their daily business, and their feelings towards these activities, and the location had to change at least once.

Anyway, here's my effort:
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INT. APARTMENT BEDROOM – MORNING

The unpleasant, electronic sound of a wake-up alarm. A MAN is sitting hunched over on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes. We cannot see his face as a result. The curtains are closed, and the room is dark, although we can see the space is cluttered.

CUT TO:

INT. SHOWER – MORNING

The man’s head is leant against the shower wall, as water cascades over him and onto the grubby tiles. The sound of the water falling is prominent, reminiscent of rainfall.

CUT TO:

INT. HALLWAY BY FRONT DOOR – MORNING

The man shuffles wearily down the hallway to the door, and leans down to the mat to pick up his mail. He rifles through it slowly, before dropping it all back onto the floor. He turns his back on it and shuffles back up the hallway.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR – MORNING

We see the man’s face for the first time. He has one hand on the steering wheel and is resting his head in the other. The traffic stops and starts frequently, and is slow when it does move. The man looks entirely disinterested, as if he is used to this.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE – MID-MORNING

Man is sitting at is desk, typing. His face is blank, emotionless. Time moves normally for him, but everyone around him is blurred, as if time is moving more quickly for them. Several of the blurred shapes deposit files onto a towering stack on the side of his desk.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE COPY ROOM – AFTERNOON

The man stands in front of a photocopier, shoulders hunched and arms hanging straight down. The machine’s whirring and its green light moving back and forth are the only things that distinguish this image from a photograph. A woman comes and stands next to him. Without looking at him, she slides her hand into his and smiles knowingly. An identical smile spreads across his lips.

Summer sucks

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Clearly I've been a bit slack with updates lately. To be fair, the summer holidays have been filled with working to support my filthy habits for the next year (you know; eating, having a roof over my head, being warm, that kind of thing), so I've not had a lot of time spare to gather my creative thoughts. And there was me promising to fill and entire book with new stuff over the months off...

Not that I haven't been inundated with ideas. Working as a barman, people tend to get talking, and once they find out what I'm studying, and ultimately want to do for a 'living', they have a habit of pouring out their unrealised ideas to see what I think, and even if I will write it (a healthy cut of royalties going to them, naturally). Bank jobs, disillusioned police officers and Scotch warrior chiefs a little too similar to William Wallace have all cropped up!

I've also invested some time in new mediums, for both pleasure and research, and come across some nice pieces. In fact, even today I found this interesting little delve into escapism by Magic: the Gathering writer Doug Beyer. Obviously it's Magic-related, but the first bit in particular I really love; the whole opening-your-eyes-for-the-first-time thing, seeing the world as the closed-minded...thing...that it is sometimes.

The most prevalent new medium is graphic novels. Despite being of the nerdy persuasion, comic books was never something I was into, until I read Alan Moore's sublime V for Vendetta, after seeing the film of the same name. This lead onto Frank Miller's 300, again after watching the film, and the companion graphic novel for NBC's Heroes last Christmas. Since then, I've had something of a hankering, but haven't done anything about it until now. Recent weeks have seen a couple of trips to the library, finding such gems as Watchmen and Swamp Thing, both further examples of Alan Moore's work. Good stuff! I can recommend the former enough, especially as the film is out in March next year. I'm hoping for good things.

Banman for never?

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Obviously the angle for my last article was as unbiased on the subject matter as possible, but I really do think that Jack Thompson is a greedy, biased, unprofessional scrote. As such, I find this absolutely fitting, if not mildly hilarious also...

After all his million-dollar lawsuits and proclamations of evil and damnation upon the games industry, he's been given a metaphorical kick in the nuts by the judge presiding over his own misconduct trial - in recommending he be found guilty on 27 charges, including deception, knowingly presenting false information and harassment. I propose charge #28 - being an utter jeb-end...

Banman Forever

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In 1985, Devin Moore was born in the U.S. State of Alabama. Eighteen years later on June 7th, he shot and killed Arnold Strickland, James Crump and Leslie Mealer in a Fayette police station, before escaping in a police cruiser. It is claimed that he was addicted to the video game Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, and that it influenced his actions in committing these murders. But can a cluster of pixels on a screen really make one human being kill another?
Well, according to fifty-six year old Jack Thompson, ‘yes’. He was one of the defence attorneys for Devin Moore, and said that GTA: VC trained his client to kill those three police officers. After Moore was apprehended, it is reported he said “life is like a video game – everyone’s gotta die sometime.”
Let’s backtrack a second. ‘What is Grand Theft Auto?’ I hear you cry – well, unless you’ve been living under a cultural rock for the past seven years, you might have heard of it. The series began back in 1997, and as of this month has spawned nine separate titles. The more recent games take the form of a third-person free-roam action/adventure, in which you play a lowly criminal in a fictional big city. The aim of the game’s story is to rise through the ranks of organised crime by completing ‘missions’, such as armed robberies, assassination, and as the title suggests, stealing cars.
Now we’ve all heard that playing video games turns your mind to mush, but can it mess with someone that much that it can influence them to commit felonies? Well, according to a number of studies…maybe. Whilst they stop short of claiming actual behavioural causation, they do flag ‘violence simulators’ as potentially dangerous - to developing minds.
Jack Thompson is a prominent opponent of computer games such as Grand Theft Auto, and has represented the many victims, and families of victims, whom he says were affected because of the violence promoted in such games. Thompson is a conservative Christian man, whose legal career has concentrated on cleansing the media of ‘morally irresponsible’ media. Many lawsuits have been filed under his guidance, most notably several against Rockstar North and Take-Two Interactive, the maker and publisher respectively of the GTA series. He claims they are, by creating such games, training people “how to point and shoot a gun in a fashion making [them] an extraordinarily effective killer without teaching [them] any of the constraints or responsibilities needed to inhibit such a killing capacity." In their defence, Rockstar and Take-Two cite their right to freedom of speech in the First Amendment, and that these games are designed for and marketed to adults only.
You see, as the previously mentioned studies have shown, it is only to minors that such simulations are damaging. David Walsh, of the National Institute on Media & the Family, has conducted several studies into discovering whether there is a link between violent video games and physical aggression. It has been shown that a teenager’s brain is not fully developed – the prefrontal cortex, which controls forward thinking, consequence assessment and impulses is not fully matured until the early twenties at least. Based upon the work of Walsh and many others, the American Psychological Association’s official standing on the matter is that violent games can increase children’s aggression, but that parents moderate the negative effects. Douglas Gentile, PhD and Craig Anderson, PhD have summarised that this is the case, more so than with movies/television because:
1) The games are highly engaging and interactive
2) The games reward violent behaviour, and
3) Children repeat these behaviours.
So it is down to the parents? Well, not entirely, but there is a certain amount of responsibility to be accepted by them. As Rockstar and its ilk have stressed, their games are not for minors. In 1994, the interactive entertainment industry in North America voluntarily submitted to be regulated by the ESRB (Entertainment Software Ratings Board), which to this date has rated over eight and a half thousand titles on their content and minimum age suitability. The voluntary PEGI (Pan-European Game Information) system is in use in Europe, developed by the Interactive Software Federation of Europe. These, and many other organisations, are there to inform parents what is suitable, both in terms of the minimum age their child should be to play a game, and what potentially harmful content is included.
The bottom line is that parents cannot claim ignorance when little Billy hits his friend in the playground because he has been given Tekken for Christmas. As it happens, Grand Theft Auto is a satire. It is not meant to be taken seriously. Young minds are infinitely impressionable, and as a result they should not be allowed to engage with media like Grand Theft Auto if they do not have the capacity to understand its context. Would you knowingly expose your child to pornography? Would you let them watch bloody films like Pulp Fiction or Kill Bill? With regulatory bodies such as the ESRB in place, is there really anything more that a responsible developer can do without stunting their vision? People produce such things in a creative context, and are well within their rights to under the laws of free speech and freedom of expression.
Jack Thompson doesn’t think so. His pursuit of Rockstar is tireless, to the point where he has been removed from cases for ‘unethical conduct’ – allegedly harassing and threatening opposing lawyers – and is currently facing disbarment. Obviously he means well, and is only acting upon his own set of values, but it would appear that he has lost the ability to be objective about the issue, and with the damage claims he has been involved with filing - $246 million here, $600 million there – it seems like he’s also being a bit greedy, or otherwise trying to just bankrupt the companies out of business – not exactly the model of a moral victory. He seems to attract attention to himself too. By being so obtuse in pursuing his activism against seemingly the whole industry, the gargantuan online community of gamers, cartoonists and modders (people who alter or expand upon a game’s original programming to create visual deviations and altogether new content) have targeted Thompson with the very satire so prevalent in the GTA series. One team of modders has placed a likeness of Thompson into Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. The character has an alter ego called ‘Banman’, who takes on missions to destroy Rockstar game shipments whilst the ‘real’ Jack seeks to discredit pixellated versions of his real life targets. Whilst this seems unnecessarily inflammatory, many gamers believe he has brought it upon himself – and besides, all of this just appears to reinforce his firm belief in his cause.
Although I am not necessarily here to defend the violence in video games, it has been found that games such as Grand Theft Auto and Halo (a hugely popular first-person action game) are not entirely detrimental, and indeed can boost the brain’s processing power. People who play fast-paced action games like these, and many others, generally have the ability to process visual information quicker than those who do not. Experts from the University of Rochester, NY, believe that such games could be used to improve every day motor skills, rehabilitate stroke patients and even train soldiers for combat without having to waste expensive live ammunition. Professor Daphne Bavelier says “players can process visual information more quickly and can track thirty percent more objects than non-players.” A test was also set up in a mix of male and female ‘non-players’ to see if these processing skills could be built from scratch. Half played the first-person shooter ‘Medal of Honour’ for at least an hour every day over the span of two weeks, whilst the other half played Tetris. After this time, the first group performed much better on all the visual tests administered, while the Tetris players did not.
Naomi Alderman of The Guardian makes an interesting point about the bias against computer games: if you play a lot of video games, you’re addicted. If you read a lot, you’re just ‘academic’ and ‘engrossed’. She takes the defence of video games one step further, in fact. She believes that “if we deny children access to computer games, we deprive them of a rich and magical experience…the world of Grand Theft Auto does contain violence and misogyny; but then, so does The Godfather, or Goodfellas. So, for that matter, does The Iliad.”
Perhaps, then, Jack Thompson should take up a crusade against Homer? Doh…!

The Beautiful Beast

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This is the article I promised a couple of months ago, based on a survey I sent out over Facebook. To be honest, I haven't used a lot of what was returned to me - not because it wasn't useful, but I found it difficult to write the article I had originally intended. This is the alternative result, which will be submitted in a short book I have produced as one of my assessments this year.

If you comment on any of my work, please comment on this one - it's a subject very close to my heart, and researching the last part nearly brought me to tears on several occasions - so yeah, I'd appreciate your opinions.
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‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, "Let there be noise”; and there was noise – by God there was noise.’

Genesis 1:1-3

Okay, so I’ve taken some liberties with Bible scripture there, but it’s true: noise is all around us. Some noises are obviously more annoying than others: the neighbour’s yappy little mutt barking at six o’clock in the morning; alarm clocks; whistling; that beeping noise when your phone is sitting too close to your speakers; ringtones; snoring – and that’s just my personal list – but of any type of sound, music is the most frequent point of contention. Rockers don’t like r n’ b, rappers don’t like cheese, and well, no one really likes country, do they?
But what the majority of people unite against is the heavier genres – metal; hardcore; punk; screamo – they have little or no tolerance for it. Now I’m the first to admit that one of the essentials of these much maligned and dismissed genres is exactly this aforementioned component – ‘noise’. The guitars are loud and distorted. The bass is dirty and shakes the very floor on which you stand. The drums thunder away in your head long after the music is over, and the vocalists scream, roar and growl like a pack of wolves on acid.
Perhaps this attitude is understandable then. I for one used to have exactly the same attitude towards metal and its associates that many people I speak to now have. I didn’t get why the ‘singers’ couldn’t just sing – I couldn’t decipher what on earth they were saying! I wondered why the time signature would change suddenly halfway through a song. I felt that there was too much going on at once, and that there was no discernible ‘tune’ to enjoy.
All of these are fair comments. It takes a trained ear to appreciate the discordant tones of pg.99, the unparalleled ferocity of Converge or the pure unadulterated technicality of The Dillinger Escape Plan, and a unique mindset to actually enjoy it. But distinct problems come from the preconceptions around the people who listen to this so-called ‘dark’ music. It is a widely accepted, yet largely ridiculous stereotype that such people are constantly depressed, harbour unyielding anger towards everyone and everything, worship Satan, and most hurtful – that they are quite unintelligent.
It’s easy to see from where these stereotypes stem. Kids (and it generally is the young) who listen to metal often have low self-esteem, are quiet, and usually wear a lot of black. But are these two descriptions the same thing?
The short answer is no, absolutely not. Unfortunately, these days music is as much about what you look like as about the sound – but it shouldn’t be about image, and you certainly shouldn’t have to dress or not dress a certain way to fit in. It is hard enough being accepted when you are a teenager as it is – spots, awkward social graces, body odour and all – without being ostracised because your music.
A study published in March last year showed that, in a survey of members of the National Academy for Gifted and Talented Youth (a body of 120,000 students which represents the top 5% of academic achievement), heavy metal came out as the favoured genre among the highest percentage of members, far outstripping its more popular contemporaries like indie and r n’ b.
If you think about it, it makes perfect sense – gone are the days of spandex one-pieces (The Darkness notwithstanding) and songs about the four horsemen of the apocalypse – modern metal concerns itself with composition rather than conceitedness. Hardcore pioneers Botch were notoriously un-cool; their white gym socks and ankle biting jeans clearly on display as they threw themselves around the stage, not a four-four time signature in sight. The prolific metal band Tool change meter forty-seven times in the song ‘Schism’, and the number of syllables per line in the lyrics to ‘Lateralus’ correspond to an arrangement of the numbers of the now infamous Fibonacci sequence. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that, well; you need to be at least close to being exactly that to understand these highly intelligent concepts.
Politics, too, has long had a place in the punk scene. Swedish hardcore outfit Refused’s left-wing views are legendary amongst their still legion fans, and they often referred to their own political manifesto, the ‘Refused Party Program’. This was far from a gimmick – the band’s lyrics covered topics like homophobia, animal rights, the press and the futility of representative democracy. They also stressed the importance of ‘new noise’ – the notion that packaging revolutionary lyrics in mainstream music was futile, and would achieve nothing against the establishment.
Metal itself has always been the music of the underdog; the outcast – it is not secret that academic intelligence and social ostracism go hand in hand. How often in high school did you see the bespectacled boffin get spit-balls to the back of the head for putting their hand up in class? A culture on the fringe of society where you can hide behind long hair and alternative clothing is suddenly much more attractive than the mainstream circles of good-looking hip-hop superstars and pop royalty – especially if it actively embraces intelligence.
From an outsider’s point of view, however, it is easy to see from where the wariness stems. Many religions, Christianity in particular, are very outspoken against what it perceives to be ‘the devil’s music’. While the age-old images of rock horns and pentagrams are synonymous with metal in particular, these are largely just aesthetic symbolism. Although black metal, a heavy metal sub-genre which is noted for being prominently secular in using these devices to purposefully enflame the religious, it should be noted that there are in fact a huge number of Christians who play and listen to metal and its associated genres. The Chariot, Norma Jean, Underøath, Zao – just a few of the extreme Christian bands who use their music not to preach, but simply to glorify their God. Of course, many in the Church disapprove, but aren’t they just moving with the times?
The religious fuddy-duddies may blow hot air and scowl with contempt, at least they are harmless. There are much more dangerous threats to the shy metal-heads and hardcore kids. Rivalry has always been a problem in youth culture for as long as anyone has been keeping track, but certain groups take it that step too far. To be physically and verbally abused for the way you dress seems absolutely ridiculous to most people, but it happens. Last month two teenagers were given life sentences for the brutal murder of Sophie Lancaster, a twenty year-old woman from Bacup in Lancashire. She and her boyfriend Robert Maltby, who survived the attack, were walking home through a park late one night last summer when a group of five youths viciously assaulted the pair – first Mr. Maltby, and then Sophie as she cradled his unconscious body in her lap. When paramedics arrived, they initially had difficulty telling what sex she was, so badly injured was her face. She slipped into a coma from which her family was told she would never wake up, and after thirteen days her life support machine was switched off. Her boyfriend, although on the road to recovery, has been left with no recollection of the attack.
Even more recently, twenty-two year old John Owen was left with a broken eye socket, a broken nose, a broken wrist, smashed teeth and serious bruising after an attack by six young men in Rochdale, Kent, in March. "I vividly remember them laughing as they kicked me,” he said when interviewed later, “I could have been dead for all they knew, but they continued to kick me.”
The reason for these attacks? Were they random acts of violence, the likes of which seem to be on the increase? Well, yes, but it’s more than that. Sophie was a Goth – a sub-culture of fashion often closely associated with dark and heavy music. She had dreadlocks, wore a lot of black and had piercings. John, similarly, has described himself as a ‘mosher’, and listens to The Black Dahlia Murder, an American death metal band. These people were targeted because of the way they dress, and by association the music to which they listen. I’m not saying that they were in any way perfect, but surely they didn’t deserve what they got?
I’m not suggesting that everyone has this level of intolerance, or would go to such disgusting degrees in acting upon it, but next time you see someone in an unfamiliar band T-shirt, clutching their copy of Kerrang! and nodding their head I time to some obviously fast-paced beat on their mp3 player, don’t give them a wide berth and a dirty look – they honestly won’t bite…hard!

Gathering Storm

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Another poem that I'll be submitting for assessment this year. Not much to say about it, but I'm proud of the imagery and plethora of poetic devices I've used.
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The skies, they were ashen and sober,
A promise of the night to come;
When forever comes crashing.

Prius: the rain starts softly,
But the birds are already long gone from the trees.
It gathers force and ferocity,
Shredding newly-wrought leaf from twig,
And creating a shimmering, singing horizon
Against the gathering dusk.

Secundus: a rolling hum barrels through the clouds,
Breaking forth as the rumble from a wolf’s throat.
Wide-eyed cats scramble for cover
From noise which has no presence;
The herald of the imminent maelstrom
Calls to the heavens.

Trientis: and so it comes, as promised.
Incandescent serpentine after incandescent serpentine,
Infusing the night air with electrical fire.
Bolt of blue shatters bark and branch,
Leaving singed and sorry ash upon the ground;
A violent end by violent means.

Son of the Song

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This is one of the poems I will be submitting for my poetry assessment this year. It started off as an exercise in free-writing whilst listening to Slow Riot for New Zerø Kanada by Godspeed You! Black Emperor (I think this is actually my favourite record of all time. Buyitbuyitbuyit!), which turned into a half-decent poem. I think it is about music's power to save you, particularly from dark places in your life; depression and the like. This may just be the highly pretentious explanation I'll use in the obligatory critical commentary, however...
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The bleak hum of time blocks my ears
To the intense ticking of life.
I don’t know it, I can’t feel it,
But it is there.

I hang, head down, not even awake.
Is it bright beyond, or a beauteous barren black?
A fist around my wrist hangs me,
Gently rocking me to my sense.
I grab hold of a sound,
Distant yet corporeal,
With both hands.
Life flows into my muscles,
Giving me the strength to pull myself up.
I hear my heart thud rhythmically like a bass drum.
Something whispers incoherently.

I stand and lean into the wind,
And the world rolls free from my shoulders.
My head lifts, my neck straightens.
Life flickers in, no longer blocked out.

The Fall of Aftermath - part two

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Okay, so I promised you a story based on The Fall of Math by 65daysofstatic, and it is now finished!
It was my original intention to use the track titles as a basis for the narrative, as I believe there was a distinct story to be told. That said, the constraints of the project in terms of time and length meant that this wasn't strictly possible. I may re-write at some point, I may not; but for now, here it is!
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The Fall of Aftermath

“…And promise me you’ll be home before midnight this time Niko.”
Niko sighed. “Yes mum, I will.” There was a harsh crackling noise, and the phone went dead. ‘That’s weird,’ he thought: this was the inner city, where signal was usually pretty good. He had the feeling that his mother would think that he had hung up on her, so he tried to ring back, but couldn’t even get a dial tone, so he sighed again and pocketed the phone.
Niko stepped out of the doorway in which he had been standing and had only the time to take a deep breath of the fresh night air, before something large, moving at great speed, hit him. He dropped to the ground, cursing loudly – the tarmac was damp and unforgiving, and knocked the wind out of his chest. He picked himself up, dusted himself off and turned to face his assailant, who had also lost their balance. The man, for he saw it was a man now, was not particularly well built, but even from his position down on the pavement, Niko could tell that he was exceptionally tall. He watched as the man stood up and patted down his jacket.
“Are you alright friend?” Niko asked, “I’m sorry, I didn’t look where I was going.”
“Do not worry about it.” replied the stranger distractedly, his gaze darting around the dimly lit tarmac at their feet.
“Have you lost something?”
The man fixed him with a probing look from his dark eyes, the only feature clearly visible beneath the peak of his cap.
“It is nothing. Please, go about your business.”
“Please, I insist I help you look for it.”
Niko knelt down and started peering around his feet for whatever the stranger might have dropped. He started to run his palms parallel to the ground in an attempt to feel for it, but the man’s hand gripped his shoulder.
“It is nothing,” he repeated, “I will find it myself.”
Niko stood up and shrugged. He was about to turn and walk away when his foot connected with something. He stooped to see what it was, and found a small, black box. Picking it up, he found that it was heavy for its size, and cold to the touch. The only discernible features were two buttons – one red, one green – and an on/off switch. There was something written on it too, but it was obscured by mud.
Without warning, the stranger’s boot smashed into Niko’s face, and he sprawled into the gutter once more. The box forgotten, he clutched both hands to his nose, fighting against the blackness that threatened to overwhelm his vision – but it was no good, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

The man watched the boy crumple to the floor, nose most likely broken. He was not a malicious character by nature – current activity not withstanding – but he could not help the wry smile that crept across his face as the shape in the gutter fell still: nosy little bastard.
After pausing for a moment to admire his handiwork, the man leant down and retrieved the detonator from where it had fallen for the second time that night, and checked it over. Satisfied that the device was not broken, he gave it a quick wipe with his coat, pocketed it, and gave Niko one last glance before sprinting off into the gathering darkness.

Corporal Sipka’s boots crunched on the building dust that covered the length of this street. At present, his unit was making its way down the city’s main shopping boulevard. It was like there was a depressing and poorly-fitted grey carpet everywhere, laid to hide the sorrowful little bundles which littered doorways and the pavement outside them: men, women; young children even – people that on a day like today should have been out enjoying the sun and the atmosphere of market day. Ever since the explosion, reports had been trickling in about the devastation, but with the simultaneous sabotage of numerous communications control centres nation wide, there had been nothing concrete coming in, and certainly nothing that could have prepared him for this. Some of the structures furthest from the blast epicentre still stood, but he had heard from those that had been there that the closer you got to it, the less in tact they became – a ground-floor wall here, a splintered door frame there, but nothing that could really identify the buildings to their former occupants.
“Sipka, eyes front!” barked Sergeant Taborski.
Sipka shifted his gaze just in time to see the bundle at his feet as he stumbled into it, kicking it and causing it to roll. As the body settled, he looked upon the face of a woman – or rather what had been the face of a woman. The sheer heat of the blast had left her features blackened and shrivelled, singed almost all of the hair from her head, and melted her very clothes to her skin. The man behind Sipka vomited onto his boots. Sipka just looked, unable to avert his gaze from sheer horror.
“Corporal Sipka!” came the authoritative voice behind him again, “move out!”
Swallowing the sickly feeling in his own throat, he stepped gingerly over the corpse and continued on. His unit was part of a larger force tasked with the dual objectives of scoping out the damage that the device had caused – assessing the safety so that civilian recovery crews could move in – and searching for anyone who had survived the explosion.
Before long, they came to an as yet unsearched residential neighbourhood.
“Fan out and sweep the buildings as fast as you can; we’ve got a schedule to keep. Sipka, you’re with me.”
The Sergeant led the way up to the first house – if you could still call it that. Unlike the others, this one looked as though it had fallen into disuse even before the blast. Weeds had forced their way to freedom through the cracks in the paving stones that led up to the front door, which itself hung off the hinges. The large front downstairs window – which was the only one that remained – was boarded up, and across it were scrawled the words ‘The hour of His judgement is come’ in black spray-paint. As they crossed the threshold, Sergeant Taborski held up his fist, signalling the Corporal to stop.
“Did you hear that?”
Before Sipka could reply, the Sergeant called out.
“Hello? This is Sergeant Taborski of 102nd Battalion. We’re here to help. Is there anybody there?”
Silence. He tried again. Nothing. The Sergeant was about to turn and leave when there was the distinct sound of something falling over, and a high-pitched cackle.
“Back room – go!”
They raced down the hallway, and in his hurry Sipka practically kicked down the door to the back room – not that it put up much resistance. As he burst in, he almost missed the dirty and dishevelled heap in the middle of the room, mistaking it for a bunch of rags; but when the pile of rags starting giggling, he realised it was a person.
“Sergeant, we’ve got one here!”
Sipka bent down to help the man up. In his former life, he would have been tall in stature, but now he was bent almost double with age. His hair was as matted beyond belief, and the clothes in which he now stood were faded and filthy. As Sipka lifted him up, he noticed that the man’s hand was burned, much like the woman’s face he had seen earlier.
The Sergeant appeared at the old man’s other shoulder. “Jesus, this guy reeks,” he said, lending a hand. “Are you alright sir?”
“Fear God and give him glory, because the hour of his judgement has come!” cried the man, grinning.
“Excuse me?” stuttered the Sergeant.
“Fallen! Fallen is Babylon the great!” he replied, still smiling.
“I don’t think he’s quite…all there, Sarge,” offered Sipka.
“You don’t say. Right, get him out of here. I’ll radio in a chopper.”
Sipka, with the man’s arm around his shoulder, made to move for the door, but his charge started to struggle. He managed to push away, and before either Sipka or Sergeant Taborski could react, he pulled a handgun out of one of the pockets in his grubby brown overcoat.
With lightning fast reflexes, Sipka brought his rifle to bear and yelled “Sir, drop the gun!”
But the man’s grin seemed to widen. His gaze shifted from Sipka, to the Sergeant, and back again. He began to talk again, this time calmly and slowly.
“If anyone worships the beast and his image, and receives his mark on the forehead or on the hand,” he said, gesturing to both slowly with the gun, “he will drink of the wine of God's fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of his wrath.”
He stopped, and fixed Sipka with his gaze. Sipka felt as if he was reading his very soul like a book. He spoke again.
“The explosion that destroyed our city, razed our homes, and turned our fields into wastelands is nothing compared to what is now happening to those that survived.” He gestured to his blackened right hand. “I have been marked. I am forsaken. There is nought left for me.”
And with that, he raised to gun to his temple and fired a single shot before slumping to the floor.

Sipka gazed out of the back of the truck as it passed through the refugee camp set up for the meagre amount of survivors that had been found so far, a despondent look on his face.
“Tomorrow’s another day Sipka,” said the Sergeant, putting his hand on the Corporal’s soldier, “plenty more souls to save.”

Watch This Space!

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Don't worry kids; I haven't forgotten about you. I will be posting new content very soon...I just need to finish it first! Until then, here's a bunny.


A bunny with a pancake on its head...

The Thought-Train

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Another exercise written in a seminar. This is based on "The Thought-Fox" by Ted Hughes. I actually wrote an essay on this last semester, so when it was brought up in class I was quite pleased. Basically, we had to use something - anything - as a metaphor for a thought or idea, in much the same way that Hughes uses the Fox.
This was my attempt.
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Under the glare of strip-light
Surrounded by the waking dead
Waiting for the wind to carry us along
The rails and sleepers, to whatever end.

A steadily gathering breeze lifts and empty wrapper,
And then it is there, all screeching
And hissing, letting us in, this train.
Its thunder hurtles me on

I could not hold myself if I wanted to;
My limbs flare with action,
My fingers flash,
And the page appears.

The Fall of Aftermath - part one

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A few months back, I was given the incredible album "The Fall of Math" by 65daysofstatic, an instrumental/post-rock band from Sheffield. I found the story behind both the album and the name of the band intriguing. It is not known from where the latter originates, but some believe it relates to the theory that sixty-five days of disabling the communication systems of a nation while spreading propaganda is enough to overthrow a country (i.e. sixty-five days of static).
Anyway, I recently started listening to the album again, and realised that it ties in with the band's name. Although mostly instrumental, the first track contains the following spoken piece:
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"The explosion that destroyed our city, razed our homes, and transformed our fields into wasteland was nothing compared to what is now happening to those who survived."
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This got me thinking - is there a story to be told here? Well, yes, I believe so. The sixty-five days of static theory stems from the Central Intelligence Agency's 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état, which aimed to overthrow the Communist leader Jacob Arnez Guzmán. I decided to take this idea as a basis and write a story around it, but also following the album's somewhat mysterious track titles:

• Another Code Against the Gone
• Install a Beak in the Heart of the Clock That Clucks Time in Arabic
• Retreat! Retreat!
• Default This
• I Swallowed Hard, Like I Understood
• The Fall of Math
• This Cat is a Landmine
• The Last Home Recording
• Hole
• Fix the Sky a Little
• Aren't We All Running?

So far, this is only a concept. Once I have written the story however, I will post it in part two.

Survival

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This one seems a bit angsty I know, but it's not as despairing as it sounds...
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The happiness seems to seep from my eyes,
Leaving a pool of dreams at my feet,
The swirling echoes of hopes look oily and disheveled on the concrete,
Before running sadly away into the gutter

It's a terrible feeling when your world comes crashing down,
Funny, in reality it makes no sound,
Like the eye of a hurricane,
Or the ferocious excellence at the moment of death

Colour becomes so brilliant, so vibrant,
The little details become your abstract focus,
Thought becomes absolutely irrelevant,
All you can do is feel it, completely, utterly

Salvation seems so distant,
Nothing is eternal, yet how could such power ever be destroyed?
Yet at such a time, the smallest of glimmers, the weakest of flames
Could ignite into a hellbent fire of hope

All that remains to be seen
Is not can you, but will you survive...

The Train of Nowhere

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I wrote this quickly for a poetry seminar. It uses lots of big words, which is why I like it ^^
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Stood at the platform of a station, in the middle of nowhere,
I look down at the tracks, and they are frozen.
The faint musk of fetid frondesence hangs in the air,
Like the funeral shroud over a cold casket.
The night air is still and crisp,
And not a sound can be heard.

Without warning, a sharp blast pierces the ennui,
And a fierceness of anti-shadow shakes my vision.
The brutish presence of an express forces itself into the station
With an incontrovertible strength, like that of a storm.
The night air is still crisp,
But is now filled with hope.

With the hiss of a cobra, the doors glide open,
And I cannot resist the charm of the carriage beyond.
The promised warmth of the cubicle envelops me,
Like the soothing troth of an open fire.
The air is now soft,
And lulls me into security.

As if driven by a jet engine, the train sets off at a great pace,
And I can’t help but feel swept up, and a little shaken.
The smooth ride feels as though it is too relaxed,
Like the beguiling eye of a hurricane.
The air is still soft,
But laced with fragility.

Every stop along the way brings new and exciting destinations,
But they pass by so fast I scarcely have time to enjoy them.
The bumps in the track, too, jar me,
Like a gentle jolt in my heart.
The air is growing cold once more,
Despite the perceived heat of my setting.

And once again without warning, the train lurches to a stop.
There are no more stations,
No more destinations,
I am back at that icy, solitary station of my journey’s inception.