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.