DISCLAIMER: There's some strong language in this post. But it's the internet, so I'm sure you'll get over it.
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Hello my loyal reader(s)! It's tie for another STORY CHALLENGE!
As a reminder, the story challenges I write come after I complete 10 "things" from my book 642 Things to Write About. I get suggestions from my friends/followers and take 5 of the best ones to turn into a story, which I generally come up with on the spot. It's a fun little exercise that forces me to adapt and provides some pretty creative writing prompts.
In any case, this round of suggestions did not disappoint. The five I've chosen are as follows (in no particular order):
- All the possible uses for a potato
- "Choo choo mother fucker" (I think I can say this three times before I'm required to rate this blog post R)
- A fancy Christmas party gone horribly, messily, wrong (red, which was another suggestion, also comes up a lot, but I blame the Christmas theme for that)
- Justice
- Rampant and unabated climate change
And I haven't decided if I'm actually going to use this yet, but if I do...
BONUS: An appearance by Nathan Fillion
Let's see what I come up with, shall we?
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Dave sighed as his boss collapsed to the floor in a flailing heap, rolls of fat jiggling from bouts of thunderous laughter. The man was the head of TerraCorps -- the most powerful energy conglomerate in the world -- and yet after two glasses of egg nog his face and, consequently, his mannerisms, were redder than a sunset over a brush fire.
Shameless, he thought. This man will make more money while we're at this party than I do in a year. You think he'd at least be able to hold his liquor.
Still, not a single person here was brave enough to call him out on it, and so secretary and engineer alike were forced to chuckle nervously while he laughed himself into a stupour.
After awhile, however, it definitely wore on him. The facade was exhausting, and each day it became more and more apparent that this job would be the death of him. It was a sobering thought, which was ironic when he thought about the amount of alcohol he had to consume to deal with his reality.
Speaking of which...
He threw his head back and downed the last of his drink. It wasn't as strong as he'd like, but it would be a few hours yet before the company was willing to break out the really good stuff. Some silly PR nonsense about building lasting relationships with your colleagues through social bonding. It's a shame he hated everyone here.
Looking around, he didn't even recognize most of those present. It was a big company, after all, and it was impossible to know everyone. Dave worked in the finance department, and so he would occasionally visit the other parts of HQ to collect information for payroll or audits, but he didn't actually interact with the other employees all that much. He could count on one hand the number of people he actually spoke with on a regular basis, and half of those he wished he didn't have to. Still, it seemed strange to him that there were people here who worked in the same building that he could have sworn he'd never seen before. The scope of TerraCorps was truly mind-boggling.
His brooding was interrupted by two things. The first the feeling of something being placed of the back of this head. It was cold, and as best as he could tell through his buzz, circular in shape. Like some kind of metal tube. The second (which gave him a pretty good idea of what the first entailed) was Linda's screaming.
Linda was the boss' secretary. Considering the kind of harassment she had to put up with on a daily basis, the woman was not easily rattled. As she looked toward Dave and dropped her drink to the carpet, the banshee's wail of a terrified exclamation she released was a pretty good indication that things were about to go horribly, messily wrong. This foreshadowing, to Dave's dismay, was soon proven to be incredibly accurate.
"EVERYONE GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! TONIGHT, TERRACORPS WILL PAY FOR ITS TRANSGRESSIONS AGAINST MOTHER EARTH!"
Taking the queue, dozens of people dispersed through the crowd drew weapons of all kinds, putting on masks taken from duffel bags or secret stashes throughout the office. What had moments before been a scene of mirth and merriment quickly turned into something out of a nightmare. In Dave's mind, it was Die Hard meets The Dark Knight, and considering how many times he watched those movies he did not have high hopes for exiting the situation unscathed.
He wasted no time in dropping to the ground, hoping to minimise his chances of becoming an example to advance the plot. Luckily he wore a green shirt today instead of a red one; in these circumstances every little bit helped.
"Gerald Mendleson." The masked man who had been behind him stepped over Dave's prone form to approach the boss, still trying to stifle childish giggles as his inebriated mind came to terms with the situation. It turned out that the metal tube had been a shotgun.
How the hell did he even get that in here? The security in this building sucks.
"A simple businessman who spent his life building the world's most powerful energy provider. You claim to provide security, that TerraCorps keeps our cities running and our way of life intact. But your shady dealings and poor standards are driving our planet to an early grave! Do you have any idea what will happen if one of your precious nuclear plants has a meltdown? Hundreds of years of radiation soaking into the land, making it uninhabitable for man or beast!" The gun's barrel sank until it was pointed squarely at the boss' head. "TerraCorps is a sickness poisoning our planet. You are a coal-fuelled train spewing a cloud of death to envelop us all. The tracks are running out, Gerald. We're approaching the point of no return, and I'm here to put an an end to it before there's no turning back."
"Choo choo, motherfucker."
"Wha--" The masked gunman turned in surprise, but his exclamation was cut short as something shot forward and exploded on his mask, dropping him to a sorry heap on the floor. The projectile's shattered bits fell to the carpet right in front of poor Dave, who, as he looked at them, was filled with any number of nonsensical thoughts.
They were chunks of potato.
I'm DEFINITELY not drunk enough for this.
He craned his neck backward to see where the shot had come from, and his confusion only grew. There, standing beside a discarded Santa outfit, was a mysterious man wearing a brown and yellow costume that Dave couldn't begin to describe. The stranger was holding some kind of pneumatic cannon strapped to a massive cannister on his back, and the fluffy red sack accompanying his initial disguise was filled to the brim with spuds.
"I'm Captain Potato," exclaimed the man, raising his cannon as he struck a pose. "I've come to bury these evildoers once and for all!"
Wednesday 25 November 2015
Tuesday 17 November 2015
Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time
Hello internet! We're at thing 50! That means the time is nigh for another story challenge, so I'll be collecting suggestions shortly, and then hopefully writing something worth reading. The last one was pretty atrocious, so I have a lot of ground to make up.
Anyway, on with the thing.
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Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time
A happenstance so surely left behind
In solace now it wracks my tattered mind
But that, forsooth, a gnash upon the rind
In passing then it seeks to wax unkind
At fateful time, yet wreathed in mystery
I stood uncertain, plain for all to see
What magic, this? What ceaseless devilry?
Each answered question brought another three
What bits were true? When shall I find my peace?
Will my poor mind perchance to find the keys?
Unlocking this confusion as he grieves
A challenge fought yet lost upon the priest
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Okay, so this was my sorry attempt at iambic pentameter. This concept, which I was introduced to in my highschool english class because apparently Shakespeare was a fan, involves 10 syllables in a line grouped into pairs. In each pair, the second syllable is supposed to have emphasis.
e.g.: "a HAPpenSTANCE so SUREly LEFT beHIND"
I feel like a missed the mark a bit, and it's definitely shorter than I intended, but this exercise was actually quite draining, as it's more of a technical piece than a creative one. As such, it stands as a bit of a departure from my normal style of things. Usually I try to vary the structure of my work to give it a more organic feel, and the way it sounds means much more than the way it's put together. This is the opposite.
Take that as you will.
Anyway, on with the thing.
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Thing 50: I didn't know what was happening at the time
A happenstance so surely left behind
In solace now it wracks my tattered mind
But that, forsooth, a gnash upon the rind
In passing then it seeks to wax unkind
At fateful time, yet wreathed in mystery
I stood uncertain, plain for all to see
What magic, this? What ceaseless devilry?
Each answered question brought another three
What bits were true? When shall I find my peace?
Will my poor mind perchance to find the keys?
Unlocking this confusion as he grieves
A challenge fought yet lost upon the priest
-------------------------
Okay, so this was my sorry attempt at iambic pentameter. This concept, which I was introduced to in my highschool english class because apparently Shakespeare was a fan, involves 10 syllables in a line grouped into pairs. In each pair, the second syllable is supposed to have emphasis.
e.g.: "a HAPpenSTANCE so SUREly LEFT beHIND"
I feel like a missed the mark a bit, and it's definitely shorter than I intended, but this exercise was actually quite draining, as it's more of a technical piece than a creative one. As such, it stands as a bit of a departure from my normal style of things. Usually I try to vary the structure of my work to give it a more organic feel, and the way it sounds means much more than the way it's put together. This is the opposite.
Take that as you will.
Thursday 12 November 2015
Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Hey team! It's that time again. I do believe I'm getting close to overdue for another post, so here goes nothing.
BY THE WAY, for those of you that used to read my stuff, you should be happy to hear that we're approaching another story challenge! After every 10 "things" from my fancy pants book here, I get some audience suggestions and craft a tale using five of the weirdest ones. So there's that to look forward to, which is pretty swell.
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Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Contrived.
This is, in my opinion, the only word which can adequately summarize Dominic Aquilina's first (and one would hope only) foray into the literary profession, if you could even call it that. The Boundless Depths, which I had the great misfortune of reading for the purposes of this review, is the sort of mindless drivel that one might expect from a first-time author only if one dearly wished for that author to fail. Aquilina somehow manages to capture everything horrible in the world and condense it into a string of glyphs that by some miracle flows into a semi-coherent gathering of sentences. To gaze upon the book's pages (and again, I use the term with great hesitation) is reminiscent of of an emaciated badger dragging a carcass studded with broken glass through one's corneae as it seeks to gain sustenance from the rancid flesh.
And yet, even these words fall short of what it is like to read The Boundless Depths. I would say that one must experience it themselves to fully understand, but this is a fate I would not wish on even my most execrated foes. That Breakwater Publishing saw fit to put ink to paper and produce this travesty is an insult to the entire forest from which each fateful tree originated. To burn each and every copy seems to be the only recourse before us, lest another unfortunate soul be subjected to Aquilina's mad ramblings.
In short, if I believed in any manner of a god, I would pray forgiveness for whatever slight caused it to allow such an abomination to spring forth from the depths of a long forgotten hell to plague us mere mortals in so permanent a form. The Boundless Depths, I can only hope, shall be banished to its namesake for all eternity, never to surface again. My life has been forever tainted for having read it.
I award -3 stars out of 10.
BY THE WAY, for those of you that used to read my stuff, you should be happy to hear that we're approaching another story challenge! After every 10 "things" from my fancy pants book here, I get some audience suggestions and craft a tale using five of the weirdest ones. So there's that to look forward to, which is pretty swell.
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Thing 49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you've never written
Contrived.
This is, in my opinion, the only word which can adequately summarize Dominic Aquilina's first (and one would hope only) foray into the literary profession, if you could even call it that. The Boundless Depths, which I had the great misfortune of reading for the purposes of this review, is the sort of mindless drivel that one might expect from a first-time author only if one dearly wished for that author to fail. Aquilina somehow manages to capture everything horrible in the world and condense it into a string of glyphs that by some miracle flows into a semi-coherent gathering of sentences. To gaze upon the book's pages (and again, I use the term with great hesitation) is reminiscent of of an emaciated badger dragging a carcass studded with broken glass through one's corneae as it seeks to gain sustenance from the rancid flesh.
And yet, even these words fall short of what it is like to read The Boundless Depths. I would say that one must experience it themselves to fully understand, but this is a fate I would not wish on even my most execrated foes. That Breakwater Publishing saw fit to put ink to paper and produce this travesty is an insult to the entire forest from which each fateful tree originated. To burn each and every copy seems to be the only recourse before us, lest another unfortunate soul be subjected to Aquilina's mad ramblings.
In short, if I believed in any manner of a god, I would pray forgiveness for whatever slight caused it to allow such an abomination to spring forth from the depths of a long forgotten hell to plague us mere mortals in so permanent a form. The Boundless Depths, I can only hope, shall be banished to its namesake for all eternity, never to surface again. My life has been forever tainted for having read it.
I award -3 stars out of 10.
Tuesday 10 November 2015
Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Heya. I'm not really feeling like writing today, but I did set myself a quota, so...
I suppose I should post an advisory, in that the following passage might be a bit disturbing to some. Take that as you will.
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Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Borogan's fingers clenched more tightly around the woman's throat. Her thrashing had long since stopped, but still he squeezed, hoping against hope that he would feel... something. Anything; some whisper of life sparking through the swirling blackness of his soul.
And yet, it remained quiet.
Of course it did. She was a nothing; some nameless harlet he'd torn from the streets during her time of sin. Nobody would notice. Nobody would miss. That was perhaps the problem, he thought to himself.
I have not taken life. I have merely granted freedom.
Not that it would make a difference. All of the others had been the same. All but one.
Julie...
His grip strengthened at the recollection. He remembered the thrill of the act. He remembered her pitiful cries and the salty bite of her tears and he kissed her cheek in the throes of passion. He'd never felt more alive than in that precious moment, and he longed to feel it again.
This would not be the last. No, he would keep searching until he found it again, or until the universe and all its gods saw fit to end his quest prematurely. There could be nothing else.
There would be victory, or there wouldn't.
Either way, there would be death.
I suppose I should post an advisory, in that the following passage might be a bit disturbing to some. Take that as you will.
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Thing 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one
Borogan's fingers clenched more tightly around the woman's throat. Her thrashing had long since stopped, but still he squeezed, hoping against hope that he would feel... something. Anything; some whisper of life sparking through the swirling blackness of his soul.
And yet, it remained quiet.
Of course it did. She was a nothing; some nameless harlet he'd torn from the streets during her time of sin. Nobody would notice. Nobody would miss. That was perhaps the problem, he thought to himself.
I have not taken life. I have merely granted freedom.
Not that it would make a difference. All of the others had been the same. All but one.
Julie...
His grip strengthened at the recollection. He remembered the thrill of the act. He remembered her pitiful cries and the salty bite of her tears and he kissed her cheek in the throes of passion. He'd never felt more alive than in that precious moment, and he longed to feel it again.
This would not be the last. No, he would keep searching until he found it again, or until the universe and all its gods saw fit to end his quest prematurely. There could be nothing else.
There would be victory, or there wouldn't.
Either way, there would be death.
Friday 6 November 2015
Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
Greetings viewers. It's time for another terribly unexciting chapter of "Dom writes some things and nobody reads them!" Let's see what the universe has in store for me today, shall we?
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Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
"One step closer, and she dies."
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So I tried something a little different today. I'm really good at writing too much -- sweeping, long-winded passages rife with emotion and descriptive elements. I'm really bad at writing short things. I figured this time around I would try to be brief. I think my above passage (inspired by the amazing 6-word story that pretty much everyone knows about already) actually says quite a lot in those few words, but I want to know what my audience thinks!
So yes, if you're reading this, please comment. I want to know if you can paint the same picture in your head that I had in mine when I put this together. Also, I can write a longer version if people would be interested in that, but I won't know unless you tell me.
Challenge extended.
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Thing 47: The time you were the most terrified -- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin
"One step closer, and she dies."
-------------------------
So I tried something a little different today. I'm really good at writing too much -- sweeping, long-winded passages rife with emotion and descriptive elements. I'm really bad at writing short things. I figured this time around I would try to be brief. I think my above passage (inspired by the amazing 6-word story that pretty much everyone knows about already) actually says quite a lot in those few words, but I want to know what my audience thinks!
So yes, if you're reading this, please comment. I want to know if you can paint the same picture in your head that I had in mine when I put this together. Also, I can write a longer version if people would be interested in that, but I won't know unless you tell me.
Challenge extended.
Wednesday 4 November 2015
Thing 46: Describe Exultation
"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."
~Ernest Hemingway
So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.
We both know I need it.
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Thing 46: Describe Exultation
I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!
In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.
My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.
What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.
Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.
I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.
The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.
But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.
But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.
Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.
Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.
Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.
~Ernest Hemingway
So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.
We both know I need it.
-------------------------
Thing 46: Describe Exultation
I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!
In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.
My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.
What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.
Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.
I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.
The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.
But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.
But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.
Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.
Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.
Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.
Tuesday 3 November 2015
Thing 45: Your most transcendent ice cream experience
Two in one week? What is this madness!?
Yes, my dear follower, I am doing another! Because hey, why not. It's not like I'm doing anything else. I figured it was high time to start taking this whole writing nonsense seriously again.
Anyway, here goes!
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Thing 45: Your most transcedent ice cream experience
Jared yawned as his slippered feet slid across the tiles, slowly but surely bringing him toward the freezer. It was 5:37 AM, and if he were being honest with himself he was mighty tired, but this was his weekend. No job, no girlfriend -- just the sweet freedom to do whatever he damn well pleased.
And you know what? He damn well pleased some damn ice cream.
He stopped for a moment at that, furrowing his brow as he tried to determine if that thought actually made any sense. Through the haze of the lateness of the hour (and possibly the lingering alcohol in his system) he couldn't be sure, but his keenly-trained literary mind was leaning toward a definite "no." Still, he wasn't nearly confident enough for his liking.
I guess that degree in english literature really wasn't good for anything. Mom was right.
Scowling now, he ripped open the freezer, not even flinching as the door collided madly with the cabinets and bounced slowly back toward him. It was a bit of a sorry sight inside, considering the number of frozen pizzas he had engorged over the past few days, but like a shining beacon the box he knew to be present sat prominently at the fore of an otherwise empty shelf.
Ice cream. Cookies and cream, no less. For some reason he'd always been a bit ashamed to admit it, but that was his favourite flavour. He supposed that particular thought process had something to do with his father's irrational fear of salmonilla. He ignored it with a shrug, managing to find the perfect balance between abject rage and utter nonchalance.
It was that kind of weekend.
He grabbed the box with a tired hand and slid it off the shelf, letting it and the arm that held it drop lazily to his side as he shuffled toward the cutlery drawer. His empty hand fished around in the thing and pulled out the first spoon it found. The fact that this spoon was nearly the size of his fist was irrelevant. It's intended purpose was supposed to be gravy or some such, but he figured it would work for ice cream just as well. After all, he wasn't planning on using a bowl, so having a spoon that doubled as one was probably the next best thing.
Utensil in hand, he dragged his feet and made his way to the living room, being sure to headbutt the freezer closed on his way past. The impact was a small one, but it did manage to wake him up ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it allowed him to muster enough latent energy to hop over the back of hte couch when he arrived at it, landing with a resounding thud with perfectly complimented the kung fu movie still fruitlessly playing on his TV. It was some kind of marathon, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was mindless, and he appreciated that. Why think? Waste of time, really, all things considered.
He sighed and took another look at the box before him. The packaging was different from what he remembered. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd had any ice cream at all. Stacey was lactose intolerant.
Screw you, Stacey, he thought. You made your choice.
He popped off the top and let it tumble to the floor, wasting no time in injecting his monstrosity of a spoon into the hardened creamery. It was no easy task, but by now he was determined, and nothing was going to stop him, so a few odd grunts and more effort than he cared to admit later, he was happily munching on his prize. It tasted... different. But no, now it was a matter of pride. Who cared what it tasted like? This was the ice cream of triumph. It was a celebration of freedom and independence and being able to produce lactase. Unlike some people. Stupid Stacey.
Hey, is the room supposed to be spinning like this?
As the walls leaned toward him he began to question a great many things. Who was he talking to? Did he even ask that question out loud? Why did this taste like purple?
He was reasonably certain that this was not the normal ice cream-eating experience. Yes, something was decidedly different. But what? And less importantly, why? Unable to put any of his eleven fingers on the former, he directed a raised eyebrow down toward the ice cream's lid, sitting happily on the carpet. Reaching his leg over the couch's parapet, he wrapped a tentacled appendage around the thing and turned it so that he could see the other side.
It just so happened that the expiry date was written there, and from his high vantage point, plainly visible.
Ten years. It had been expired for ten years.
There was a quiet moment then. Well, relatively quiet. The strange hum emanating from pretty much everything in the room was a bit daunting, but htere was a strange peace to it, and now that the screaming had died down he had a precious window to dwell on this new development.
With a shrug, he brought the spoon to his lips...
Yes, my dear follower, I am doing another! Because hey, why not. It's not like I'm doing anything else. I figured it was high time to start taking this whole writing nonsense seriously again.
Anyway, here goes!
-------------------------
Thing 45: Your most transcedent ice cream experience
Jared yawned as his slippered feet slid across the tiles, slowly but surely bringing him toward the freezer. It was 5:37 AM, and if he were being honest with himself he was mighty tired, but this was his weekend. No job, no girlfriend -- just the sweet freedom to do whatever he damn well pleased.
And you know what? He damn well pleased some damn ice cream.
He stopped for a moment at that, furrowing his brow as he tried to determine if that thought actually made any sense. Through the haze of the lateness of the hour (and possibly the lingering alcohol in his system) he couldn't be sure, but his keenly-trained literary mind was leaning toward a definite "no." Still, he wasn't nearly confident enough for his liking.
I guess that degree in english literature really wasn't good for anything. Mom was right.
Scowling now, he ripped open the freezer, not even flinching as the door collided madly with the cabinets and bounced slowly back toward him. It was a bit of a sorry sight inside, considering the number of frozen pizzas he had engorged over the past few days, but like a shining beacon the box he knew to be present sat prominently at the fore of an otherwise empty shelf.
Ice cream. Cookies and cream, no less. For some reason he'd always been a bit ashamed to admit it, but that was his favourite flavour. He supposed that particular thought process had something to do with his father's irrational fear of salmonilla. He ignored it with a shrug, managing to find the perfect balance between abject rage and utter nonchalance.
It was that kind of weekend.
He grabbed the box with a tired hand and slid it off the shelf, letting it and the arm that held it drop lazily to his side as he shuffled toward the cutlery drawer. His empty hand fished around in the thing and pulled out the first spoon it found. The fact that this spoon was nearly the size of his fist was irrelevant. It's intended purpose was supposed to be gravy or some such, but he figured it would work for ice cream just as well. After all, he wasn't planning on using a bowl, so having a spoon that doubled as one was probably the next best thing.
Utensil in hand, he dragged his feet and made his way to the living room, being sure to headbutt the freezer closed on his way past. The impact was a small one, but it did manage to wake him up ever so slightly. It wasn't much, but it allowed him to muster enough latent energy to hop over the back of hte couch when he arrived at it, landing with a resounding thud with perfectly complimented the kung fu movie still fruitlessly playing on his TV. It was some kind of marathon, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was mindless, and he appreciated that. Why think? Waste of time, really, all things considered.
He sighed and took another look at the box before him. The packaging was different from what he remembered. Then again, it had been a very long time since he'd had any ice cream at all. Stacey was lactose intolerant.
Screw you, Stacey, he thought. You made your choice.
He popped off the top and let it tumble to the floor, wasting no time in injecting his monstrosity of a spoon into the hardened creamery. It was no easy task, but by now he was determined, and nothing was going to stop him, so a few odd grunts and more effort than he cared to admit later, he was happily munching on his prize. It tasted... different. But no, now it was a matter of pride. Who cared what it tasted like? This was the ice cream of triumph. It was a celebration of freedom and independence and being able to produce lactase. Unlike some people. Stupid Stacey.
Hey, is the room supposed to be spinning like this?
As the walls leaned toward him he began to question a great many things. Who was he talking to? Did he even ask that question out loud? Why did this taste like purple?
He was reasonably certain that this was not the normal ice cream-eating experience. Yes, something was decidedly different. But what? And less importantly, why? Unable to put any of his eleven fingers on the former, he directed a raised eyebrow down toward the ice cream's lid, sitting happily on the carpet. Reaching his leg over the couch's parapet, he wrapped a tentacled appendage around the thing and turned it so that he could see the other side.
It just so happened that the expiry date was written there, and from his high vantage point, plainly visible.
Ten years. It had been expired for ten years.
There was a quiet moment then. Well, relatively quiet. The strange hum emanating from pretty much everything in the room was a bit daunting, but htere was a strange peace to it, and now that the screaming had died down he had a precious window to dwell on this new development.
With a shrug, he brought the spoon to his lips...
Sunday 1 November 2015
Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"As little as you want to write when you're happy, that's how much you have to write when you're miserable. Your passions have to go somewhere and this is hte only place left.
Your suffering has to be good for something. It's not for me to say if hte words were worth the price."
~5 to 7
What an interesting evening this has turned out to be.
The quote above is from a movie which I've just finished watching (called 5 to 7, as I realise that isn't particularly clear), and I think it really speaks to me, and I think some of my best work has come from a place of darkness. A large part of this particular resurgence comes from that realisation. The other part comes from a book I began reading very recently: The Slow Regard of Silent Things, by Patrick Rothfuss. Though I've yet to finish it, I believe it to be a literary masterpiece, even though it is (as the author attests) a bit different.
I guess the short of it is that I've been exposed to some truly amazing literary pieces of late, and I feel it's time I started to do my part once again. As such, I'm dusting off the old book and am ready to give it another go. Looking back over some of my other pieces, I feel there's quite a lot of ground to make up, so you'll have to bear with me. I am but a man, and yet I can barely succeed even at that.x
Without further adieu, I give to you Thing 44! I should remind you that when I do one of these I have no idea what it is I'm writing about until I actually begin, so as of this moment I have yet to see what thing 44 is. I'm also not really sure where in the book I am anymore, so I'll probably just have to move through it systematically until I find one I don't recognize...
-------------------------
Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"Oh stop being such a coward!"
Jane's chastising hung over him like dark cloud as he stared down at the thing. It was a monstrosity, oozing with mucous and ooze and who knew what else. To Edward, raised as a proper english gentleman in the highest society, the experience was a highly traumatizing one.
It's downright unsanitary. I'm expected to eat this?
Brow thoroughly furrowed, he allowed his gaze to slide back to the disappointed scowl of his companion.
"Surely you can't be serious. Death seems far more tempting a fate than to be subjected to such horrors."
Jane sighed and placed her once-delicate hands on her hips. "We've been stranded here for the better part of a month, you ninny. Each day the fruit we manage to gather dwindles and you're already proven that you're less than useful with a net. These creatures, whatever they may be, are both plentiful and easy to obtain. If we have any intention of holding out until the navy finds us, they may well be our salvation. Besides," she said with a smirk, "they aren't half bad, all things considered. Certainly better than when you tried your hand at cooking."
The nobleman simply sat in stunned silence. He wanted to retort, of course, but between the beslimed resident of his palm, the verbal lashing Jane laid upon him, and what was most assuredly some severe case of sunstroke, his mind consistently failed to produce any string of words which could be considered even remotely coherently. Instead, he simply allowed his eyes to sink once again.
It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unprecendented. Unceremonious.
"It's unavoidable, Edward. Eat the blasted thing or starve. But consider this: if by some miracle the opportunity for rescue presents itself and you somehow manage to survive, you'll be forced to explain to everyone how you not only were too pusillanimous to consume shellfish, but were in fact beaten by the very woman you swore to protect in so little a thing. You'll be laughed right out of the manor, and I shall be at the fore, taking great pleasure in your misery."
As much as he hated to admit it, he was forced to concede the point. It was more than survival, now. It was a matter of honour.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, holding it as he pried open the shell with unsteady hands.
Oh dear lord in heaven. Give me strength.
Finishing his silent prayer, he brought the oyster to his lips...
-------------------------
It should be noted at this time that I have no idea when people actually started eating oysters. Just assume that whatever time period you envision this taking place in is canon for the particular world in which the story takes place.
Your suffering has to be good for something. It's not for me to say if hte words were worth the price."
~5 to 7
What an interesting evening this has turned out to be.
The quote above is from a movie which I've just finished watching (called 5 to 7, as I realise that isn't particularly clear), and I think it really speaks to me, and I think some of my best work has come from a place of darkness. A large part of this particular resurgence comes from that realisation. The other part comes from a book I began reading very recently: The Slow Regard of Silent Things, by Patrick Rothfuss. Though I've yet to finish it, I believe it to be a literary masterpiece, even though it is (as the author attests) a bit different.
I guess the short of it is that I've been exposed to some truly amazing literary pieces of late, and I feel it's time I started to do my part once again. As such, I'm dusting off the old book and am ready to give it another go. Looking back over some of my other pieces, I feel there's quite a lot of ground to make up, so you'll have to bear with me. I am but a man, and yet I can barely succeed even at that.x
Without further adieu, I give to you Thing 44! I should remind you that when I do one of these I have no idea what it is I'm writing about until I actually begin, so as of this moment I have yet to see what thing 44 is. I'm also not really sure where in the book I am anymore, so I'll probably just have to move through it systematically until I find one I don't recognize...
-------------------------
Thing 44: The thoughts of the first man to eat an oyster
"Oh stop being such a coward!"
Jane's chastising hung over him like dark cloud as he stared down at the thing. It was a monstrosity, oozing with mucous and ooze and who knew what else. To Edward, raised as a proper english gentleman in the highest society, the experience was a highly traumatizing one.
It's downright unsanitary. I'm expected to eat this?
Brow thoroughly furrowed, he allowed his gaze to slide back to the disappointed scowl of his companion.
"Surely you can't be serious. Death seems far more tempting a fate than to be subjected to such horrors."
Jane sighed and placed her once-delicate hands on her hips. "We've been stranded here for the better part of a month, you ninny. Each day the fruit we manage to gather dwindles and you're already proven that you're less than useful with a net. These creatures, whatever they may be, are both plentiful and easy to obtain. If we have any intention of holding out until the navy finds us, they may well be our salvation. Besides," she said with a smirk, "they aren't half bad, all things considered. Certainly better than when you tried your hand at cooking."
The nobleman simply sat in stunned silence. He wanted to retort, of course, but between the beslimed resident of his palm, the verbal lashing Jane laid upon him, and what was most assuredly some severe case of sunstroke, his mind consistently failed to produce any string of words which could be considered even remotely coherently. Instead, he simply allowed his eyes to sink once again.
It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Unprecendented. Unceremonious.
"It's unavoidable, Edward. Eat the blasted thing or starve. But consider this: if by some miracle the opportunity for rescue presents itself and you somehow manage to survive, you'll be forced to explain to everyone how you not only were too pusillanimous to consume shellfish, but were in fact beaten by the very woman you swore to protect in so little a thing. You'll be laughed right out of the manor, and I shall be at the fore, taking great pleasure in your misery."
As much as he hated to admit it, he was forced to concede the point. It was more than survival, now. It was a matter of honour.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, holding it as he pried open the shell with unsteady hands.
Oh dear lord in heaven. Give me strength.
Finishing his silent prayer, he brought the oyster to his lips...
-------------------------
It should be noted at this time that I have no idea when people actually started eating oysters. Just assume that whatever time period you envision this taking place in is canon for the particular world in which the story takes place.
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