I've seen it at least 3 times, now.
No...I believe it was 4 times, if I'm to be truly honest with myself, and I must. For if I fill my own ears with lies and deception, then who knows what that could lead to.
I may grow angry.
I may stalk through the night, blade held tight, stepping in the memorised locations upon the old wooden floorboards of this house that yield no creaking moans of protest.
For I do not wish for my location to be revealed.
I must precisely execute every step of this remembered dance so that I may infiltrate my own sleeping chamber...without waking myself up.
For if I catch even the slightest scent of my own approach then it will be curtains for us all.
I will unleash considerably more than a simple “moan of protest” if I learn of my own vicious plans for this evening. If I am discovered then I will surely tear the wallpaper of this shabby dwelling with screams that would shatter the teeth of a whole choir of sinister angels, rendered deaf by a birth defect that was no mere accident, contrary to what the newsreels will have us all believe.
Damn it.
I'm losing focus...and I cannot afford to do so.
The steps...I must recall the correct steps...
What was the next one? Think!
...Wait.
Something...has just caused a vibration in that area of the memory-web that causes the plump abdomen of the mind to pulsate in anticipation of a delicious new recollection.
Well-timed, too. For I have grown hungry.
This nostalgic morsel will help me maintain my stamina.
...What?
This is no memory.
This...this is a...an understanding.
My god.
How could I not have noticed?
It was so clear.
The floorboards...
“Moan of protest”...
Why did that particular current in my stream of consciousness self-punctuate as if it was in third-person?
Almost as if...it was heard...
Now I hear something...
The soft, disappointed moan of creaking wood was enough to make me turn...yet this reaction was predictably late.
My eyes had only a chance to barely locate my assailant, but not focus on them, as the blade seemed to vanish from my grip and appear elsewhere.
Unfortunately, 'elsewhere' happened to be buried 5 inches into my chest and by the time I understood that brutal fact about my own bodily geography, it was too late.
I did not hear another floorboard creak as I crashed to the floor.
Perhaps, I struck a rare silent board? It could happen.
After all, those boards were integral locations in the many steps I'd committed to memory that made up the 'dance' that allowed me to get close enough to my own sleeping chamber and murder myself while I slept.
*Sigh*
I've never been a good dancer.
Perhaps that fact should have tipped me off that this endeavour was doomed from the beginning.
Surely I should have realised that I would learn of my own sinister intent?
Was I simply too arrogant to acknowledge this fact? Did I consider myself...stronger than myself?
If so, then I must be laughing heartily now.
I hear something...
The moan of another floorboard?
No.
Just laughter.
The soft, raspy laughter that comes from a parched and cracked throat that has known nothing but the flow of endless insults and hostility from the darkness within for years.
That laugh is familiar.
For it is my laugh.
I know it well.
I lie upon the floor and wish I could join in on the mirth...but a punctured lung, shattered rib and flooded chest cavity do not allow for much in the way of vocal expressions of joy.
I listen to myself laugh as I stand over my convulsing body.
The heaving sounds and corporeal shudders have reached a regular rhythm, and I realise that I have done this so many times now, that I can almost perfectly pinpoint the exact moment when 'body' transitions into 'corpse'.
It's a skill. One of many.
I should set my watch to this moment in time.
Where is my watch? No matter.
I utter a bubbling gurgle of fluid and bone fragments as I try to begin a fit of giggling, but I do not hear it because my own laughing has increased in volume and I hear nothing but the cacophony of joyous echoes as they fill the room like unnamed guests at a dinner party.
The laughter sounds like a party, actually.
The wind from the night outside was ideal for masking my footsteps, but now I can barely hear it.
The laughter has drowned everything... and I know that, I too, am drowning.
I try for another gurgle.
Perhaps a bark of final defiance...or a simple giggling word...
...Nope. No good. The laughter is too loud.
Strange; I thought I would feel worse, considering my situation.
Instead, I feel...calm. A sense of satisfaction seems to be a side dish to the main emotion.
Perhaps that laughter really is infectious.
I don't know.
I'll just close my eyes now. I'm tired of looking up at myself.
I never liked myself from that angle anyway.
I can't even hear the wind any more.
I can only hear myself laughing.
I could use a lozenge.
I have things to do. I'm glad my eyes are closing.
Soon...
My eyes are closed.
The change will happen soon. I'm glad. Right on schedule. I don't need my watch.
I can only hear my laughter.
Laughter.
Nothing else.
I cannot hear anything except laughter.
I CANNOT HEAR ANYTHING...except...laughter...
...and the moan of a floorboard from behind me.
It seems louder than usual. Clearer.
My laughing stops.
I cannot look down at my body...or is it a corpse now? I can't tell. There's no time.
I cannot turn around. There's no time. Where the hell is my watch?
I only heard the floorboard.
I only feel the hands alongside my head...as my neck is snapped.
I wish I heard the crack.
I wish I could still hear my laughter...
I open my eyes and blink until I'm satisfied with the clarity.
My mind echoes, but I can't remember the point of origin.
Perhaps I'll remember later.
My throat hurts.
I lick my lips and wonder when was the last time I drank.
Even if I had my watch, it could not provide such information.
The room is dusty...and I can easily see the footprints that I've left upon the floorboards.
Only my prints.
It looks like some kind of dance has taken place.
I lean forward and shift my weight onto a nearby floorboard; one that has no footprint.
...It creaks, like the groan of a disturbed homeless man.
Just as I thought.
I was lying...and it looks like it worked.
After all; I'm an excellent dancer.
(Just writing to see what comes out. This came out. I wrote most of this a couple o' months ago, I think. I can't remember the exact date.)
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
THE SUMMONING
Our tale begins upon a single blade of grass in the middle of an open, yet secluded grove, deep within the heart of a forest so lush and teeming with plant-life that one could rightly assume that should one remain motionless within said forest for long enough; the moisture in their armpits alone would make an ideal environment to begin the cultivation of any number of new spores and organisms. While this is lovely and charming in a ‘circle of life’ kind of way; it is essentially a discomforting thought. Hardly anybody, in their right mind, would find the prospect of vines and fungi flourishing in various crevices upon their body an attractive situation. However; perhaps this is merely an exaggeration in order to stress how sodding fertile this particular wooded area may be. …Or perhaps not. Let us continue, shall we?
Back to the grass…
On any other day; this particular sliver of seemingly insignificant flora would not be worth my time nor yours…nor that of any other vision-capable creature with even the dimmest of mental illumination. But today is not any other day. Today is today…and this day just happens to be the most important day in the whole existence of this singular blade of grass. Everything that has come before has merely been a preview; a build-up; a tensely escalating crescendo that will finally lead to this impending climactic event in the complex life-cycle of this tiny blade of grass.…For it is about to be stepped upon.
…Now.
As his foot touched down upon the soft grass; the slender figure paused for a moment.His movements were slow and calculated; as if apprehensive of the environment outside his luxurious carriage. Ducking his head slightly so as to clear his top-hat through the doorway, the thin gentleman leaned halfway out and gazed around carefully at the surrounding forest…and its occupants.
A kind of coughing snort brought him out of his intense evaluation and he turned in the direction of the sound. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the two hulking creatures that were tethered to the front of his carriage. They were large, quadrupedal beasts called shalba, with flowing manes and coats similar to that of musk-oxen. They were generally used for transport and as labour-animals, but they also had a tongue that was porous and secreted a honey-like substance which was highly coveted by various traders and other such folk in the aromatic elixir industry. It just so happens to be mildly narcotic as well. There are more than enough second-hand stories making the rounds of local taverns regarding various shalba-farmers who have been caught in the act of ‘milking’ the tongues of their herd. The old fashioned way.
While shalba are generally good-natured beasts, they can grow incredibly irate if they are not given anything to chew on a regular basis (excluding farmers), as their sticky tongues require something for absorption. The first sign of such a mood-swing is a loud kind of snorting-cough followed by an erratic display of independent eye blinking.
And it is those bright green eyes that just so happen to be rapidly fluttering at the thin gentleman at this moment.
As a thin mist of rain starts to dampen the air, the thin gent carefully emerges from the darkness of the carriage interior and makes his way toward the snuffling creatures. He stares at them for a second or two before reaching into his vest pocket and producing two reddish orbs, which pulse gently with a faint, glowing light from within. The shalba grow visibly excited upon viewing these orbs and the gent feeds them one each. Almost instantly; as the chewing commences, the shalba’s eyes close happily and their heads begin to gently bob in a rhythmic action in time with the copious chewing.
With the knowledge that they will be content for quite a while now; the gent pays the beasts no more mind, swiftly spins around on his heels and strides off into the grove; making a raised wooden platform his destination.
The many occupants of the forest gathered here on this day keep their collective eyes upon the gentleman as he purposefully ascends the few small stairs leading up to the wooden stage. His boot-heeled steps combining with his walking-stick upon the hardwood produces an almost hypnotic Morse-code of knocks that would spell only one phrase - were any of those creatures amongst the assembled crowd capable of Morse-code deciphering, which is highly unlikely - regardless; that phrase would be, ‘See here, all ye who are assembled. This gent holds attention-worthy words. And plenty of them’.
Now despite the fact that most of the assembled populace would not understand such a phrase, and even if you mentioned the term ‘Morse-code’ to them they would only either stare blankly, run away or shriek and bite your arm; they still had no choice but to stare attentively forward at the striking figure who stood upon the stage like some darkly-attired concierge of the gods.
And this dark-haired prince of shadows stared straight back at them.
His eyes narrowed once again as he carefully took a mental inventory of all those amassed before him. It was his responsibility to make sure all were present and accounted for. His responsibility to ensure that all those summoned to this meeting, had done just that. For while he too was summoned to this congregation; much to his displeasure, he also happened to be the first one called upon, and it was he who was charged with the grand task of summoning the rest of those who wait expectantly today.
So basically; (deep breath) …a summoner summoned a person to become a summoner so that they may summon many, many others to attend a rather important assembly. …And may those above curse any who dares disregard their summoning.
Yes, that about sums it up.
It could not be any clearer.
Moving on…
As the gentleman’s eyes beheld each and every member of the massive crowd; he had to restrain himself internally with all the grace and decorum that he could muster. For while it was his duty to know the appearance and names of every single inhabitant of these lands, some of them had physical…attributes…that could almost paralyse the mind; so hideous or bizarre where they in their genetic architecture. However; the pendulum of knee-jerk reactions could swing in the opposite direction should enough time be spent in this particular world; as many of the visions on display in the crowd could just as easily be the product of blissful dreams as of feverish nightmares. For every plump, squishy, little bundle of mirth like the playfully vibrating moss kittens; there is a hideous, sense-crippling, reason for dry-retching such as the mulch-dwelling marrow-worms who spend their days reproducing live larval offspring from their mouths and a have a habit of infecting the bones of larger, happier, pastry-loving creatures. Such an infection will, in turn, reduce a previously large and joyful creature to a smaller, weaker, unhappy little shadow of its former self.
...With no desire whatsoever for pastries or baked-goods of any sort.
...And then the worms devour its skeleton.
...While it is still alive.
...Possibly even mid-conversation.
This will undoubtedly lead to the surviving member of the prematurely halted conversation taking offence at such blatant social mistreatment. After all, in such a situation; it is unlikely that one would have the forethought to make a dignified exit with an excuse such as, “Pardon me. Forgive my rudeness; but I honestly must take my leave of the discussion at this point as there seems to be a plague of violently-ravenous parasitic worms viciously devouring my skeleton from the inside. Perhaps we may continue our discussion at a later date?”
Once again; socially-diplomatic verbiage such as this is unfortunately not likely to be coming from your mouth during the aforementioned dilemma.
Worms will, however.
Yes, it is such serious situations and creatures as diverse as this, that has made the thin gentlemen take on his role as organizer of this whole affair with a level of diligence that he would usually only reserve for extra-special tasks in the past. Tasks such as perhaps baking an extra large pie in the shape of a pig’s head for some kind of festival or attempting to gain an evening tumble from a disarmingly attractive ale-wench with sinful eyes and a bosom worthy of poetic praise in volumes.
Alas, the gent’s mind and vision were, unfortunately, not concerned with matters of the flesh at this moment. And no matter how much he may wish that he were elsewhere and in the arms of somebody or some bodies; …his mind knows fully well that he must maintain focus. He must stick to the plan.
He slowly inhales and exhales as he gently lays his walking-stick upon the stage at his feet. He delicately adjusts his top-hat, checks his pocket-watch and, taking comfort in his impeccable appearance and timing; a warm vibration of calm begins to fill his being as he ponders his current status…
He has been given a task.
He has completed one half of it, for as far as he is concerned; all who were summoned here today have made an appearance.
They now stand before him. They wish to hear from him. Collectively; they wish to know his reasons for this meeting. They want answers. They want an explanation. They do not know it; but the gent knows that they are in fact waiting for the second, and final, part of his task…
They wish to hear a speech.
And a speech begins with but a single word…
“Ahem.”
Suddenly one of the shalba lets out a loud, guttural grumble and then continues chewing contentedly.
Every member of the massive crowd has turned in silent unison to watch the shalba as it now proceeds to gently paw at the soft grass beneath its hoof-like feet; once again in time with the chewing.
Crackling vibrations of pulsing displeasure are almost visibly radiating from the thin gentleman as he levels his piercing gaze upon the shalba…and then returns it to the crowd…which is still watching the distracting animals.
The gent’s razor-sharp tone slices through the misty grove as the sunlight begins to filter through the leafy canopy above;
“Another ‘ahem’, perhaps!?”
In time with his words, he slams his heel down upon the hard wood of the stage and once again gains possession of the countless eyes amongst those assembled. The gentleman straightens his suit-coat once more and; so as not to allow another window for interruption, he continues…
“Welcome. Firstly; allow me to convey my thanks and appreciation for your gathering here on this day.
Secondly; I am going to get straight to the sharpest tip of my subject matter. …And if any one of you dares to interrupt me, distract me or emit an odour that brings even a single tear to my eyes I shall take the previously mentioned tip and, no matter how metaphorical it may be, I shall find a way to pierce your skull with this point and pin you to the nearest log. Have I made myself clear to a worrying degree? Those of you with more patience than I; please be so kind as to explain my words to those around you who may be a little…mentally-flaccid, if you please.
I would apologise for my tone and overall frosty demeanour…but I’m not going to. You and I both know that such an accessory would clash with the way my personality is dressed. We are here for a very, I repeat, VERY important event. And it is my duty, to instil upon all of you here today…the gravity and significance of this momentous occasion.
Very well then… You should all know me. You’ve heard my words. You’ve seen me about the village. You may even have sampled one of my many pastries. Basically, I require no introduction. But, as I am far too theatrical for that kind of subtlety, I shall introduce myself regardless. Ladies and gentlemen, …and those of you who are either sans gender or are so freakishly indescribable that your appearance defies classification of any sort; I am The Herald.
Now, we all know the tales that blow through this land of ours like a scented wind. They have been in our minds and flown from our lips since the dawn of our time. All of you; from the giant dirt-crabs to the tiny miniature cows, would know the tales of the Two Queens; Jessica and Claire.
We all know that Jessica the Traveller, Claire and her daughter, Lisa, reside in the realm above us.
...Along with that other being of whom we know very little.
Besides the fact that he likes to change some of our physical appearances while we sleep as a sick joke so that he can hear our shrieks of panic when we awaken to find ourselves either missing a limb or …’blessed’ by the addition of a plump, well-cooked sausage-like creature now growing from the centre of our chest, which offers sage advice and has a tendency to break into song at inappropriate times.
But that is not the issue I wish to discuss today.
You would all know that as The Herald, I am often privy to information that the rest of you would never learn of, even should you take the time to overturn each and every rock upon this world of ours.
Just as you would also know of whom I speak when I now mention…The Quillmaster. Some of you may know him by other names, for he has many, such as Hanque, for example. But regardless of his many guises; it is my duty to inform you that He…has charged me…with the duty of opening the door for you all; a door which will lead you to the meaning of your very existence.
We all know who we are, do we not? We all know where we live, am I correct? And some of the more mentally nimble amongst you may even secretly possess a half-baked notion or theory about WHY we are here.
But all of your theories, guesses, summations and carefully tested hypotheses…are wrong. They are filled with gaping holes through which the liquid of reality is going to pour until it forms a perfectly clear little puddle of truth at your feet.
And it is I who has come to mop up said truth and wring it out for you so that you each may drink of its enlightening juices.
Tasty, no?
Very well, allow me to begin by saying that it is no great secret that The Quillmaster created us. However; …who created The Quillmaster?
From whence did he come?
Why did he bless us with life and allow our lungs to take in each sweet breath of air like a gift from above?
Well, my friends and enemies, I now tell you that this gathering is to become a party…and this party is going to feature ‘knowledge’ as the guest of honour.
I know the answers.
You SHALL know the answers.
And even that strange goat-like creature up the back there, which hasn’t stopped cavorting and playing that cursed violin ever since I began my speech, shall know the answers. …As soon as he regains consciousness after the vicious beating I’m going to administer to him.
So, allow me to reveal all to you as is my charge this day.
This particular soiree is, in a matter of speaking, a celebration in honour of the woman who indirectly led to our creation.
She carried the seed which created He who would go on to create Us.
He created Us so that we could gather here, at this moment in time, to give thanks and honour She who would lead to our coming to be.
Getting confused? Worry not. Stick with me…
So, without further ado; let us raise our voices and praise the birth of She who is known as Jane of the Moores. 1 – 2 – 3,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY JANE MOORE!
We; Jessica, Claire and The Quillmaster are ever grateful to Jane Moore; …for she birthed 3 beautiful children. One of whom would go on to later bring us into this world; each and every one of us here today, from the greatest armour-plated caterpillars that slowly undulate across our landscape (stopping only occasionally at villages so that the warrior-like race of beings that use them as mounts may collect liquor, lyrics and lustful glances from any daughters that may be gratefully unsupervised)
…to the smallest blade of grass.
Well, I think that should do it.
Thank-you very much for coming. T’was a fine celebration, indeed.
But all must come to an end.
I own this forest…and I have grown weary of your presence within it.
If any of you are within my sight by the time I put my hat back on, I shall hunt you down and beat you with a sturdy bundle of assorted twigs.
You may all go now. Return to your homes, or trees or wherever it is that you were reluctantly drug out from. But do not get too comfortable. None of us; not even I, can ever know when The Quillmaster may call upon us again for this task or that.
Now kindly be gone.
I am late for my next errand. I must go and baby-sit Princess Lisa and she does not look kindly upon those who keep her waiting.
Good day to you all.”
(Created this as a birthday card for my mother a while back.
She liked it.
I wrote this on 15/6/06)
Back to the grass…
On any other day; this particular sliver of seemingly insignificant flora would not be worth my time nor yours…nor that of any other vision-capable creature with even the dimmest of mental illumination. But today is not any other day. Today is today…and this day just happens to be the most important day in the whole existence of this singular blade of grass. Everything that has come before has merely been a preview; a build-up; a tensely escalating crescendo that will finally lead to this impending climactic event in the complex life-cycle of this tiny blade of grass.…For it is about to be stepped upon.
…Now.
As his foot touched down upon the soft grass; the slender figure paused for a moment.His movements were slow and calculated; as if apprehensive of the environment outside his luxurious carriage. Ducking his head slightly so as to clear his top-hat through the doorway, the thin gentleman leaned halfway out and gazed around carefully at the surrounding forest…and its occupants.
A kind of coughing snort brought him out of his intense evaluation and he turned in the direction of the sound. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the two hulking creatures that were tethered to the front of his carriage. They were large, quadrupedal beasts called shalba, with flowing manes and coats similar to that of musk-oxen. They were generally used for transport and as labour-animals, but they also had a tongue that was porous and secreted a honey-like substance which was highly coveted by various traders and other such folk in the aromatic elixir industry. It just so happens to be mildly narcotic as well. There are more than enough second-hand stories making the rounds of local taverns regarding various shalba-farmers who have been caught in the act of ‘milking’ the tongues of their herd. The old fashioned way.
While shalba are generally good-natured beasts, they can grow incredibly irate if they are not given anything to chew on a regular basis (excluding farmers), as their sticky tongues require something for absorption. The first sign of such a mood-swing is a loud kind of snorting-cough followed by an erratic display of independent eye blinking.
And it is those bright green eyes that just so happen to be rapidly fluttering at the thin gentleman at this moment.
As a thin mist of rain starts to dampen the air, the thin gent carefully emerges from the darkness of the carriage interior and makes his way toward the snuffling creatures. He stares at them for a second or two before reaching into his vest pocket and producing two reddish orbs, which pulse gently with a faint, glowing light from within. The shalba grow visibly excited upon viewing these orbs and the gent feeds them one each. Almost instantly; as the chewing commences, the shalba’s eyes close happily and their heads begin to gently bob in a rhythmic action in time with the copious chewing.
With the knowledge that they will be content for quite a while now; the gent pays the beasts no more mind, swiftly spins around on his heels and strides off into the grove; making a raised wooden platform his destination.
The many occupants of the forest gathered here on this day keep their collective eyes upon the gentleman as he purposefully ascends the few small stairs leading up to the wooden stage. His boot-heeled steps combining with his walking-stick upon the hardwood produces an almost hypnotic Morse-code of knocks that would spell only one phrase - were any of those creatures amongst the assembled crowd capable of Morse-code deciphering, which is highly unlikely - regardless; that phrase would be, ‘See here, all ye who are assembled. This gent holds attention-worthy words. And plenty of them’.
Now despite the fact that most of the assembled populace would not understand such a phrase, and even if you mentioned the term ‘Morse-code’ to them they would only either stare blankly, run away or shriek and bite your arm; they still had no choice but to stare attentively forward at the striking figure who stood upon the stage like some darkly-attired concierge of the gods.
And this dark-haired prince of shadows stared straight back at them.
His eyes narrowed once again as he carefully took a mental inventory of all those amassed before him. It was his responsibility to make sure all were present and accounted for. His responsibility to ensure that all those summoned to this meeting, had done just that. For while he too was summoned to this congregation; much to his displeasure, he also happened to be the first one called upon, and it was he who was charged with the grand task of summoning the rest of those who wait expectantly today.
So basically; (deep breath) …a summoner summoned a person to become a summoner so that they may summon many, many others to attend a rather important assembly. …And may those above curse any who dares disregard their summoning.
Yes, that about sums it up.
It could not be any clearer.
Moving on…
As the gentleman’s eyes beheld each and every member of the massive crowd; he had to restrain himself internally with all the grace and decorum that he could muster. For while it was his duty to know the appearance and names of every single inhabitant of these lands, some of them had physical…attributes…that could almost paralyse the mind; so hideous or bizarre where they in their genetic architecture. However; the pendulum of knee-jerk reactions could swing in the opposite direction should enough time be spent in this particular world; as many of the visions on display in the crowd could just as easily be the product of blissful dreams as of feverish nightmares. For every plump, squishy, little bundle of mirth like the playfully vibrating moss kittens; there is a hideous, sense-crippling, reason for dry-retching such as the mulch-dwelling marrow-worms who spend their days reproducing live larval offspring from their mouths and a have a habit of infecting the bones of larger, happier, pastry-loving creatures. Such an infection will, in turn, reduce a previously large and joyful creature to a smaller, weaker, unhappy little shadow of its former self.
...With no desire whatsoever for pastries or baked-goods of any sort.
...And then the worms devour its skeleton.
...While it is still alive.
...Possibly even mid-conversation.
This will undoubtedly lead to the surviving member of the prematurely halted conversation taking offence at such blatant social mistreatment. After all, in such a situation; it is unlikely that one would have the forethought to make a dignified exit with an excuse such as, “Pardon me. Forgive my rudeness; but I honestly must take my leave of the discussion at this point as there seems to be a plague of violently-ravenous parasitic worms viciously devouring my skeleton from the inside. Perhaps we may continue our discussion at a later date?”
Once again; socially-diplomatic verbiage such as this is unfortunately not likely to be coming from your mouth during the aforementioned dilemma.
Worms will, however.
Yes, it is such serious situations and creatures as diverse as this, that has made the thin gentlemen take on his role as organizer of this whole affair with a level of diligence that he would usually only reserve for extra-special tasks in the past. Tasks such as perhaps baking an extra large pie in the shape of a pig’s head for some kind of festival or attempting to gain an evening tumble from a disarmingly attractive ale-wench with sinful eyes and a bosom worthy of poetic praise in volumes.
Alas, the gent’s mind and vision were, unfortunately, not concerned with matters of the flesh at this moment. And no matter how much he may wish that he were elsewhere and in the arms of somebody or some bodies; …his mind knows fully well that he must maintain focus. He must stick to the plan.
He slowly inhales and exhales as he gently lays his walking-stick upon the stage at his feet. He delicately adjusts his top-hat, checks his pocket-watch and, taking comfort in his impeccable appearance and timing; a warm vibration of calm begins to fill his being as he ponders his current status…
He has been given a task.
He has completed one half of it, for as far as he is concerned; all who were summoned here today have made an appearance.
They now stand before him. They wish to hear from him. Collectively; they wish to know his reasons for this meeting. They want answers. They want an explanation. They do not know it; but the gent knows that they are in fact waiting for the second, and final, part of his task…
They wish to hear a speech.
And a speech begins with but a single word…
“Ahem.”
Suddenly one of the shalba lets out a loud, guttural grumble and then continues chewing contentedly.
Every member of the massive crowd has turned in silent unison to watch the shalba as it now proceeds to gently paw at the soft grass beneath its hoof-like feet; once again in time with the chewing.
Crackling vibrations of pulsing displeasure are almost visibly radiating from the thin gentleman as he levels his piercing gaze upon the shalba…and then returns it to the crowd…which is still watching the distracting animals.
The gent’s razor-sharp tone slices through the misty grove as the sunlight begins to filter through the leafy canopy above;
“Another ‘ahem’, perhaps!?”
In time with his words, he slams his heel down upon the hard wood of the stage and once again gains possession of the countless eyes amongst those assembled. The gentleman straightens his suit-coat once more and; so as not to allow another window for interruption, he continues…
“Welcome. Firstly; allow me to convey my thanks and appreciation for your gathering here on this day.
Secondly; I am going to get straight to the sharpest tip of my subject matter. …And if any one of you dares to interrupt me, distract me or emit an odour that brings even a single tear to my eyes I shall take the previously mentioned tip and, no matter how metaphorical it may be, I shall find a way to pierce your skull with this point and pin you to the nearest log. Have I made myself clear to a worrying degree? Those of you with more patience than I; please be so kind as to explain my words to those around you who may be a little…mentally-flaccid, if you please.
I would apologise for my tone and overall frosty demeanour…but I’m not going to. You and I both know that such an accessory would clash with the way my personality is dressed. We are here for a very, I repeat, VERY important event. And it is my duty, to instil upon all of you here today…the gravity and significance of this momentous occasion.
Very well then… You should all know me. You’ve heard my words. You’ve seen me about the village. You may even have sampled one of my many pastries. Basically, I require no introduction. But, as I am far too theatrical for that kind of subtlety, I shall introduce myself regardless. Ladies and gentlemen, …and those of you who are either sans gender or are so freakishly indescribable that your appearance defies classification of any sort; I am The Herald.
Now, we all know the tales that blow through this land of ours like a scented wind. They have been in our minds and flown from our lips since the dawn of our time. All of you; from the giant dirt-crabs to the tiny miniature cows, would know the tales of the Two Queens; Jessica and Claire.
We all know that Jessica the Traveller, Claire and her daughter, Lisa, reside in the realm above us.
...Along with that other being of whom we know very little.
Besides the fact that he likes to change some of our physical appearances while we sleep as a sick joke so that he can hear our shrieks of panic when we awaken to find ourselves either missing a limb or …’blessed’ by the addition of a plump, well-cooked sausage-like creature now growing from the centre of our chest, which offers sage advice and has a tendency to break into song at inappropriate times.
But that is not the issue I wish to discuss today.
You would all know that as The Herald, I am often privy to information that the rest of you would never learn of, even should you take the time to overturn each and every rock upon this world of ours.
Just as you would also know of whom I speak when I now mention…The Quillmaster. Some of you may know him by other names, for he has many, such as Hanque, for example. But regardless of his many guises; it is my duty to inform you that He…has charged me…with the duty of opening the door for you all; a door which will lead you to the meaning of your very existence.
We all know who we are, do we not? We all know where we live, am I correct? And some of the more mentally nimble amongst you may even secretly possess a half-baked notion or theory about WHY we are here.
But all of your theories, guesses, summations and carefully tested hypotheses…are wrong. They are filled with gaping holes through which the liquid of reality is going to pour until it forms a perfectly clear little puddle of truth at your feet.
And it is I who has come to mop up said truth and wring it out for you so that you each may drink of its enlightening juices.
Tasty, no?
Very well, allow me to begin by saying that it is no great secret that The Quillmaster created us. However; …who created The Quillmaster?
From whence did he come?
Why did he bless us with life and allow our lungs to take in each sweet breath of air like a gift from above?
Well, my friends and enemies, I now tell you that this gathering is to become a party…and this party is going to feature ‘knowledge’ as the guest of honour.
I know the answers.
You SHALL know the answers.
And even that strange goat-like creature up the back there, which hasn’t stopped cavorting and playing that cursed violin ever since I began my speech, shall know the answers. …As soon as he regains consciousness after the vicious beating I’m going to administer to him.
So, allow me to reveal all to you as is my charge this day.
This particular soiree is, in a matter of speaking, a celebration in honour of the woman who indirectly led to our creation.
She carried the seed which created He who would go on to create Us.
He created Us so that we could gather here, at this moment in time, to give thanks and honour She who would lead to our coming to be.
Getting confused? Worry not. Stick with me…
So, without further ado; let us raise our voices and praise the birth of She who is known as Jane of the Moores. 1 – 2 – 3,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY JANE MOORE!
We; Jessica, Claire and The Quillmaster are ever grateful to Jane Moore; …for she birthed 3 beautiful children. One of whom would go on to later bring us into this world; each and every one of us here today, from the greatest armour-plated caterpillars that slowly undulate across our landscape (stopping only occasionally at villages so that the warrior-like race of beings that use them as mounts may collect liquor, lyrics and lustful glances from any daughters that may be gratefully unsupervised)
…to the smallest blade of grass.
Well, I think that should do it.
Thank-you very much for coming. T’was a fine celebration, indeed.
But all must come to an end.
I own this forest…and I have grown weary of your presence within it.
If any of you are within my sight by the time I put my hat back on, I shall hunt you down and beat you with a sturdy bundle of assorted twigs.
You may all go now. Return to your homes, or trees or wherever it is that you were reluctantly drug out from. But do not get too comfortable. None of us; not even I, can ever know when The Quillmaster may call upon us again for this task or that.
Now kindly be gone.
I am late for my next errand. I must go and baby-sit Princess Lisa and she does not look kindly upon those who keep her waiting.
Good day to you all.”
(Created this as a birthday card for my mother a while back.
She liked it.
I wrote this on 15/6/06)
RANT 02
You do not see enough ornate headwear being worn with pride these days… I want to see more. Much more. Broad-brimmed affairs that make passers-by stop and remark with much awe and respect. Slack-jawed, they would be. These hats of legend must not be without chin-support, though. No sir. The chin-strap would be a no-nonsense example of quality and safety; …all that you require in a strap. Perhaps, it could be made with some kind of intricate bead-work. Beads are at the height of fashion these days…and the modern gentleman cannot afford the serious social cost of being left out in the cold, or heat, without his chin proudly held within the snug confines of a quality, hand-made, beaded chin-strap. I believe the beads would be purchased for quite a reasonable fee from some kind of obscure mythical tribe of indigenous people who have been wronged in some way or another by whichever government/dark wizard is in power at the time. These tribes are different to you and I, so make sure you approach with caution and tread softly. They have customs which many may find frightful and primitive…yet I have learned their ways. I myself, as an educated scholar and gentleman, now find these sticky-eyed primitives merely annoying and disgusting. But my, can they dance! Why this one time, I had just asked the chief’s daughter for directions to the privy and…
…Anyway, I have put many years of dedication and study to good use…and it has come to the attention of my keen trader’s eye that these froth-mouthed, rock-monkeys don’t appear to know head nor tails of common barter practices. …And that brings me now to how I was able to wrangle such a smashing good deal on this shipment of fine, shiny beads.
They really are shiny.
I do say; I must have truly blessed the tribe that day with my tradesman’s skill and gentlemanly manner…for the chieftain was practically beside himself as I bid them farewell; beads safely packed away upon my faithful donkey. Oh the humour! You should have seen it! He was caught up in yet another one of their little manic dances and his eyes were brimming with tears and mucus. He even shook his fist in an attempt to mimic my own wave as I rode off. It really is amazing. We’re so different, yet so alike. …Tears of joy, my little dancing friend. Tears of joy, for all.
Now, if you wish to wear your ornate headwear whilst you engage in various strenuous activities such as clam-throwing or the manly practice of the ‘meat-joust’; a sturdy, well-made and reliable chin strap is a must. For example, say you have just happened to come across and unsupervised mule… First you would scream “FINDERS-KEEPERS!” in heavily-accented Polish; so as to scare off any possible brigands or overly-ambitious baboons which may be lurking in the shrubbery or beneath nearby rocks. After confidently staking your rightful claim to the unattended beast of burden, you may promptly mount said ‘burro’ and proceed to secure your ornate headwear, making sure not to forget about tightening the shiny-beaded chinstrap.
Now you may ride about the town without the fear of hat-loss…or ornate headwear-loss, as would be more the case. …A mere ‘hat’ is worn only by the filth within the gutters and by those who do more than just test their cousins for ripeness…
Dirty, dirty hats.
Well, the possibilities are almost infinite! Think of all of the exotic locations you could travel to whilst sporting your secure, yet manly, ornate headwear. “Quick Mustav! To the cheese-log factory, pronto!” These are just some of the words you may scream with much alcohol-fuelled determination as you ventured forth on your loyal steed. (I would advise against supplying Mustav with his own mule. …He cannot be trusted with quadripeds.)
My, my, my… Just think of all the words of praise that shall be lavished upon you as you make your way confidently through the winding streets; taking care to avoid stepping upon the legless beggars and crippled children that litter the ground like discarded wooden puppets. …Filthy they may be; but remember to show some heart. Hand them a slice of fruit, ripe or otherwise, and be on your way. So grateful will they be of your kind gift, that they will write songs and poetry of you for years to come! (However, do keep in mind that not all of these creatures are capable of such skills with the written word; …some do not even have fingers.)
A little one even managed to wobble forward in an attempt to hug me, I believe, with his outstretched rotting stumps. My faithful donkey put a quick stop to that. (He shall receive a treat with his oats tonight!)
I just do not have the time to stop and converse with every swollen-throated, pygmy freak who wishes to earn a shiny trinket from the handsome, mysterious traveller who happens to be passing by. My quest is important. And time is of the essence… For as my father screamed on his death-bed, “The Mistress of the Clock awaits no man! No matter how handsome I am!” …Hmmm. Truthful words, indeed, Father. Truthful.
I must now provide you with some potentially helpful words of a cautionary nature… If the townsfolk grow restless or slightly irate, and they will, at your constant presence within their community; simply reach for the ‘healing wand of diplomacy’ before you hastily snatch up the ‘spiked prong of conflict’. One must remember to keep a level head and never lose one’s composure and decorum; …no matter what wild accusations they may hurl at you from their rotten-tongued mouths. Believe me, I have heard them all; “Don’t touch that sacred bowl - Don’t eat that berry - Don’t open that tomb - Don’t touch that woman - Where did you get that bowl?” The list goes on and on…
(If all else fails; the good book says nothing against dealing out healthy doses of much-needed justice with the ‘Rifle of Transitional Change’. That’ll bring these wheezing, flesh-lumps to heel, right quick! Before you know it, you’ll have them clapping in time and performing skits for your enjoyment as you grow plump off their produce and enjoy their women! Huzzah!)
For the most part, however, the populace will generally just sit upon their heaped piles of discarded insect husks and stare blankly at their televisions. (These old TV’s are simply broken and unusable sets which have been scavenged by these people over the years from a monumental garbage dump, located many miles away. They say it is protected by a giant snake-woman who can sense fear and dislikes flowers. …I had to beat this information out of a small tribal magician who had a speech impediment. I do not believe his words…but it is still worth the beating… I’ll be washing drool and blood from my silk cuffs for a month now, mind.)
As I was saying; these televisions are located within each mud-walled homestead and are carefully draped in old noodles and a fresh lizard corpse, which is changed daily. As I understand it; they perform this practice, so as to both ‘improve reception’ and ward off evil spirits…which reside within their household radiators.
Which reminds me…
Behind and to the left of the radiator in my second apartment is the precise location in which I discovered, trained and gained the trust of, my late loyal steed and companion, Denholm, the giant tequila-worm.
…May he rest in piece.
I remember it like it was yesterday, ...or 3 years ago, to be precise. I was riding Denholm, with much vigour, through the rolling meadows of the high country; absorbing the lush, green vistas like a visual sponge, and it was at that precise moment that they caught my eye and I thought aloud to myself, “Now, why would those cows be belching flames at this time of year? …Curious, it is indeed…”
(PAGES MISSING – TORN FROM DIARY – SOME QUESTIONABLE STAINS)
...they made me sign some form of legal document. I remember it clearly because the cheap papyrus was brittle to the touch and its typed font hurt my eyes. This simple page was supposed to assure my silence regarding the entire incident. …But the joke is on them, I tell you. For I signed with my left hand.
I use my right hand for general purposes, while I save my left purely for deceitful acts…and some minor cooking here and there. …I just cannot seem to flip an omelette confidently with my right hand.
Baffling.
(Another one of those rants.
This one is just...strange.
Some horrible man swindles his way through some poor tribe in a fantasy land.
I wrote this one on 2/9/05)
…Anyway, I have put many years of dedication and study to good use…and it has come to the attention of my keen trader’s eye that these froth-mouthed, rock-monkeys don’t appear to know head nor tails of common barter practices. …And that brings me now to how I was able to wrangle such a smashing good deal on this shipment of fine, shiny beads.
They really are shiny.
I do say; I must have truly blessed the tribe that day with my tradesman’s skill and gentlemanly manner…for the chieftain was practically beside himself as I bid them farewell; beads safely packed away upon my faithful donkey. Oh the humour! You should have seen it! He was caught up in yet another one of their little manic dances and his eyes were brimming with tears and mucus. He even shook his fist in an attempt to mimic my own wave as I rode off. It really is amazing. We’re so different, yet so alike. …Tears of joy, my little dancing friend. Tears of joy, for all.
Now, if you wish to wear your ornate headwear whilst you engage in various strenuous activities such as clam-throwing or the manly practice of the ‘meat-joust’; a sturdy, well-made and reliable chin strap is a must. For example, say you have just happened to come across and unsupervised mule… First you would scream “FINDERS-KEEPERS!” in heavily-accented Polish; so as to scare off any possible brigands or overly-ambitious baboons which may be lurking in the shrubbery or beneath nearby rocks. After confidently staking your rightful claim to the unattended beast of burden, you may promptly mount said ‘burro’ and proceed to secure your ornate headwear, making sure not to forget about tightening the shiny-beaded chinstrap.
Now you may ride about the town without the fear of hat-loss…or ornate headwear-loss, as would be more the case. …A mere ‘hat’ is worn only by the filth within the gutters and by those who do more than just test their cousins for ripeness…
Dirty, dirty hats.
Well, the possibilities are almost infinite! Think of all of the exotic locations you could travel to whilst sporting your secure, yet manly, ornate headwear. “Quick Mustav! To the cheese-log factory, pronto!” These are just some of the words you may scream with much alcohol-fuelled determination as you ventured forth on your loyal steed. (I would advise against supplying Mustav with his own mule. …He cannot be trusted with quadripeds.)
My, my, my… Just think of all the words of praise that shall be lavished upon you as you make your way confidently through the winding streets; taking care to avoid stepping upon the legless beggars and crippled children that litter the ground like discarded wooden puppets. …Filthy they may be; but remember to show some heart. Hand them a slice of fruit, ripe or otherwise, and be on your way. So grateful will they be of your kind gift, that they will write songs and poetry of you for years to come! (However, do keep in mind that not all of these creatures are capable of such skills with the written word; …some do not even have fingers.)
A little one even managed to wobble forward in an attempt to hug me, I believe, with his outstretched rotting stumps. My faithful donkey put a quick stop to that. (He shall receive a treat with his oats tonight!)
I just do not have the time to stop and converse with every swollen-throated, pygmy freak who wishes to earn a shiny trinket from the handsome, mysterious traveller who happens to be passing by. My quest is important. And time is of the essence… For as my father screamed on his death-bed, “The Mistress of the Clock awaits no man! No matter how handsome I am!” …Hmmm. Truthful words, indeed, Father. Truthful.
I must now provide you with some potentially helpful words of a cautionary nature… If the townsfolk grow restless or slightly irate, and they will, at your constant presence within their community; simply reach for the ‘healing wand of diplomacy’ before you hastily snatch up the ‘spiked prong of conflict’. One must remember to keep a level head and never lose one’s composure and decorum; …no matter what wild accusations they may hurl at you from their rotten-tongued mouths. Believe me, I have heard them all; “Don’t touch that sacred bowl - Don’t eat that berry - Don’t open that tomb - Don’t touch that woman - Where did you get that bowl?” The list goes on and on…
(If all else fails; the good book says nothing against dealing out healthy doses of much-needed justice with the ‘Rifle of Transitional Change’. That’ll bring these wheezing, flesh-lumps to heel, right quick! Before you know it, you’ll have them clapping in time and performing skits for your enjoyment as you grow plump off their produce and enjoy their women! Huzzah!)
For the most part, however, the populace will generally just sit upon their heaped piles of discarded insect husks and stare blankly at their televisions. (These old TV’s are simply broken and unusable sets which have been scavenged by these people over the years from a monumental garbage dump, located many miles away. They say it is protected by a giant snake-woman who can sense fear and dislikes flowers. …I had to beat this information out of a small tribal magician who had a speech impediment. I do not believe his words…but it is still worth the beating… I’ll be washing drool and blood from my silk cuffs for a month now, mind.)
As I was saying; these televisions are located within each mud-walled homestead and are carefully draped in old noodles and a fresh lizard corpse, which is changed daily. As I understand it; they perform this practice, so as to both ‘improve reception’ and ward off evil spirits…which reside within their household radiators.
Which reminds me…
Behind and to the left of the radiator in my second apartment is the precise location in which I discovered, trained and gained the trust of, my late loyal steed and companion, Denholm, the giant tequila-worm.
…May he rest in piece.
I remember it like it was yesterday, ...or 3 years ago, to be precise. I was riding Denholm, with much vigour, through the rolling meadows of the high country; absorbing the lush, green vistas like a visual sponge, and it was at that precise moment that they caught my eye and I thought aloud to myself, “Now, why would those cows be belching flames at this time of year? …Curious, it is indeed…”
(PAGES MISSING – TORN FROM DIARY – SOME QUESTIONABLE STAINS)
...they made me sign some form of legal document. I remember it clearly because the cheap papyrus was brittle to the touch and its typed font hurt my eyes. This simple page was supposed to assure my silence regarding the entire incident. …But the joke is on them, I tell you. For I signed with my left hand.
I use my right hand for general purposes, while I save my left purely for deceitful acts…and some minor cooking here and there. …I just cannot seem to flip an omelette confidently with my right hand.
Baffling.
(Another one of those rants.
This one is just...strange.
Some horrible man swindles his way through some poor tribe in a fantasy land.
I wrote this one on 2/9/05)
RANT 01
Isn’t it confusing the way life seems to lead me in any way it so desires. It never even appears to care about my own feelings. It just does as it bloody-well pleases. HAHAHAHA! That’s right. I understand now. It’s all becoming abundantly clear. My god. I cannot believe that it has taken me this long to unravel the multi-faceted microcosm of baffling moments that we affectionately term as ’life’. Interesting. Why; just the other day I was out having a fairly pleasant and uninterrupted ambulatory journey through the center promenade of my picturesque mountain village. Now you see, I had gotten up exceptionally early that brisk morn’, and for good reason. To be honest, it was a combination of factors that led to the disruption of my ill-fated plans regarding sleeping till the later hours. The first factor being that my weak, low-threshold bladder was straining under its sloshing payload. Relief; …relief was what I desired. …That, and the sweet warm embrace of the suns rays coupled with a freshly baked, plump cinnamon roll. Ah, the goodness. One could not find a more simple pleasure than that. …Well, …of course one could obviously seek out a pleasure of equal status or, perhaps, if one truly applied one’s self, they might be fortunate enough to be blessed by the discovery of an even simpler pleasure, which could yield to the happy participant a level of bliss that would be unparalleled by anything we simple mortals possess upon this barren, desolate, inhospitable, husk of a planet we call home. I like it here. It’s a friendly land in which we all co-exist.
…Where the buggery are my slippers? …Do be quick now, as I’m a man of slight patience. …Ah, splendid. I do indeed like it when everything comes together nicely. It coats my fluffy, well-baked soul with a rich, creamy glaze of happiness and joy. …It is a welcome change from my usual untethered feelings of rage and my insatiable thirst for sweet, milky vengeance against all those who have dared oppose me and any of my ingenious; albeit misunderstood, plans regarding overall global improvement. More geckos in positions of power, I say. That’s right. Let those nay-sayers say ‘nay’. …And rightly so, …lest they be drummed out of the ‘negatively-outspoken-folks’’ union like the secretly positive, fraudulent bastards they are. Trap them in small cages made from bamboo and feed them not sweet, creamy baked-goods but rather a questionable assortment of sweaty meats. That will fix them.
…You there! Yes, you. The one staring at me from that ornate picture frame. Fetch me my satchel! Fetch it at once I say! I wish to go adventuring! Time waits for no man! …Except for he who carries a satisfactory bribe in the eyes of the Great Time-Keeper, …and a staunch old bugger he is. I mean honestly; you offer the gent a perfectly good squid-helmet whose previous owner was an old lady who ate concrete, and he laughs in your face! The gall! The absolute bloody audacity! Needless to say, I was quite taken aback! Bastard. I required one minor favor and he wouldn’t oblige a kind gentleman such as myself. I missed a crucial appointment as a result of his blatant disregard for the well being of his fellow man. He will rue the day! … But worry not. I’ll fix him. While he blissfully slumbers in his cot, I shall release leeches into his wife’s nostrils.
The wheels are in motion.
I can hear them creaking.
RIGHT! Now just hold on a bloody minute! What is the meaning of this! …Come on! Out with it! I demand an explanation, …or at least a colorfully festive fabrication of events that blends a humorous mix of truth and fiction into a dizzying cocktail of entertaining deceit that leaves all involved feeling plump and satisfied. …And it must include a leprous princess and not one, but two, fight sequences involving chain-smoking pixies.
…Well? I’ve got all night people! Don’t be foolish enough to assume that I require sleep! I take a special combination of medicinal herbs and I eat a lot of moths; so do not even attempt to outlast the night against me! …Fools! All of you! Weak-minded fools! You all crowd around, staring into me with your accusing eyes. But I can smell your fear. That’s right! FEAR! …But wait, …what’s that? There is something amiss. One of you is not in attendance. …I can smell them …or rather; I notice the absence of their scent, …that distinctive musk. That damp, fetid aroma that makes me yearn for the long-past days when I was able to suppress my gag reflex. However, that is out of my hands now. I ask you; do you know the discomfort one experiences when one’s fresh, warm vomit lies in one’s lap?
Yes? No? Anyone? Use your hands. Don’t be shy.
…Bah, enough of this. Bring him to me. Now. …I demand it! You know of whom I speak! Stop exchanging blank glances like baboons that have just enlisted in the Colonial Army, and bring him forth! You now fully well! He’s the one who apparently runs this madcap excuse for an institution! Yes! HIM! The one with the limp and the wobbly eye! I wish for a word with him! In fact, I’ve got a FEW words! A veritable ‘word-combination-onslaught’, which will swiftly nullify any chance he held of rebuttal. Tidings of woe, I tell you! That is what I hold for him! Grim tidings of pain and suffering are what I have in store for that louse! HE MUST LEARN OF MY WRATH! …HE MUST BE PROPERLY SCHOOLED IN THE ARTS OF TORMENT AND ANGUISH! I have had quite enough, I say!
However, I warn him…along with the rest of you, if I find another pregnant octopus in my breakfast coffee, …there will be DIRE repercussions. Mark my words…
…Now. Let us move along, shall we? Someone fetch me my saliva-flask and a small wedge of ripe cheese. I’m entertaining a lady of culture this evening…
(I don't know if other writers do this, but I find that sometimes you just need to let it all flow out upon the page.It helps get the wheels turning, y'know?I try not to overthink things and just let my mind take hold of the quill and dance off into the night.
This is what usually happens and it seems that I've a habit of sounding like an insane old man, actually. Bizarre.
I wrote this on 21/5/03)
…Where the buggery are my slippers? …Do be quick now, as I’m a man of slight patience. …Ah, splendid. I do indeed like it when everything comes together nicely. It coats my fluffy, well-baked soul with a rich, creamy glaze of happiness and joy. …It is a welcome change from my usual untethered feelings of rage and my insatiable thirst for sweet, milky vengeance against all those who have dared oppose me and any of my ingenious; albeit misunderstood, plans regarding overall global improvement. More geckos in positions of power, I say. That’s right. Let those nay-sayers say ‘nay’. …And rightly so, …lest they be drummed out of the ‘negatively-outspoken-folks’’ union like the secretly positive, fraudulent bastards they are. Trap them in small cages made from bamboo and feed them not sweet, creamy baked-goods but rather a questionable assortment of sweaty meats. That will fix them.
…You there! Yes, you. The one staring at me from that ornate picture frame. Fetch me my satchel! Fetch it at once I say! I wish to go adventuring! Time waits for no man! …Except for he who carries a satisfactory bribe in the eyes of the Great Time-Keeper, …and a staunch old bugger he is. I mean honestly; you offer the gent a perfectly good squid-helmet whose previous owner was an old lady who ate concrete, and he laughs in your face! The gall! The absolute bloody audacity! Needless to say, I was quite taken aback! Bastard. I required one minor favor and he wouldn’t oblige a kind gentleman such as myself. I missed a crucial appointment as a result of his blatant disregard for the well being of his fellow man. He will rue the day! … But worry not. I’ll fix him. While he blissfully slumbers in his cot, I shall release leeches into his wife’s nostrils.
The wheels are in motion.
I can hear them creaking.
RIGHT! Now just hold on a bloody minute! What is the meaning of this! …Come on! Out with it! I demand an explanation, …or at least a colorfully festive fabrication of events that blends a humorous mix of truth and fiction into a dizzying cocktail of entertaining deceit that leaves all involved feeling plump and satisfied. …And it must include a leprous princess and not one, but two, fight sequences involving chain-smoking pixies.
…Well? I’ve got all night people! Don’t be foolish enough to assume that I require sleep! I take a special combination of medicinal herbs and I eat a lot of moths; so do not even attempt to outlast the night against me! …Fools! All of you! Weak-minded fools! You all crowd around, staring into me with your accusing eyes. But I can smell your fear. That’s right! FEAR! …But wait, …what’s that? There is something amiss. One of you is not in attendance. …I can smell them …or rather; I notice the absence of their scent, …that distinctive musk. That damp, fetid aroma that makes me yearn for the long-past days when I was able to suppress my gag reflex. However, that is out of my hands now. I ask you; do you know the discomfort one experiences when one’s fresh, warm vomit lies in one’s lap?
Yes? No? Anyone? Use your hands. Don’t be shy.
…Bah, enough of this. Bring him to me. Now. …I demand it! You know of whom I speak! Stop exchanging blank glances like baboons that have just enlisted in the Colonial Army, and bring him forth! You now fully well! He’s the one who apparently runs this madcap excuse for an institution! Yes! HIM! The one with the limp and the wobbly eye! I wish for a word with him! In fact, I’ve got a FEW words! A veritable ‘word-combination-onslaught’, which will swiftly nullify any chance he held of rebuttal. Tidings of woe, I tell you! That is what I hold for him! Grim tidings of pain and suffering are what I have in store for that louse! HE MUST LEARN OF MY WRATH! …HE MUST BE PROPERLY SCHOOLED IN THE ARTS OF TORMENT AND ANGUISH! I have had quite enough, I say!
However, I warn him…along with the rest of you, if I find another pregnant octopus in my breakfast coffee, …there will be DIRE repercussions. Mark my words…
…Now. Let us move along, shall we? Someone fetch me my saliva-flask and a small wedge of ripe cheese. I’m entertaining a lady of culture this evening…
(I don't know if other writers do this, but I find that sometimes you just need to let it all flow out upon the page.It helps get the wheels turning, y'know?I try not to overthink things and just let my mind take hold of the quill and dance off into the night.
This is what usually happens and it seems that I've a habit of sounding like an insane old man, actually. Bizarre.
I wrote this on 21/5/03)
RERUNS
Probably the worst thing about breaking up…is the reruns.
It’s almost as if your imagination loses the ability to go forward.
To focus on the future.
Embrace the new horizon, if you will.…
None of that.
Instead, your mind will now decide to broadcast an endless supply of reruns from the past. Imagine a veritable back-catalogue of pain and anguish to ever torment you as you mentally roam the aisles of this depressing video-store of memories gone sour. Late-fees are not your concern at this point.
You will be able to enjoy these shows in your own private theatre whenever you close your eyes. And these shows, be they fact or fiction, will continue to play, both day and night, regardless of whatever you may be doing or trying to do.
You may find this unpleasant.
You may find these images distasteful.
You may wish for the picture to fade as you slip into the blissful embrace of sleep.
However, your subconscious does not wish for any change in the current broadcast.
…If anything; your subconscious would like an endless supply of blank tapes with which to record this sordid mental ‘entertainment’.
…For no other episodes draw higher ratings than the ones which feature your respective boyfriend or girlfriend having sex with another person...or persons.
Really well.
Without commercial breaks.
And “WHY?!, you will furiously scream in your own mind, is the volume so much louder on these particular episodes?
Why is the picture so much clearer?
Is the zoom function really necessary?
But alas; do not fret or overly concern yourself if you happen to miss this episode or any others.
The mind is a reliable network.
It will repeat…
(I wrote this a LONG time ago.
Not sure of the exact date.
The day some dame dumps you is not a day one usually highlights in one's mental calendar.
Enjoy.)
It’s almost as if your imagination loses the ability to go forward.
To focus on the future.
Embrace the new horizon, if you will.…
None of that.
Instead, your mind will now decide to broadcast an endless supply of reruns from the past. Imagine a veritable back-catalogue of pain and anguish to ever torment you as you mentally roam the aisles of this depressing video-store of memories gone sour. Late-fees are not your concern at this point.
You will be able to enjoy these shows in your own private theatre whenever you close your eyes. And these shows, be they fact or fiction, will continue to play, both day and night, regardless of whatever you may be doing or trying to do.
You may find this unpleasant.
You may find these images distasteful.
You may wish for the picture to fade as you slip into the blissful embrace of sleep.
However, your subconscious does not wish for any change in the current broadcast.
…If anything; your subconscious would like an endless supply of blank tapes with which to record this sordid mental ‘entertainment’.
…For no other episodes draw higher ratings than the ones which feature your respective boyfriend or girlfriend having sex with another person...or persons.
Really well.
Without commercial breaks.
And “WHY?!, you will furiously scream in your own mind, is the volume so much louder on these particular episodes?
Why is the picture so much clearer?
Is the zoom function really necessary?
But alas; do not fret or overly concern yourself if you happen to miss this episode or any others.
The mind is a reliable network.
It will repeat…
(I wrote this a LONG time ago.
Not sure of the exact date.
The day some dame dumps you is not a day one usually highlights in one's mental calendar.
Enjoy.)
HOLLYWOOD
There once lived a great, magnificent Beast named 'Hollywood', that would fill its nights entertaining weary travellers with amazing tales by a warm campfire.
Then one fateful evening; it decided to devour the travellers and steal all of their gold.
Now this Creature simply lurks in the darkness; lights a small fire…and waits.
Hunger and greed; its only companions.
(I wrote this on 3/9/05. I must have just seen a rather disappointing movie.
Now, I understand that showbusiness is a 'business', ...but what the hell happened to the 'show'?These days, the BUSINESS is written with massive, illuminated, flashing neon letters that leave no hope of the show ever being noticed.
Something's gone wrong, folks.)
Then one fateful evening; it decided to devour the travellers and steal all of their gold.
Now this Creature simply lurks in the darkness; lights a small fire…and waits.
Hunger and greed; its only companions.
(I wrote this on 3/9/05. I must have just seen a rather disappointing movie.
Now, I understand that showbusiness is a 'business', ...but what the hell happened to the 'show'?These days, the BUSINESS is written with massive, illuminated, flashing neon letters that leave no hope of the show ever being noticed.
Something's gone wrong, folks.)
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
THE HANGOVER
Okay, I just saw The Hangover.
All I'm going to say is that it involves a scene where someone tries to drug a tiger by giving it a steak filled with date-rape drugs.
(You should already be grabbing your car keys, after that sentence)
The man preparing the spiked beef is questioned as to why he is bothering to season it with pepper.
This man responds in a calm and serious manner with the following line:
"Tigers love pepper. They hate cinnamon."
That man looks like this:
This awesome gentleman is referred to, at one point, as "Fat Jesus".
If the prospect of seeing a drugged jungle-cat and a plump, Christ-like oaf in Vegas shenanigans does not have you hastily purchasing tickets, then I cannot help you.
Perhaps some other blog will provide you with the cultural and entertainment nourishment that you require.
Now personally, in a Vegas-set comedy, I expect to see WAY more tits than what was displayed here, but hey, maybe that's just me being high-brow. Nonetheless, it's a pretty decent comedy that is made memorable by the aforementioned oafish performance by Zach Galifianakis.
High praise to you indeed, sir.
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