Segue

A Matter of Tide

2010-10-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

I recently entered the Observer Graphic Short Story Prize. It's a pretty prestigious competition, and lots of people enter, but I thought it was worth a shot. Especially with a £1000 prize...

It was illustrated by the ever lovely Emma Louise Barltrop, whose other work can be found on her Tumblr here.

Without any further ado, I present to you A Matter of Tide. Click for full-size.

Momento Mori

2010-02-20T08:19:00.000-08:00

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Something I wrote for an assignment this week. It was meant to be horror, and maybe it still is, but it seems to me to be more like fantasy.

But I digress. Enjoy!
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David hated Halloween. Not even on the subway could he escape it: the tacky rubber bats; the garish plastic jack-o-lanterns. Kids grinning in anticipation of a weekend of sugar highs and parents dreading sleepless nights.
It wasn't just the kids, either. Sitting across from him was a man already garbed in costume. This one was genuinely creepy though, at least. The skeleton-print onesie was standard, and he wore a roughed-up black leather jacket, but the carved-turnip-effect mask was startlingly realistic. It looked old, too, like a rough hemp sack pulled tight over a bowling ball. The mouth was moulded open in a sinister leering expression, and the eyes were blank sockets, and betrayed no trace of hidden slits through which the wearer might see.
Come to think of it, the man's posture and general countenance were at odds with his surroundings. He seemed to be genuinely in the spirit of the macabre. Whereas most of their fellow commuters were slouching in their seats or hanging off the overhead grips, this ghoulish individual was sitting up straight, hands clasped in front of him, and was staring around the carriage with impish glee. He would attempt to make eye contact with those around him, but his gaze was universally avoided. The old Italian gentleman next to him coughed and returned to his paper. A young fashionista in winter furs sneered and turned up her nose. A mother of two frowned and shooed her brood behind their pram, lest his grim countenance fuel their dreams that night.
So caught up had he been in observing the young reveller that David forgot to look away himself when his gawp was returned. Turnip-head, clearly delighted, smiled a broad smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. His mouth? No, that couldn't be right. He looked down and pulled an old brass timepiece, which was on a chain attached to a button hole on his jacket, out of his pocket and checked it, before looking back at David and nodding, still grinning that rubbery grin.
“This is Grand Central Terminal” chimed the recorded announcement, snapping David out of his stupor. The train sprang to life as its occupants scurried towards the doors. He shook his head and grabbed his briefcase before standing up to join them. The man in costume was nowhere to be seen.
Grand Central was packed, as usual. David elbowed his way to the barriers and presented his ticket to the slot. The machine took the ticket, pondered it for a few seconds, then spat it back out. He tried again. No joy. The crowd behind him was jostling with impatience. Flustered, David tried one more time. At the third round of rejection beeps, he started to become angry. He banged on the metal casing and was rewarded with a shockwave up his arm and a tight feeling that shot across his chest.
Before David could catch his breath, the man behind him reached around and slotted his own ticket into the machine with infinitely greater success, before giving David a hefty shove between the shoulder blades which carried both of them through. It was a rough measure, but it did the trick.
The walk up the main staircase to the street was harder than normal. He grabbed onto the hand railing for support, but could barely feel it in his hand. That guy must have hit a nerve or something, and David laughed at how weak he felt all of a sudden. Looking up to the top of the stairway he was surprised to see Turnip-head looking right at him.
He nodded again. The next moment David was tumbling backwards, and then it all went black.

When he came to it was getting dark, and moreover, it was cold. Very cold. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and came to the realisation that he had been left exactly where he had fallen. Brilliant.
"This is probably the most boring part of my job. The waiting.”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, David sat up too quickly, and winced. The back of his skull hurt. He raised his hand to touch it.
“I wouldn't if I were you.”
The way David had landed meant he was now facing into the deserted station. The voice came from behind him. Turning, he was greeted with a familiar figure. Even in the darkness he could make out the skeleton print of Turnip-head's onesie, glowing faintly.
“Take it easy for a moment. You're probably still in shock.” he said.
“Look, thanks for waiting around. Looks like you're the onl'y one who did.”
He laughed. “Didn't have a lot of choice really!”
David stood up and dusted himself off. His clothes seemed to be in fairly good shape, despite the fall, but his head felt light and his limbs were numb.
“I suppose I should go to the hospital.”
Turnip-head laughed again. “You people crack me up sometimes. Come on, we should be going.” He turned and set off up the stairs.
David only caught up to him outside the building. He was waiting in the deep shadow cast by the statue of Hermes that watched over East 42nd Street.
“I'm not quite sure what...going where?”
By way of answer Turnip-head nodded towards the Park Avenue Bridge. “Watch out for the hounds. They bite,” he added.
There was a howl from above them. A pack of feral dogs, some pacing hungrily, some hanging their forepaws over the edge, hovered on the overpass. They looked ragged and emaciated; David didn't doubt that they would.
“They like to try it on with transients whilst they're kind of fresh,” he said, grinning.
Turnip-head slung his arm around David's shoulder and started walking him in the direction he had indicated. As they passed out of the building's shadow and into the direct moonlight, the mysterious stranger's ghoulish features came into stark focus. Up-close he could see all of the minute details; the rough texture, the cracks in the skin, all of the wiry little hairs. David was confused. This looked like no mask he had ever come across before.
Seeing his surprise, Turnip-head gestured back to the grand clock above the station entrance. “Ultima Forsan my friend. Every hour wounds, the last kills.”
“Look, I really should be going...my wife...”
“You don't have a wife David.”
This man was becoming more unsettling by the second. The way his mouth moved like the mask was alive. He shook free of the stranger's bony limb.
“I'm not going anywhere with you 'til you tell me your name!”
Turnip head sighed, slackened his shoulders, then quick as a flash grabbed David violently by the throat. Caught off-guard, he began gasping for air. He tried to wrench free, but his assailant's grip was like a vice. He started to feel faint, his vision turning hazy from lack of oxygen.
“Calm down David.”
But he couldn't. In struggling to focus he missed the other hand arcing across to bring a stinging slap to his cheek.
“Calm down!”
Stunned, David stopped struggling. His vision snapped back to normal almost instantaneously and he blinked. He was fine. Turnip-head let go.
“Stop being stubborn. I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You've nowhere else to go.”
They were interrupted by a growl from behind him. He looked down to see one of the hounds half way through tearing a lump of flesh from his calf, trouser fabric and all. With the same speed with which he had attacked David, Turnip-head aimed a kick at the mutt. It connected with a disgusting mushy sound, causing the dog to yelp mawkishly and back off to where the rest of its pack was lurking.
“What did I tell you about watching the dogs?”
David could only stare at the gaping wound in his leg and wonder why his brain wasn't registering what should have been agony.
“Oh, it's not that bad. I've seen worse. And you haven't seen the back of your head.”
Reflexively, David reached up to touch it, but his fingers still refused to register any feeling. His hands came away covered in a disgusting crimson mush that caused him to retch.
“I did warn you not to do that.”
“Look, I really need to go to a hospital!” he pleaded.
“No, David, you don't. You're a little beyond their sphere of expertise right now.”
“Who are you? How do you know my name for that matter?”
“Would it help if I waved my scythe and pointed a skeletal finger at you? You're dead, David. I thought you would have realised that by now. Loss of feeling? Gaping skull fracture? Mysterious lack of need for oxygen? I'm just here to make sure you don't get lost.”
David felt weak.
“H-how?”
“It was a close call. It started off as a heart-attack, but you rather stylishly pipped it to the post with a good old-fashioned brain hemorrhage. It was quite spectacular really.”
“Why didn't anyone move my body?”
“Oh, they did. You're probably in one of those cold storage lockers by now. This,” he gestured to David's body “is is a mental manifestation of your physical memory. Still damn tasty to the doggies though. Then again, they're not fussy. Come on, it's not so bad.”
“You can talk! You're not dead – are you?”
“Well I never died, if that's what you mean. I've never had a life though. Never tasted a fresh strawberry; run through a field of corn; made love. You think you've had it so bad?”
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.”
Turnip-head stared at him blankly for a moment, then cracked his customary grin. “Naaah, I'm just pulling your leg. This is the best job in the world, especially on Halloween. I get to shit you fleshies up all day and you don't have a clue who I am.” He pulled a face. “Boo! Come on sour chops, let's get you where you need to go.”

The End of the Beginning

2010-02-13T07:49:00.000-08:00

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Even when I first started writing Hell's Own, nigh on sixteen months ago now, I already knew that I'd keep going with it, to whatever end, even if I kept writing without hope of anyone ever drawing it.

It's been a learning experience and a half. I've never written anything more than 3000 words, and even then, that was only once. Writing at length is hard, but so much more rewarding. I, and many others around me, can't wait for me to finish it, but as it is, chapter two is rolling steadily along.

In the meantime, Corban, my illustrator, has been doing his level best to interpret my crazy ramblings and turn them into awesome artwork. It's been hard sometimes to picture the final result from the roughs he's given me, but he's been patient, and we've now moved into the realms of finalising the artwork for chapter one.

By way of a demonstration, he's started with page seven. I got it this morning, and I had to share it with you. It's stunning.
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How beautiful is that? It was nowhere near my favourite page from the roughs, so I'm incredibly excited for what's coming, in particular pages eight, sixteen to eighteen, and twenty-four through twenty-six.

I'm sure I'll post some more in the not-too-distant future. For now, enjoy.

Review: We Are The Ocean - Cutting Our Teeth

2010-02-04T15:01:00.000-08:00

Coming to a new band is, for me, like trying a completely new dish. If I really want to give it a fair go, each mouthful has to be savoured and contemplated carefully. Otherwise it's like disregarding it simply because it contains something horrible like, say, liver. When it comes to a band like We Are The Ocean, merely glancing at the titles of the songs on Cutting Our Teeth, their debut album, might cause me to be hasty in categorising them as my musical equivalent of liver.
Let's get one thing straight though. We Are The Ocean have a market, and they know how to deliver what that market craves. This Essex five piece are all clean-cut, well dressed and good looking. Teenage girls must love 'em, and I admire them for that – I know I am probably none of those things.
It's easy to see why album opener 'Look Alive' is the first single. It's catchy; the main hook being the easy-to-remember choral lyrics, handled by rhythm guitarist Liam Cromby, and is an anthem for disaffected teenagers if ever I heard one. But it's main vocalist Dan Brown, in my opinion the stronger of the two, who yelps out his lines with enthusiastic vigour and really holds my attention. My only real criticism is his range – most of his vocals are monotonal, which detracts somewhat from the heavier sections of We Are The Ocean's material, which is a shame, because I feel that's where they have missed their calling. The opening to '(I'll Grab You by the) Neck of the Woods' is perfect post-hardcore, but unfortunately these moments are few and far between.
For me though, their biggest failing is in the lyrics themselves. Maybe I'm just a little far beyond the angst of my teenage years but most, if not all of the ten tracks on offer here are woefully self-indulgent and offer little hope. Clichés run rife like kids in a candy shop (and even force all originality from my similies), and the numerous rhymes they've come up with are just weak, for lack of a better word. In a genre awash with this type of anthemic emo punk, I just don't think they're anything special.

Heavy Blog is Bloggy

2010-01-28T15:38:00.000-08:00

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Just a quick bit of news. I'm now writing for the guys over at Heavy Blog is Heavy. A few of my current articles will be appearing over the coming week or so, but check back for new content in the future, if blast-beats and throaty growls are your thing.

Big Brotheridge Is Watching You

2010-01-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

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I recently received the last eight pages of roughs for Hell's Own from my illustrator, Corban. The script isn't totally finalised yet, but this batch got me pretty excited to say the least, so I thought I'd give you a teaser.

This is by far my favourite page art-wise. I can't wait for the final product!

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Sit down, stand up

2010-01-10T13:01:00.000-08:00

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Happy belated holidays to you all! To those who go in for it, I hope your Christmas was good. I received a couple of fantastic graphic novels from various family members, including the brilliant 'Batman: Hush' by favourite of mine Jeph Loeb (The Long Halloween), and a very promising start to Neil Gaiman's Sandman, about which I have heard excellent things.
Of course, 'tis the season of resolutions and promises to one's self. Now as a rule, I don't usually make them, but then again I never have been one to do something just for the sake of it. This year, however, I actually have something worth sticking to.
I've been toying around with the idea of writing stand-up comedy ever since the end of my first year at university. I was attending one of the talks at Middlesex's annual literary festival, being given by one of our alumni, the very funny Russell Kane. If memory serves, he was even on my course. He was relating the story of how he got into doing stand-up, which was nothing more than a dare from a friend. He just got up there and did it.
As I thought about this in the days afterwards, I started to get lofty ideas; why couldn't I do that?

Of course, the stage is about as far from my natural home as you can get. Even now, as someone who's fairly confident in their own skin, I get a lump in my throat whenever I get up to speak in front of my classmates - even if the prospect doesn't scare me in the slightest beforehand.

But you know what? Screw it. I'm doing it. One of my housemates (an actress my trade) is beginning a comedy module this semester, and this is the best chance I'm ever going to get at being involved in something like this. I think I'll regret it if I don't at least give it a go, so it has become my official New Year's resolution.

I've been making notes for a few weeks, but as of a few days ago I've actually started writing up a script. Watch this space: I'll let you know when I have more details.

Bar of the Dead

2009-12-13T08:51:00.000-08:00

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This is the second assignment for my genre class. We had to describe a location and how we might use it as a setting within a genre of our choice.
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A bar in a small, midwest American town. It isn't much to look at; faded wooden sign hanging above the door. The car park barely registers as that – just a patch of dirt and dust. The outer walls are a white-wash affair, mismatched with a border of faded pastel red that serves to emulate the hicksville feel of the single-room affair inside. Nothing that would be missed should a few stray shotgun shells blow off the plaster, or if a head should explode bloodily too close to it.
Going through the main door, you come to a shabby set of faux saloon doors that serve no other purpose than letting you know that the owner once had big ideas for this place, but gave them up pretty quickly when they came to the realisation that no-one would be impressed by a Wild West-themed bar in the actual Wild West. They would certainly be no defence against the living dead; a minor hinderance at best. Good thing the outer door, one of only two entrances, is heavy and set with steel hinges and thick double bolts.
The windows, too, are fairly well fortified. After several break-ins, the owner had wire mesh bars installed over the glass: great for preventing brick damage, but fantastic for the mindless undead to claw themselves to shreds on.
As it goes, your average bar is probably the best place to head for in the event of a zombie apocalypse, short of your local gun shop, and this one is no exception. The owner wisely keeps a sawn-off shotgun under the bar for sticky situations such as scaring drunks. Ammunition might be a factor for anyone caught out here, but the array of weaponry doesn't end there. The array of spirits lining the back counter can be combined with old barcloths to make for an effective incendiary, provided you have a source of flame – but what self-respecting group of human refugees doesn't contain a seasoned smoker or two?
For your more sociopathic survivor, a broken bar stool can easily go the distance, mulching brain matter if applied with enough force, with backups to spare should the weapon break across the skull of the local school teacher or the county sheriff.
Should all defences fail, and retreat is the only option, the designated emergency exit is the cellar. Buried underground and by rule of thumb inaccessible to zombies, it should be easy to throw off pursuit, provided the owner themselves aren't waiting in the shadows, drooling over the kegs and staring out the mortar in the walls. Still, any quick-witted group that still retains some kind of weapon should be able to deal with this minor hinderance with minimal collateral damage. From here, it is a mere case of unlocking the cellar's tightly locked wooden delivery hatch (or blowing it open) and escaping to whatever end.

Review: AZWAI - Aszerosweareinfinite

2009-11-17T15:32:00.000-08:00

It's a good feeling when something you've been working on for a long time comes to fruition. After months of hard slog for very little gain, you might finally feel as if it has all been worth it, and you can allow yourself a pat on the back and maybe a few drinks down the pub. For Malvern-based hardcore quartet AsZerosWeAreInfinite, or AZWAI as they are more colloquially known, that drink should be at least three fingers, and the hand should belong to a big sweaty gorilla.
You see, their self-titled EP was recorded over a year ago, but only now do you, the lucky public, get to sample the fruits of their labour.
The opener, 'God, By Any Other Name', kicks in with the lyrics “between my crooked teeth and self-prophesied lies, you will discover salvation for your ache”. This could be as much a comment from anybody who has found their way to the front of the stage during one of AZWAI's shows as it is about the actual subject, one Wayne Bent. Bent, also known as Michael Travesser, is the charismatic leader of the Lord Our Righteousness Church in New Mexico, a religious community who were featured in the Channel 4 Documentary 'The End of the World Cult'.
It's a belter of an opening track, driving home with the force of something big and forceful and un-clichéd as possible. You might be surprised that there is only one guitar at work here, as the entire band works hard to create a ferocious, full-bodied sound. Vocalist and lyricist Adam Murkin is great at taking a perspective and writing intelligently from it, no matter how bizarre or convoluted the perspective of that person might be. The clout with which he delivers his lines is unrelenting across the board, too, and conveys in part his mighty stage presence (both in front of and mid-crowd).
Next up is 'Snakeskin in the Shape of a Wedding Band', which claims the crown for the longest track on the EP – marginally. And that's one of the great things about AZWAI's refined style. The tracks are long enough to have enough substance to hold your attention (I'm looking at you, Ampere), but aren't so long that the onslaught becomes wearing. I know that this will be a firm crowd favourite – enough breakdowns and catchy lines for them to really get into.
Closer 'Poor Syntax' stands out as my favourite. I am still in awe as to how drummer Dan Taylor can manage as many stick-clacks in the space of a single second as he does to bring in this track, but this is by no means the highlight of the track. The influence of The Dillinger Escape Plan is clear from the outset, but it's no mere consummate rip-off: the guys know how to build on their influences, rather than rehashing existing songs.
The EP may only clock in at seven minutes and thirty-one seconds, but it's more than enough. It is an unrelenting juggernaut, devoid of unnecessary trimmings or lyrical waffle. Hear me; salvation is coming - and its name is AZWAI.

Band website: www.myspace.com/aszerosweareinfinite

Review: Stella Dawes - Contrasts

2009-11-15T11:37:00.000-08:00

Seriously, why have Stella Dawes not been signed yet? A clutch of glowing reviews like theirs, and you might have expected someone major to have taken notice by now.
I first received my copy of 'Contrasts', their debut full-length in the summer of 2008. Boy was I excited. I'd been keenly following this band for a while, ever since vocalist Mike Shakespeare, ferreting his way around Myspace one day, politely messaged a bunch of like-minded people in my area asking us to check out his band. Words such as 'Mare', 'Eden' and 'Maine' were bandied around, and I've been in love ever since.
I had known the album had been in production for a while. Mike and guitarist James Barter were taking on the entire process themselves, fitting it around day jobs, so a delay was to be expected. But when it came, I was stunned. Two tracks, 'Dichotomy' and 'Everything Happens to Eeyore' had been favourites for a while, and the recently previewed 'Happy Ever Afternoon' and 'The Unspeakable' had satiated my desire for new material, but even these didn't prepare me for the majesty of the beast.
You see, with a lot of albums, and ones of this genre in particular, the songs – the lyrics and the heartfelt meaning behind them – can come out quite same-y. Not entirely, obviously, but I quite often find myself having to check the name of the track against the listing to get a bearing of where I am in the record. This is never the case with Stella Dawes. Every song has a unique hallmark, not least in thanks to Bart's unique guitar sound – something akin to the love-child of a chainsaw and a cheese grater. You know it's 'Gut' because of the throaty staccato opening. You can differentiate between the two 'Investment Intercourse' tracks (Deposit and Return respectively) because the former kicks you squarely in the groin at 1:31. You know you're listening to what is arguably the album's centrepiece 'When the Tiger Lost His Voice' because, well, who else sings about tigers except Survivor? No riff or chord progression is repeated between songs, and they could have, because they're all good.
For me though, it's the very lyrics I mentioned earlier that make this record for me. Furious wrath and hardcore go hand-in-hand, and that's all well and good, but I like my lyrical spice to take a more intelligent twist than your average 'argh, I'm so misunderstood!'. Mike knows what he doesn't like about the world, but he expresses it intelligently and, above all, poetically. Lines like 'we polish shit, but like it or not, nobody here is perfection' ring true, as well as being delivered with consistent gusto and conviction.
Just a little note on the packaging. If ever there was a reason to buy a physical copy, this is it. The brown cardboard case is beautifully DIY (in keeping with the ethos of the whole package), and charming to boot. The insert, chock full of handwritten lyrics, continues the theme, and a nice little bonus was the typed insert thanking me for buying the CD. It's these little touches that might draw the ever-increasing number of pirates away from torrent sites and towards their wallets, were the majority of albums not merely templated jewel-case jobs. Anything to help in the war.
I know the band is currently not gigging due to the departure of founding bassist and drummer, Steve Butcher and Simon Kendrick, but I wish them the best of luck finding suitable replacements to fill the void. Based on a heavy amount of speculation (and the appearance of a couple of demos on their Myspace page recently), I suspect that the rest of the band will use this time to gather their creative thoughts, and I hope they will hit us with a stunning sophomore release sometime soon.

Band website: www.myspace.com/stelladawes

The Golden Valley

2009-11-13T08:15:00.000-08:00

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A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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The Golden Valley

Horror

It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.

Science Fiction

The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.

Tumblr

2009-11-11T10:09:00.001-08:00

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I am now also posting over at Tumblr, for those who frequent it more often than here...

Untitled - 'Staticat'

2009-10-07T08:29:00.000-07:00

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And the third piece. This, by process of elimination, relates to the broach on the left. I was told that this bone comes from a small-ish mammal, perhaps a cat, and so I took that and ran with it.

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Imagine your bedroom, dear reader. Go on; picture it in your head. A big warm bed with a comfy duvet. Your duvet. A wardrobe full of your clothes, hand picked to express your personality and make you feel good about yourself. Personal effects and trinkets from your travels both far and near sit on shelves and windowsills as neat little reminders of happy times.

Your bedroom is a place of sanctuary, of safety. Your own space in which you can recede when you have a crappy day and will at least help make you feel better. Nothing should encroach on this hallowed ground.

Which is why I have such issue with the cat that’s fucking up my personal space. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but this one is peculiar. It upsets me. In the darkest watches of the night. In my own bedroom. I don’t feel good in my room right now.

Physically, it is nothing out of the ordinary. A tail. Two eyes. Two ears. Four legs. Black, as cats in these sorts of situations often are.

What keeps me wide eyed from my pillow and compels me to write as I watch it and it watches me is…everything else.

The reason I can see this cat – this black cat – in the pitch darkness of my room is the eerie, almost lamp-like light that trails it. When the cat moves, the light follows it in the manner of a comet’s tail. When the cat stops pacing, the glow settles around it like a soft, source-less backlight.

Cats are well known for the practiced disinterest with which they observe you. I mentioned that this one was in no way physically abnormal; well, that is save for its eyes. They are ruby red and when they look at me and I look back, they seem to burn me. And when it opens its mouth to let forth a cute kitty sound, all I hear is the most terrible static. Fierce white noise that makes my ears hum and my jaw ache.

I can’t leave. It sits in the middle of the carpet between my bed and the door. I daren’t try to cross its path. So I wait.

Hours pass as we watch each other. The glow of the rising sun has hit the top of my blinds now. I reach for the cord; I long to let it in. As I open them, the glow surrounding the cat appears to reach for the warm new presence in the room.

The sun rises further and touches the cat. The cat is hard to see now. Its fur begins to almost melt away and flow into the sunlight through the open window. As the last of it slips away, my legs find themselves again and I move towards the window.

Looking out at my back garden, I see the cat again, flowing back into view as water into a mould. It now sits under a shady tree. Something feels different though. When it looks at me now, I feel only sadness and pity. After all I have felt these last hours, it is strange to not resent the cat. As I watch, it begins to paw the ground at its feet mournfully.

Something compelled me to go out there. I want to say it was sympathy, but for what I don’t know. When I got out there, the cat was gone. I haven’t seen it since.

I dug where it had been sitting. I got the feeling it had wanted me to. My fingernails became dirty, but I didn’t have to dig for long. Soon frayed hessian threads came into view. When there was something I could grab onto without it coming apart in my hands, I pulled. A sorry little sack popped out with a clatter.

Inside was a collection of bones. I can’t say for sure, but an educated guess tells me they were cat bones. There was a length of twine tied around the opening of the sack.

Why it decided to haunt me all night I do not know. Poor thing just wanted some company I guess. I took one of the bones out and put it on a shelf with my keepsakes.

Now the cat is part of my sanctuary. It should be safe here.

The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal

2009-10-07T08:11:00.000-07:00

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This is the second piece, and corresponds to the middle piece of jewellery in the picture below. This bone was found on the beach, and I suspect that this is how it came to be there, washed in by the tide...

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The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he sees.

Memory.

Alfonso. Solicited dockside harlots. Gave his dear Sofia syphilis.

Tastes bad. Leave for the gulls.

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he hears.

Screams.

Geraldo. Killed his brother. Ran away to sea to escape the gallows.

Got his in the end. Spicy.

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he feels.

Loved.

Ignacio. Left his beloved to seek his fortune in New Spain. Not so fortuitous.

This one is sweet. Tender.

Picks the bone clean,

And tosses it to the ocean.

From the diaries of James Q. Jackson

2009-10-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

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I was recently asked to write a selection of stories to accompany a friend's submission of jewellery to a Halloween-themed exhibition at the Elevator Gallery in Hackney Wick. I didn't have long to do it, but I'm pretty pleased with the results, especially considering they ran longer than I had originally intended!

Each piece is intended as a kind of origin story. This first one relates to the piece of jewellery on the right, which we suspect is from a bird...

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From the diaries of James Q. Jackson, gold prospector.

October 22nd

The jewel of the broach is glowing an eerie green now. The old man said to pay it no heed; that the jungle light plays tricks on your mind. But I can’t help but start to believe the stories about this place. ‘More bounteous than the Californian fools’ gold,’ I had been told ‘but the gold here is dangerous.’ Since the loss of Barnabus and Roderick in the ravine two days ago, and with Ferdinand’s fever worsening, my initial enthusiasm for this expedition is all but spent.

October 25th

Phillipe said he heard ungodly noises during the night. I did not want to alarm the men by admitting it, but I heard them too. Fingers of blame were pointed at Ferdinand, who now just stares at the canopy from his stretcher, muttering in tongues. I clasped the talisman tightly to my chest as I rallied the men as best I could.

October 28th

No-one wants to carry Ferdinand any more. His breath rasps out into phlegmy coughs. The men think him contagious. When the boy, Samuel, ventured that we should leave him to his fate, a volley of sharp calls broke the silence between the trees. It was only the jungle birds, but it sent a shiver down my spine – an ominous omen indeed.

October 29th

I have been thinking about the birds. Their calls have haunted us for days now, a constant reminder of our strange surroundings. As I stare at the talisman’s jewel, I notice the glassy sheen resembles the staring, unblinking eye of a bird. Come to think of it, the bone of the broach is light and hollow, like those of birds…

October 31st

In the early dawn light, the noise rose to a crescendo. Somehow, camp remained in slumber - all save I. It was by the virtue of my wakefulness that I am still alive, although I know not for how long.

The birds attacked not long after they began their screaming. They swarmed in their dozens, the flurry of their beating wings filling the air. Butcher birds. I had seen them briefly during my stop off in Australia. By God do they deserve their name. I saw Garrett, still wrapped in his blanket, being skewered by their sharp beaks again and again until he was still. My legs were moving before I knew what I was doing. I am not proud, but I ran. Ran past the giggling form of Ferdinand lying bound to his stretcher. Ran past the boy Samuel as his eyes were plucked from his head by avenging beaks. Ran from the cries for help, for what could I do against so many?

I sit now in the rotting hollow of a dead tree. The butcher birds are closing, I can hear them screaming again. The broach feels warm against my chest – I can see it glowing through my shirt. They are coming for me. They are coming for it…

Nicky B

2009-07-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

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Nicholas Brotheridge. He's not a nice guy. He's one of four characters developed so far. Not much else to show you out of context, so enjoy!
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L'adversaire

2009-06-06T07:18:00.000-07:00

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Reaping

2009-05-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

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So I've been finished with university for almost a couple of weeks now. Deadlines went to plan, and although I was working up to the nose, it was for extra marks rather than racing to merely finish. I'm confident that I've done pretty damn well, if not excellently, on most of the assignments, and as such I'm looking forward to getting my results (not that I actually know when this will be...)

A couple of posts down you will have noticed a big shiny poster. This big shiny poster is what I have been using to advertise for an artist for Hell's Own, my graphic novel. Well, after weeks of waiting, I've had a mere two responses. One hasn't got back to me, but the other is showing some definite promise.

He's just finished his first year on the illustration course at my university, and contacted me with real enthusiasm for the project. We've been e-mailing back and forth over the past few days, and already he's given me a few preliminary character concept sketches, with a view to doing some more detailed ones in the very near future.

I can't wait. Things are finally taking off...

The angel speaks

2009-04-15T10:47:00.000-07:00

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In the spirit of giving you something a little more concrete from the project of the moment...
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How amusing that in this modern age, humanity is under the impression that freedom, and indeed free will, are desirable virtues. Children are taught the value of individuality and independence, and are encouraged to forge their own paths based on informed choices. Democracy and the principle of free speech are championed across the earth – under the ever-watchful and guiding hands of those with its ‘best interests’ at heart, naturally. For many, of course, these ‘enlightenments’ are not part of everyday life, but they are still under the impression that they would be better off if they were.
It should be obvious to any creature calling itself intelligent that true freedom is only created in the fallout of complete and utter dominion – it is merely the vacuum left by pure and unchallenged authority. Is that really so desirable? If not, how can anything inferior be even vaguely considered so? To have felt an immovable hand for so long, only to have it callously let go - over the darkest precipice no less – many a prisoner of such order will tell you that adjusting to life after order’s demise is harder than living under it.
Humanity would do well to consider its position a little more carefully I think.
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Lucifer is SO rewarding to write for...

Hell's Own

2009-04-10T06:27:00.000-07:00

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And so the project has a name.

Apologies for the lack of recent updates (to those of you who actually read this). All of my writerly focus since January has been directed towards long-haul projects and assignments for university, and as a result I've had nothing to share that was anywhere near finished. This is still the case really, but I thought I'd share a little something I concocted last night.

A select few know that I'm currently working on my 'magnum opus' as it were - a proposed comic-book serial. I've made a few half-hearted attempts recently to recruit an artist, but Middlesex being what it is, it seems like the illustration tutors have more important things to attend to...that or they never check their bleeding e-mails!

To that end I have drawn up a poster which I intend to post around campus, as well as at a few other institutions, to attract the attention of some poor, unwitting soul and force them into drawing pretty angels and fiery things for me.

So without any further ado or kerfuffle, here it is:

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Not bad, huh? I'm hoping it'll at least attract some attention, and with the addition of posting this blog's URL on or near to it, maybe some more minions for my ultimate dominion, mwahahahaaa!

Until next time...

Year of the Boot

2009-01-11T12:22:00.000-08:00

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O’Brien was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. A moustached man was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.
“Do you remember who I am, Richard?” said the first man.
“Yes.” replied O’Brien.
“What is my name?”
He started to reply, but before he could finish a single word blue stars flashed across his field of vision as the little finger on his right hand was swiftly snapped back and broken. Blinded by pain, he barely noticed that his restraints were being released until he felt a sensation of falling, and his nose connected sickeningly with the floor. He felt the rough sole of a boot press hard against his cheek.
“Remember this feeling, Richard,” said the moustached man “a boot stamping on a human face. This is the future – forever. The sooner you accept the truth of it, the easier your life will become.”
O’Brien’s eyes flickered open to the harsh light in time to see the second man kneeling at his side, brandishing the syringe. Moments later the cold steel tip pierced his arm.
“After all, power is not a means; it is an end. We are that end. We are like this syringe; cold and bright, and if you let us, we’ll put an end to your suffering. Will you let us, Richard?”
O’Brien merely sighed and closed his eyes as the blissful drugs flowed through his veins, numbing the pain that wracked his body. Heavy footsteps approached and two hands gripped his arms. The unseen figures began to drag him away, and moments later he passed out.

He awoke on his back in what he assumed was the same cell he had inhabited for – how long was it now? Time was hard to measure in this place, devoid as it was of darkness or natural light, as was everything else. Every block, every corridor, every cell the same. He might be hundreds of feet in the air or buried deep underground – there was just no way to tell.
He swung his legs off the bench on which he lay and sat upright. He put his face in his hands, and immediately wished he hadn’t as a searing jolt from his right hand served as a reminder of his injury.
He looked around. The room was not as he remembered it, if it was indeed the same room. The bloody handprints on the walls were gone, and the vomit and faecal matter that had stained the floor were no more. For how long had he been out of his cell? Again, there was no way of knowing. The dominating presence of the sixty-four inch telescreen was no different at any rate. These brand new devices had been rolled out at an alarming rate across all of London of late. Dissident whispers had suggested that the party planned for there to be no corner of London that was not under surveillance.
As he sat there he became aware of a dull humming sound. It did not start upper se, as that would insinuate that it had not been there all along, which O’Brien had a feeling that it had. No, instead he had merely become aware of its presence, like the humming of an insect buzzing reaching your ears from the far side of a room. The noise did not appear to come from anywhere, and did not sound like anything that he had ever heard before. Over time it grew in volume, making him feel uneasy, until it began to hurt. He winced and put his hands up to his ears to cover them
“O’Brien!” came a commanding voice from the telescreen. “Uncover your face.”
O’Brien snapped his hands away from his face. Almost instantaneously the noise rose to fever pitch. The blood began to pound in his ears, drumming a heady tattoo against through his skull. Before long he could take it no more, and clamped his hands over his ears once more, ignoring the pain from his little finger as he squeezed as hard as he could.
“139 O’Brien R!” screamed the telescreen, “Uncover your face! No faces covered in the cells!”
But still O’Brien clung onto his head. He felt as if his body could take no more, yet he remained awake – oh how he longed for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Over the excruciating din he could just make out the sound of boots hurrying in the corridor outside before the door was thrown and three guards barrelled in brandishing truncheons. He felt the trickle of blood crest his lip and tasted its metallic bouquet before any of them even connected with his nose.

“Do you remember when I asked you what my name was?”
He was back on the table. The bright light in his face felt like it was trying to burn holes into his retinas. He hesitated, remembering the repercussions of his attempt to respond last time. The moustached man smiled.
“Do not fear to speak the truth, Richard. What is my name?”
O’Brien went to open his mouth again when he felt the ring finger on his right hand snap, causing him to howl in pain once more.
“But you said…!”
“Wrong!” bellowed the moustached man. “I told you to tell me the truth! How can you expect to tell me my name if you don’t even know it?”
O’Brien didn’t understand. Every man, woman and child in the country knew his name; how could they not?
“Then who are you?” he blurted out in confusion.
“My name is of no concern to you. In truth I may as well not even have a name. When you were young, did call your mother by her given name? Your father? No, family does not need names; only love. I am more like a big brother, to you and to everyone! So I ask you again, little brother – what is my name?”
“Big Brother?” he guessed, wincing.
The moustached man smiled again. There was a warmth to it, beneath that imposing thatch of bristles that O’Brien could not help but take heart from. The thick end of a truncheon impacted into the bridge of his already broken nose, which only compounded the excruciating pain.
“Right first time, little brother. There’s hope for you yet.”

Days – or what he assumed were days – went by, each one mirroring the one before it. Big Brother would ask him questions. Every answer O’Brien gave was met by brutal force. Broken bones, electrocution, beatings; it all merged into one constant, crushing ache, like the paper cut that would not stop bleeding no matter what you did.
“I don’t understand!” cried O’Brien, cradling his stomach. The table had been dispensed with, and he was now curled in a ball on the floor – he was no longer a threat. “I give you the wrong answer and you hurt me. I give you the correct answer and you hurt me. Whatever I say is wrong!”
“Precisely. And that’s what I’m trying to teach you. You know what the correct answer to the question is, but you don’t know why it is the correct answer.”
“Then tell me!” he sobbed. Big Brother paused for a moment, as if considering O’Brien’s worthiness.
“Very well. It is the correct answer because that is what we say the correct answer is. Whatever you think to be fact at any given time is only fact until we decide that it isn’t anymore. From that moment on, it is, has always been, and will always be an untruth. Do you understand that?”
“I…”
This time it was his thumb.
“You do not know whether you understand until I tell you that you understand!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Why not? We have the power to do anything we want. Moreover we have been given that power. Fear is a powerful motivator. It motivated the people of Britain to turn to a demon they didn’t fully understand when the wolves of Europe and Asia were at their door. It motivates the citizens of London to hurry home before ten o’clock every night. It motivates you to tell me what I want you to tell me. They wanted freedom: well, freedom is slavery little brother. And I am more than happy to give it to them.”
O’Brien fell silent. He had no words to express his abject horror at what Big Brother was saying – the worst part was that it was absolutely true.
“You know the war’s been over for a long time?” he continued.
“What?”
“The war. With Europe and Asia. They actually destroyed each other a long time ago. We had very little to do with the whole affair. We merely chose not to inform the general populace.”
He felt like being sick. The war had meant severe food shortages and heavy rationing. Famine, even. ‘The cost of transporting supplies to the north of the country,’ the newsfeeds had said, right before his capture, ‘is not cost effective or beneficial to the ongoing war effort.’ O’Brien felt the muscles in his stomach convulse beneath his left hand and he heaved, falling forward with the effort, but only a pathetic string of saliva dribbled to the floor.
“Why not?” he spat.
“Why do you think? Power. How can you expect to control a large group of people if you have no way to motivate them? It was by taking advantage of the country’s fear of foreign invasion that we gained control. To retain that control we needed to unite the people against a common enemy. If there is no war, where are they to direct their hate?”
“But I have seen the traitors hung in front of me; the spies shot before my very eyes. How could they have been falsified?”
“Why would they have been falsified? Those men and women were indeed killed, and they believed they had committed and confessed to every last one of the accusations held against before they died, even though they were all of them innocent, because I told them that they had.”
“Am I to die, then?”
“Not yet. I have my uses for you.”
“I’ll never help you.”
“You will help me, Richard, and when you do it will be of your own free will. I promise you that.”
The feeling of despair washed over him anew. It raised the hairs on the back of his, sending a visible shiver down his spine. His ears began to ring, not because of some unbidden sound, but from the gargantuan weight of what he was hearing.
“Tell me what you think of me.” said Big Brother after a while.
O’Brien started to cry. He wasn’t even sure if there were sufficient fluids in his tear ducts for actual tears, but he sobbed and sobbed as if he were ten years old again. His head was bowed, but he could feel Big Brother’s stare boring into the top of his skull into his brain.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to think.”
Big Brother smiled again.
“Good dog.”

The telescreen in O’Brien’s cell flickered once and came on. He looked up, bemused. At first there was just static, but after a few moments a moving image came into view. He recognised it as Trafalgar Square – yes, the remains of Nelson’s Column were just visible in the centre of the picture, obscured as they were by a throng of people. The crowd was facing the enormous telescreen that hung from the front of the building that used to be the National Gallery. A lean, ten-foot Jewish face was blazoned across it. He had neat white hair and a goatee. It was an intelligent face, but one that was contorted into rage. O’Brien recognised it as Emmanuel Goldstein, second in command of the party, beneath – beneath Big Brother himself.
He could hear faint chanting, which grew louder as someone turned up the volume on his telescreen. They were cheering and crying as Goldstein delivered his speech, which rang clear above the assembled voices.
“…these vile swine continue to attack helpless civilians. This week alone half a million in the Midlands have succumbed to their relentless crusade.”
Goldstein’s face was replaced by images of foreign planes, falling bombs and explosions. A never-ending column of soldiers in battle fatigues marched across the screen as Goldstein’s voice continued, unabated.
“…depraved leaders of Eurasia...”
‘Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?’ thought O’Brien. ‘Europe and Asia have always been separate continents. They fought each other in the war, were they now one? No, more of Big Brother’s lies’ he consoled himself. Goldstein was still going, calling for the country to unite behind their leader. There was no mention of winning the war – only hatred of the enemy and loyalty to the party.
Another new word cropped up: ‘Eastasia’. O’Brien was startled again at its mention. The people were buying it. Everyone believed it. Was he really remembering it correctly? It had been so long since he had tasted fresh air that he’d forgotten what it felt like on his skin. If he couldn’t even remember that, how could he be sure he remembered something as physically disconnected from him as the war? Was Big Brother right – did true power really mean the ability to make everyone believe whatever you wanted them to believe?
O’Brien looked away. He saw that the cell door was open, and Big Brother was standing there.
“Do you see? We tell them anything we like, and they believe it, so unified in their hatred are they. As far as they are concerned, Eurasia and Eastasia have always existed, and we have always been at war with them.”
O’Brien did not respond immediately. He sat there, looking at the floor, then opened his mouth.
“Why?”
“Why not? Power is intoxicating; either you have it or you don’t. Wouldn’t you rather control the pieces than be one of them, being made to dance at somebody else’s will? Of course you would. You will never have that luxury, but then again you never had it in the first place, so you will not miss it. The party is power. I am the party. I am power.”
O’Brien felt a faint breeze from the direction of the open door brush his cheek. The sensation caused a single tear to roll down it. Big Brother breathed deeply and got up.
“On your feet little brother. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you’ve never been before. We call it Room 101. You have learned. You understand. Now it is time for you to accept.”
“I am ready.”

O’Brien strode purposefully along one of the many completely indistinguishable corridors of the Ministry of Love, a sturdy jack-booted guard at his side. Today was going to be an interesting day, he could tell. They rounded the corner and approached the second cell on the right. O’Brien opened the door and went in. The man inside started to his feet.
“They’ve got you too!” he cried, recognising O’Brien.
“They got me a long time ago,” O’Brien replied. He stepped aside to allow the broad-chested guard access to the room, who entered with a gleeful grin on his face, clutching his long black truncheon tightly.
“You knew this, Winston, don’t deceive yourself. You did know it – you have always known it.”
Winston appeared to consider this for a second, before the guard was upon him. The truncheon fell on his elbow, causing him to writhe around in pain on the floor feebly, as O’Brien once had in the very same position. The guard laughed mercilessly as Winston clutched at his arm. He considered for a moment how very much like him this man was – there was more than just a little of O’Brien in the dishevelled shape rolling on the floor in front of him. Yes, he would enjoy the time he was going to spend with Winston Smith.

A E I Owe You

2009-01-08T11:15:00.000-08:00

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I was going to write this review entirely in the style of its subject: the eccentrically offbeat Eunoia; but in all honestly it would be more trouble than it’s worth. You’d probably lose your concentration and stop reading half way through. Here’s why:
The word from which this book takes its title is the shortest word in the English language to contain all five vowels. From the Greek word for ‘beautiful thinking’, it’s an apt title, because it is indeed a beautiful thought. But that’s just the problem – as a concept it’s every writer’s wet dream, but in reality there’s something about it that just doesn’t quite work.
The main body of the book is divided into five chapters, in each of which author Christian Bök uses words that contain only one of the five vowels. It’s ambitious, and it works to a certain extent. Each of these chapters describes a banquet, some kind of lustful act, a pastoral scene and a nautical voyage in some way, and does not repeat any word bar connectives. It’s certainly an impressive feat, and took him seven years to write, which is in no small part why I dropped the idea of imitating him in this review – it’s not really the kind of spare time I have on my hands!
Of course, using as many words as possible that contain only one of the five vowels is limiting at best, so it’s no surprise that it doesn’t always flow too well. I’m undecided as to whether it should be read as poetry or as narrative fiction, because although the language is beautifully constructed and displays certain rhythmic qualities, four characters inhabit the scenes, and each have a story: Hassan hatches a dark plan; Helen enters Hell’s deepest recesses; ‘I’ sighs, his writing stifling; and Ubu humps Ruth.
As a narrative piece, however, it has obstacles. Had I mimicked the mode of Eunoia and used only one vowel at a time, you would most likely have given up reading this review by now. It’s not so much because the flow is particularly jarring as a result, but more because you have to read it side-by-side with a dictionary. “Casbah”, “senescent”, “colophons” – whilst you can get the gist of what each word means from the context in which it is used, I found my enjoyment hampered somewhat in Bök’s work.
And when there is simply no word in English for what he wants to say, Bök resorts to alternative languages, which was aggravating no end. Perhaps I’m just bitter that my grasp of French and Latin is substandard at best, I don’t know. Admittedly it is clever, and appeals to the pretentious, fancy-word-loving poet in me, but as a rule I subscribe to the George Orwell, ‘if people won’t understand what the word means, use a different one’ school of thought – if no-one understands a word you’re saying, then what are you going to achieve?
The second half of the book is a collection of interesting little titbits along the same restrictive lines as the first five chapters, but less exhausting. ‘Vowels’, which uses only the letters of its title, beautifully sums up the rise and fall of love, ending on the fantastic image “so we love less well, so low, so level. Wolves evolve”. Various other pieces include a homophonic translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s Voyelle, an elegy to the letter ‘w’, and the excess trimmed from Chapter E, which is a take on the Iliad.
Summarising the collection is an afterword by the author, which explains the concepts behind each piece – and which I think sums up my main problem with Eunoia as a whole. Reading is fun, and aside from learning, why else do people do it? That everything needs a sort of footnote is like the joke that needs explaining – you understand, but it isn’t really funny. Once he’s explained that each chapter uses only one vowel (okay, so this is obvious), and that he only uses each word once, and that he’s used ninety-eight percent of the words that use only one vowel available, and that each chapter describes the same things and so on and so forth, the book has lost its fun. I enjoyed the stories, and I applaud the concept, but needing to be shown its genius, and as such why it took seven years to write, kind of killed it for me. Sorry Christian...

The Manhattan Project

2009-01-08T07:59:00.001-08:00

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“Who watches the Watchmen?” leers long-faded graffiti from the redbrick of a New York side-alley. An overflowing trashcan nearby adds a faint, sickly odour to the air, as a shadowy figure melts into the night beyond. Replace the word ‘watch’ with the word ‘read’, and for me, the answer should be ‘as many people as possible’.
I came quite late to the comic scene. I’m sure we’re all aware of the of the typical comic book reader stereotypes – spotty, basement-ridden computer nerds with inch-thick glasses, societal rejects who would rather live in ridiculous fantasy worlds, and middle-aged wasters who seem unable to let go of their mothers’ apron strings. Although there’s often no smoke without fire, I find myself scoffing at the notion as a whole. Comic books (or ‘graphic novels’, as those with more adult leanings tend to be called) are an ever more popular medium, no longer so widely regarded as immature crap. As such, I find myself able to dive in headlong without so much as a sarcastic comment from my peers.
This image change is in no small part thanks to Alan Moore. This beardy British weirdo from Northampton created The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (the book, not that sub-par film), inspired the current take on the Batman/Joker relationship in his one-shot story The Killing Joke, and, for my money, matches George Orwell’s vision of a dystopian, totalitarian future with V for Vendetta.
But Watchmen. Watchmen, his magnum opus, is a cut above the rest. I’ll admit, the brief doesn’t look too promising; a bunch of middle-aged, retired superheroes; one is a mild-mannered, slightly podgy Batman-esque ornithologist. Another, the only one who is still active (albeit illegally), is an uncompromising right-wing nut-job with his own particularly brutal brand of justice. Another is a rich ponce with a fondness for purple and a God complex – and that’s next to the only one who actually has any superpowers. An odd bunch for sure, but that’s where the appeal lies. How easy is it really to identify with a heroic staple like Superman, with his startling array of superhuman traits, extra-terrestrial heritage and bright red pants (‘Ugh, I can fly at supersonic speed and see through walls, I have so many problems!’)? Moore’s characters are conflicted, self-doubting and stroppy – and all the more human for it.
Set in an alternative 1985 where America won the Vietnam war, Nixon is still president, and nuclear war is on the horizon, the main plot revolves around Rorschach (the mental vigilante) investigating the murder of one of their number from ‘back in the day’. As more of the costumed adventurers are attacked or forced into exile, the more it seems that Rorschach’s assumed paranoia is not so unfounded. It’s much like the usual comic book fare that we all know, but there’s more to the story than that. Watchmen is about the people behind the masks.
When the story was first published it wasn’t in the single volume ‘graphic novel’ format that is readily available today; it was a serial divided into twelve parts, published over the course of about a year by DC Comics. Most of each issue was the standard panel-by-panel visual storytelling method that is comic book staple, but what set them apart from their contemporaries was the supplemental prose piece that sat at the end of each one. These took several formats, including excerpts from the autobiography of one of the first generation of masked vigilantes, an article written by the ornithologist about owls, and a feature on pirate comics. They al, in their own way, add volumes of depth to the narrative.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of nuance. A fictional pirate comic called ‘Tales from the Black Freighter’ actually intertwines with the main plot in several places in a number of issues, the author of which is mentioned in the prose feature, and actually has a hand in the final reckoning of the story.
But I’m getting away from my point. As I said, it’s not just about the masks; it’s about the people behind them – both physically, and emotionally, in those who have some stake invested in their fates. The two Bernies are series favourites; a news vendor with an opinion about everything that he isn’t afraid of voicing, and a young boy who sits at the former’s news stand, occasionally listening to him whilst reading ‘Black Freighter’ (which is itself an intelligent piece of metafiction). They represent the most common demographics: the Watchmen universe’s inhabitants, and the comic’s reader – an important voice indeed.
There really is no one thing that makes Watchmen so special for me; to insinuate there was would be an insult to its other shining gems. The piece as a whole in all its multi-layered, many-faceted glory sits in pride of place on my bookshelf. Whilst not the very first comic I ever read, I shall always consider it to be so. It opened my eyes to what comic books could be, and has set a lofty bar for my future expectations of the genre. Budding writers take note – you could do a lot worse than learn from Alan Moore.

Apocalypse, the Reaper, and Cormac McCarthy

2009-01-08T07:56:00.000-08:00

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As many of my peers will testify, I’m something of a grammatical perfectionist. I used to have something of a reputation for stopping people mid-sentence to correct their syntax; annoying I know, and I’m a lot less anal about it now, but I just couldn’t help myself – a product of my upbringing I’m certain. Murder the written word, and your fate was even worse. ‘There’, ‘their’ and ‘they’re’ were huge points of contention for me, and if ‘your’ writing something for ‘you’re’ assignments, God help you! Don’t even get me started on text-speak...
But as I said, I’m a lot more lenient now. For Cormac McCarthy’s sake, this is probably a good thing. Had I opened The Road two or three years ago, it would have annoyed the hell out of me. Punctuation? Not exactly plentiful. Chapters? Fraid’ not. Half the time it takes the concentrative powers of a brain surgeon to follow who is even speaking, so confusing is the layout of the dialogue. I mean the man hasn’t even bothered to name his characters!
So it makes you wonder why it won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction doesn’t it? Poor layout and abundant simple sentences hardly make for compelling literature…do they? As a rule of thumb I would have said not, but then again I’m hardly infallible. Because The Road is actually pretty damn good.
I say ‘pretty’. This book is very bleak; probably not one for Nan – think facing down a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a water pistol during a hosepipe ban. But if, like me, you’re not averted to a healthy dose of woeful desperation, then you can’t go wrong with this.
A mysterious event has decimated the earth and pretty much everything that lives. Those that have survived exist in one of two roles – the hunter and the hunted. Imagine yourself in the shoes of our principal protagonist: a man (who, along with his young son, remains unnamed throughout), forced to live out of a wonky shopping trolley on various scavenged goods, all the time fearing that the next person you meet will try and gnaw your legs off while you’re still alive. The very boots in which your are imagining yourself are falling apart for the lack of a decent cobbler, your wife – the mother of your child – is dead, and every five seconds said child is asking if everything’s going to be all right! Credit crunch not looking quite so bad now, is it?
McCarthy sends little respite their way, either. If it isn’t the terrifyingly human cannibals dogging their steps, it’s starvation, illness, or the myriad other horrors of this hideous post-apocalyptic world. When a glimmer of hope does shine through, you’re trained to stay on edge, never really allowing yourself to feel any relief – just as the father and son don’t either. Though the days are grim, the nights are grimmer still. The man is dogged by dreams of his former life, a life that is but a fairy tale to the boy (who was born after the earth-shattering event). Each dream drags him a little further down into his malaise, until you wonder why he bothers to carry on at all. Those last two bullets left in his pistol would start looking pretty inviting if I were him – why not end it?
But he can’t. You don’t want him to! Even when he just wants to give up; lay down and die you feel like screaming ‘no!’ at the book. McCarthy is a crafty fellow and no mistake. You need them to succeed, somehow, for you to have any faith left in humanity at all.
So not a happy one then, but as I said this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s terrifying, it’s chilling, and worst of real, it could be real – but by God is it compelling! The lack of visual breaks in the prose are a harsh barrier, not affording you a place to stop even if you need to. All this, and more, will annoy the hell out of the grammatical demon in your life, and the abject bleakness is certainly not for everyone. The Road has drawn criticism for its minimalist style, but ultimately it is a case of preference, and if you can stomach this desolate approach, I would heartily recommend this crushing read.

Sertainty

2008-12-11T10:36:00.000-08:00

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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)

2008-12-05T07:15:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-12-05T06:58:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-12-05T06:28:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-10-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-10-30T14:21:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-10-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-10-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-10-13T06:36:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-10-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-08-13T05:25:00.000-07:00

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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?

2008-05-25T03:58:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-05-08T14:58:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-05-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-04-29T07:53:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-04-28T11:01:00.001-07:00

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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

2008-04-22T06:03:00.000-07:00

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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!

2008-04-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-03-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

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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

2008-03-05T05:42:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-02-26T05:54:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-02-25T17:48:00.000-08:00

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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.

A Million Dead

2008-02-25T17:31:00.000-08:00

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Okay, so this one is a little dark, I'll admit. I leave the exact interpretation entirely up to you, however. Feel free to post your thoughts, I'm always interested.
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A million dead. The end perhaps? But no, one more. There's always one more.
The dusk shall come six weeks hence, and then it shall be night forever more. As the wave dashes against the rocks, so shall it be taken from you. Paint everywhere, but it won't wash out, not ever.
Tears will flow like a river. You won't be able to breathe. You'll fall to your knees, for all the good it'll do you. It's not on the floor, silly.

I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that.

In the end you'll go the same way, you won't handle it at all well. Only it won't be someone else's fault. A warm cloak...a shaking hand...you head towards the light.

Something back

2008-02-25T15:49:00.000-08:00

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I first came across the following passage spoken over a track called "Something for the Mrs." by Old Man Gloom (in full: The Old Man Gloom Alien Simian Defense League), from the album "Christmas". It's bleak, I know, but it really struck me. I feel it could be somewhat prophetic, which scares me a little. With a little research I found out that it is in fact an excerpt from "Poem for Mary (Second Poem)" by Ernest Hemingway.

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"In the next war we shall bury the dead in cellophane
The host shall come packaged in every k-ration
The host shall come packaged in every k-ration
Every man shall be provided with a small but perfect Archbishop Spellman,
that shall be self inflatable (courteousy of air reduction, opened-closed-previous-opened-closed).

You don't need to repeat this, there is not any ceremony anymore.
Everyone is gone, and you say this out loud to yourself.
You were alone at the time, and the time now is always.
Always was a word you used in promises.
It is valueless.

All officers, warrant officers and enlisted men will be provided with a copy of their own true love,
that they will never see again, and all these copies will be returnable through the proper channels."

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Anyway, about a year and a half ago I decided to write a kind of response to it called "Something back". Enjoy...
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"Thirteen years ago, your body was wrapped in cellophane and dumped in a river

The telegram said you were buried with honour.

You were alone at the time. Having abandoned your post, you fled. The acute irony of it is, that if you had only stayed, you'd most likely still be alive - they never came that way.

But your collar reported you missing. Already dead, or deserter, it didn't matter to them.
If you were, perhaps you'd take some of the enemy with you. If not, you were a coward,
and deserved to die.

You were a coward. You deserved to die.

They scooped up what was left you, and tossed it into the icy waters of the Seine. Your spare uniform and pips were sent to us, along with a crisp new flag of the patriot.
"Something for the Mrs." they used to call it. Mum cried for days. Weeks, even. She knew she'd never see you again anyway; they told her this; but she didn't deserve it.

You did."

The Dutch

2008-02-25T15:47:00.000-08:00

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The advent of 'The Dutch', as those of us left call it, was one of those things that crept up on the unsuspecting country with such overtness, that quite frankly it was pretty embarrassing. Another of those Great British blunders. Of course, the embarrassment soon faded into horror as the virus spread to epidemic proportions.
It all started in London. At first, nothing seemed to be wrong. Sure, the homeless looked a little rougher, a little more destitute than usual, but didn't they always? Then weeks later they started dying in quite substantial numbers, which caught the attention of the media. It was initially assumed that it was just a severe case of winter flu, but irregularities caused some talk among the medical community; these people were literally wasting away, their muscles almost dissolving from their bones.
The first major concerns arose when a young, healthy student by the name of Karen Townsend was taken ill. There wasn't much to the story, except for the fact that she was a somewhat philanthropic philosophy major from King's College London, who spent her free time working at soup kitchens for the homeless charity Shelter. She was from a fairly well off family in the Midlands, and was apparently a model student. About a week after her admission, the news broke that she had tragically died. Everything had been tried, but whenever they gave her something to eat, she just complained about being hungry again ten minutes later. Her body was metabolising and using the food so fast that her energy levels kept dropping, until her body began to actually eat itself. She wasn't to be the only one, but she was certainly the first named victim of the virus, which made it all the more personal.
It was a given that she had contracted this from the people she had been working with; such close proximity to the infected for extended periods of time. The worrying question on everybody's lips was this; how could a perfectly normal, healthy girl such as Karen succumb to this…whatever it was…so quickly, and end up dead within seven days?
The symptoms of the virus seemed to be somewhat similar to muscular dystrophy, an incurable disease which causes progressive muscular wasting, poor balance, and difficulty walking, amongst other things. One of the more acute forms, known as Duchenne muscular dystrophy, from where we got the name "The Dutch", is a rapidly worsening form of the disease, which often causes death by the sufferer's teenage years. However, it is a genetic disorder, and it doesn't kill people in such short periods, which got people even more worried. This obviously wasn't what was afflicting the city now, so what was going on, and why were previously healthy and fit people dying inexplicably?
An answer came after perhaps a score or so of new cases sprung up in London within a three-day period over the New Year. It had snowed this year, but nobody's attention was directed at the weather. Reports were coming in thick and fast from all over the capital. People were dying fast, and the general public was getting scared. This seemed to be not only incurable, but also highly infectious. It turned out that those with a healthier immune system were actually more at risk. Medical professionals cited the Spanish Flu of 1918, which killed more people than the war had. Back then, peoples' immune systems had gone into overdrive to fight the influenza, to the point where their white blood cells stopped being able to discriminate between infection and normal tissue. The destruction of lung tissue caused liquid to build up, causing respiratory failure, and death.
This was what was happening now, but on a much wider scale. Because the Duchenne virus attacked the whole body, so did the white blood cells, which only served to speed up the process exponentially. The reason the homeless had taken longer to die was that their immune systems were already shot from fighting the colds and other minor infections they caught living rough, and so they had very few white blood cells left, which in a twisted sort of way worked to their advantage.
Because this was so new and unexplained, and more importantly incurable, so far as everyone knew, a panic gripped us like never before. The day these new findings were reported on the news, people stopped leaving the safety of their own homes unless absolutely necessary, and those you did see out, stocking up on supplies, wore white surgical masks, and wouldn't walk within ten feet of each other.
The train stations in London became packed, as people tried to leave the city to escape the virus, but when they got there, there was nobody to drive the trains. Still, people found ways to leave, which in the end only served to spread the virus. Days after the mass exodus, there were confirmed cases in all of the major UK cities, and so the panic spread. Not soon after, mainland Britain was quarantined, and a state of emergency declared.
It was chaos. The social and economic implications were astronomical: when a chip pan fire in a housing estate in Brixton turned into an inferno, it levelled most of the borough of Lambeth, and half of Southwark with it, leaving people homeless and at risk. There was simply no one to help put out the fire. Thousands of businesses collapsed through lack of income, or even people to run them for that matter. When Parliament met to decide what course of action to take, only the front benchers turned up. By the next meeting, even the Prime Minister was absent. Fear gave way to greed, and many ventured back outside and began looting, for all the good their possessions would do them. How would your 36" HD televisions work without power? Why wear designer sunglasses when no one ever ventures outside to see you in them? It was utter madness. But that's humanity I suppose.

It is now March 2008, and just shy of three months since Karen Townsend died. Those of us who still populate the capital now live in the underground system. It's not an easy existence by any means, but we do what we can with what we have, and what we can scrounge from the streets. This isn't simple looting as I mentioned before; this is survival. Many of the supermarkets still have tinned goods and other non-perishables left. Of course, the places stink to high heaven; rotting fruit and vegetables drip from the shelves – I mean who loots carrots? But as long as you're in and out quickly it's not too bad, plus we're pretty much covered from head to toe with some hazmat suits we pilfered from a biotech lab.
Before this catastrophe I was a somewhat religious man, but after seeing the depths to which man can sink, I have lost all faith in a higher power. I have heard tales of, seen – and to my shame, taken part in – some of the most atrocious, inhumane things imaginable. Such acts of self-servitude and indecency towards one's fellow man that it makes my skin crawl just to think of them. You see, in times of extreme hardship, such as these, pity and self-sacrifice do not factor. Not after a while, anyway. Desperation took hold, and the fight for resources has become bitter, to the point of violence – and even killing. I'm certainly not proud of what I've had to do to stay alive, but it's either that or die myself.
I am at least not alone in my struggle. People have banded together and pooled resources, so that we might have a better chance of survival. I'm sorry to say that most of these groups are based on ethnicity and religious belief – when the question of where the virus came from arose, of course everyone blamed Islamic fundamentalists: it seemed like the most logical explanation, based on the current political climate. Since then we have discovered the truth, but the divisions have held. Those who blamed them are far too proud to apologise, and besides, there is no way to make a public apology.
Ah yes, the source of the virus; the origin of our woes. As I've said, it wasn't terrorists. Was it then a terrible plot by a shady organisation bent on world domination? Don't be silly. An act of God? Perhaps, but based on my current belief system, I don't buy it. No, the Dutch was brought about by a group of scientists. Evil, insane scientists, I hear you ask? Not quite…
It was in a central London lab – the same, in fact, from where we stole our protective gear – that a group of researchers were conducting research into muscular dystrophy. While we rooted around, one of our party, a scientist herself in her former life, started looking through the research notes. Now as I said before, the hereditary form of muscular dystrophy has no cure, and apparently they had thought that maybe if they could treat a viral form, they'd be a step closer to curing the real thing. Obviously the first step in this was engineering a virus; no mean feat I'm told. We don't know the exact details of how it got out, but from examining the staff profiles (apparently they have to go through background and lifestyle checks to work in such hi-tech facilities), we discovered that one of them was a volunteer for a certain homeless charity. How they didn't succumb themselves we don't know either, but I figure that some people have immunities to other diseases, so why not this one?
So anyway, life goes on, and we wait for word from the outside world, but as of yet nothing. I guess they have to be sure that it's safe, and that the virus is gone before they send in relief or whatever. I just hope that it's sooner rather than later…

Segue Nineteen

2008-02-25T15:40:00.000-08:00

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I wrote this in early March last year whilst sat on the floor of the London Underground. It was one of the last tubes of the night, and I had just been blown away by Explosions in the Sky. Prior to this, as is customary, I had been writing the usual clichéd angsty teenage stuff, but I felt like this piece had actual depth to it, rather than being just another emotion-fuelled pseudo-rant. I hope I wasn't wrong!
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A blank page in an open book. Such a shame that words must mar its pristine beauty. But do they? Words can in themselves produce magnificence, provoke both glorious and crushing emotion. Words can move mountains. Words like these. Words of such acuity and precision that no being, friend or enemy, angel or foul demon, could deny them.

But no-one ever says these words. Everybody's mouths are shut; their pages blank. This is why I speak. Because I want to. Because I feel I must. Because things have to change. So here I sit, readying myself to clear the detritus, to commence my polemic attack upon apathy. Heaven is talked of as paradise after death; but why not here, why not now? So on my own foggy streets shall I create my empyrean, however inadequate, however factitious. It will pervade through my consciousness, and I will be free.