______
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.
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
A E I Owe You
______
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...
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
______
“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.
“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
______
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.
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.
Friday, 5 December 2008
91101 (An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)
______
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.
______
“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...”
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.
______
91101
(An Ambulance Full of Blood in Babylon)
(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
______
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.
______
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…
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.
______
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
______
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...
______
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.’
______
*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.
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...
______
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.’
______
*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.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
The springboard of genius
______
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
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
______
Monday, 13 October 2008
CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Week Two
______
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.
______
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.
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.
______
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.
Monday, 6 October 2008
CMW 2001 (Screenwriting) - Week One
______
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:
______
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
______
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.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Banman Forever
______
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…!
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…!
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Gathering Storm
______
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.
______
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.
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.______
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.
Monday, 28 April 2008
Son of the Song
______
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...
______
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.
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...______
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.
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
The Fall of Aftermath - part two
______
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!
______
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.”
Monday, 10 March 2008
The Thought-Train
______
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.
______
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.
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.
______
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.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
The Fall of Aftermath - part one
______
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:
______
"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."
______
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:
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:
______
"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."
______
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?
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Survival
______
This one seems a bit angsty I know, but it's not as despairing as it sounds...
______
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...
Monday, 25 February 2008
The Train of Nowhere
______
I wrote this quickly for a poetry seminar. It uses lots of big words, which is why I like it ^^
______
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.
I wrote this quickly for a poetry seminar. It uses lots of big words, which is why I like it ^^
______
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
______
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.
______
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.
______
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
______
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.
______"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."
______
______
"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."
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