Good friend and former fellow-PSCer Paul Burman writes for a literary magazine, The View From Here.
I sent him a copy of Nathan Curnow's poetry book 'The Ghost Poetry Project' and Paul has recently interviewed Nathan for the website and upcoming print journal.
Check out part one of the interview between two of my favourite literary men:
http://www.viewfromheremagazine.com/
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Everyday Fiction
http://www.everydayfiction.com/
I've submitted a story (part of my NaNo story) to this daily publisher of short fiction. The submission process is easy to use and it allows you to check the progress of your submission from slush pile to publication or rejection.
Have a look and see about submitting something.
There's a limit of 1000 words for this one.
It pays $3USD per story. BIG BUCKS!
I've submitted a story (part of my NaNo story) to this daily publisher of short fiction. The submission process is easy to use and it allows you to check the progress of your submission from slush pile to publication or rejection.
Have a look and see about submitting something.
There's a limit of 1000 words for this one.
It pays $3USD per story. BIG BUCKS!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Not confident in my writing now I've read everyone else's
“I used to have so much talent. What happened to me?!” Tinkerbelle wailed and buried her despair crumpled face in her nicotine stained hands. She certainly had let herself go. What used to be a fetching green mini dress had become a grotesque parody of the sexy-cute image she was trying to portray. Pale flesh overflowed in places it should have been much trimmer, fuzzy legs, speckled with ingrown hairs finished in cankles and her feet were grimy. Her once platinum blonde hair looked more like grey and her wings were bedraggled and limp.
I leaned back on my chair and crossed my new orange leather, stiletto boots on the edge of the desk. The smoke from my Spanish cigarillo drifted towards the fan that lazily, and slightly wonkyily, rotated above us. I brushed my hair back over my shoulder and placed the cigarillo on the edge of the ash tray.
“Tinks baby, this is what we’re gonna do. I’m booking you into Popeye’s clinic, you’ll go in, eat spinach for a while, lay off the drink and get healthy. Give up the cigarettes as well, you’re fingers look like they’re made from cheese they’re that yellow. Olive Oil will manage your diet and exercise. We’ll have you back in shape in no time. While you’re in there I’ll get looking for something for you. Grimm’s got a line coming up that involves a Fairy God Mother, it could be right up your alley.”
I manoeuvred her towards the door, having pressed the get-‘em-out-of-here-quick button under my desk. Friday was standing with Tinkerbell’s musty coat ready to shuffle her out the door as I made the hand-over. “I’ll call you in a few weeks,” I said as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her coat and stumbled dejectedly out the door. “Book Tinks into a two week intensive at Popeye’s clinic, Friday. And see if you can find that Grimm tale with the Fairy God Mother, she’s gone beyond playing the sexy sidekick-lackey. Hopefully she can accept that with some grace.”
Friday sat down and tapped efficiently at his computer. His face was a glaze of concentration as he worked his thin moustache moving slightly as he muttered to himself. His debonair grey suit was cut perfectly for his 185cm frame, making him look manly enough to carry off the job of secretary without the usual snide remarks about womanly attributes. His olive skin and dark hair leant him an aura of exoticness. I thanked God that I had some man candy to look at, not like Sherlock Holmes down the corridor, who employed Watson on the basis of skills alone. I knew that I shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts, office relationships always failed miserably. Clark and Lois were a testament to that. But I considered Friday-watching as a form of entertainment, a stress release.
I re-entered my office, a smog of cigarillo smoke hung weightily over the ash tray, slightly yellowish in the late afternoon sun light that poured through the dusty, bent venetian blinds. “I’ve got to give up smoking,” I thought as I brushed cigarillo ash from the lapel of my wool jacket. I checked my appointment book for the next day. As per usual my schedule was hectic, all because of the post-awards slump. All those out of work characters hoping for last minute glory before they had to fade off into obscurity, becoming a grandparent’s favourite. Personally, I thought Huckleberry Finn much classier than the likes of Edward Cullen, but who was I to say anything? This turn over in characters was what kept me from busking on the street with a dancing monkey.
My nails as they held open the appointment book were looking ragged, in need of a manicure. I made a note to myself to get an appointment with Eliza Doolittle at some stage soon. If anyone knew about making yourself presentable it was Eliza. I pulled my hair over my shoulder to examine the ends. Definitely split. A quick glance in the mirror told me that the mousy brown of my natural colour was starting to show through the richer brown courtesy of the last visit to Eliza’s salon, Pygmalion. I made an extra note to include a cut and colour in the appointment. A certain standard must be maintained.
I buzzed through to Friday to remind him to get files out for Pippi Longstocking and Anne Shirley who were first up on tomorrow mornings list. I grabbed my bag and fossicked through the paraphernalia looking for keys to the bike lock. I strode through the door and said goodbye to Friday. He said goodbye as he continued to clean the office, I paused in the doorway to admire the shape of his muscular derrière as he bent to pick up some paper from the floor. With a lustful sigh I exited the office, pulling the door closed behind me.
Down the pale, dusty corridor I saw Holmes and Watson preparing to leave their office as well. Holmes was talking to Watson about the next day’s plans.
“So Watson, I don’t want you to forget that we have a meeting first up with …?….. It won’t pay to be late. If we can’t get some info out of him about this case we’ve got no where to go.” Watson merely grunted as he struggled to lock the door. All these old buildings had sticky locks on the doors, which was good for security, only those with the knack could get in. His dumpy frame in his overcoat and hat mostly obscured his features but I knew when he looked up his pudgy face would show the resentment he felt for me. Mostly it stemmed from the fact that, at 170cm, I was much taller than him, but also my friendship with Holmes made him jealous.
“Hey Holmes, how’s things? You’ve got to lean your shoulder a bit to the left Watson, that should get it”. Watson merely grunted again and gave me a surly look over his shoulder. “Valerie! How are you darling? Post-awards slump working for you? Got time for a drinky-poos before you head home?” Holmes turned away from the still struggling Watson to air-kiss my cheeks as he spoke. We linked arms and walked down the corridor to the stairs and exit. “Tomorrow morning, Watson”, he called over his shoulder as we stepped out into the evening.
Our office building was a non-descript brown brick rectangle that ran the length of the block. All manner of people and professions worked in the building. A somewhat successful dance school occupied one ground level corner and next to that a drop- in centre for local youths. Holmes and I had offices on the second floor. Tenants often came and went quickly. A few months ago I had a tattoo parlour next door. The buzzing would drive me crazy so I was grateful when Holmes tipped the police off to some of their less savoury clients.
Despite the itinerant nature of some tenants it was still a busy building in a industrious, if run down, part of town. Holmes and I waited patiently for cars to pass and then crossed the road to our local. It was a small, trendy place that had yet to be over run by the “In” crowd. The Black Cat was an open setting for a bar, with enough space to include the jazz or blues band that played most evenings. The décor was shabby-chic; to most it meant the owners had savvily scrounged through markets and op-shops to create a trendy yet unpretentious atmosphere; but to those in the know, like me, it meant that the owners had simply done it as cheaply as possible. Wooden floor boards had been polished at one stage, although the constant feet had worn them down to a scruffier version. A hodge-podge of different tables and chairs were scattered around and some corners sported mismatched couches and arm chairs huddled around banged up coffee tables. The ceilings had a myriad of light fixtures, each surrounded by a different light shade. The huge glass windows and doors of the shop front were probably the most expensive piece of the fit out.
I pulled open the glass doors and walked inside. It was still too early for the music, the band was setting up on the stage, however, Stan, the owner, had Billie Holiday playing in the background. Holmes and I walked to the bar nodding in greeting to the band and the other locals we knew. We leaned on the dark granite of the bar and I scratched my nails into the ice panel that ran the length of the bar, as we waited for Stan to serve a customer we didn’t recognise at the other end.
“You know you’re going to have to do something about Watson and his crush soon don’t you?” I said to Holmes as we waited. “I know!” he replied with a groan. “I’ve never encouraged him, I make sure that I make plans with others right in front of him but it still doesn’t seem to make a difference. I think he has a girlfriend too, you know but he always avoids talking about her.” “Ah, inter-office relationships” I smirked. “That’s exactly what I was trying to avoid by hiring someone who is definitely not my type. He does have strong looking hands though.” Holmes said with a thoughtful look on his face, he switched subjects “Anyway, you’re more in danger of that problem than me with that delectable Friday working for you.” “I’ve hired him for his skills alone.” I said primly. “Yes but skills in what?” Holmes shot back with a leer.
Luckily for me at this point Stan arrived. “Hey kids, how’s things? What can I get for you?” Stan looked more like he should be running a butcher shop than a trendy bar but what he didn’t know about jazz music wasn’t worth knowing. He was balding, with a round belly sticking out of a dark, hairy torso. His white t-shirt was slightly ragged around the neck hole; his hands as he rested them on the bar were thick and wide. “A couple of Swiller’s thanks Stan. How’s Helen? Did that Reiki specialist help her headaches?” “Nah, course not.” He snorted “She’s going back to that place on
“Well... here come the Suits. Better go serve I guess”, Stan wandered to the far end of the bar. “Give my love to Helen, tell her I’ll be over when things quieten down at work”, I replied. He gave a three finger wave in response and began talking to the group of Suits who had walked in. “I hope this place doesn’t get over-run.” Holmes said as he watched the Suits wipe their seats with a hanky before they sat down. “So how did you go with Tinkerbelle?” “Not too bad, but that could change when we try to take the bottles away. She’ll probably be motivated by the awards passing then fall backwards as usual. How’s the case going that you’re working on?”
“We’ve hit a dead end. We traced Lydia Bennett’s disappearance back to a nightclub in near
We sat and talked for a few minutes about his case. It sounded like it could have been no more than a flighty girl runaway with her “true love”, as clichéd as it sounded. Holmes had helped to track her down in a situation like this before. Luckily she had a sister who cared about where she went to or she could just be another missing face in the paper. The girl was incredibly silly so it was hard to know where she’d been, there was way too many hormones running through her for her to cope in such a repressed family. Holmes had plans to go and see the police commissioner as he played a curling match the next day. He also planned a night out at the nightclub where she was seen last “The Blu Palm”.
The sunshine was beginning to slant through the tall glass windows; our table was littered with clove cigarette butts, empty pint glasses and chip packets. I knew that I needed to go home before I fell over; too much beer on an empty stomach on a Friday evening was not good. Holmes and I made our way out into the street and crossed the road again to stand in front of our building. I bent to unlock my bike from the rack then stood up to say goodbye. Holmes wandered off around to the side of the building where his Volvo was parked. He tooted his horn as he drove off down
My house was only a short ride from the office, which was handy on a night like tonight where Holmes had talked me into too many drinks. A ramble of cottage garden flowers snagged the bike wheels as I pushed it through the small gate and up the path to the front door. The security light flicked on as I got into range and I could here the dog whining from around the back. I unlocked the door and wheeled the bike inside, propping it in the long corridor. I walked straight down into the kitchen, switching lights on as I went. I could see the pale shape of my dog, Esther, through the frosted glass of the door that led from the laundry into the small backyard. I rubbed her back as she came in, whole body wagging hello.
I looked in the fridge and came up with some tofu and vegetables to make a quick stir fry. I sat down next to the gramophone and flicked on some Mozart, Esther sat next to me as I ate and finished the capsicum pieces I didn’t want. After washing up in the kitchen I sat down to watch the news. Nothing special was happening in the world, the usual wars, arguments and sadness. There was not mention of Lydia Bennet’s
Sunday, October 18, 2009
In a dark alley
I've a gift for faces. It's quite handy in my line of work. Many's the time I've spotted an undercover cop or a competitor out to get the jump on me, disguised or not.
So of course I recognised tonight's customer. Drab clothes and glasses, but it was him. No doubt. So can someone tell me why, after fighting crime since long before I was born, after saving the city countless times, after being loved and hated and loved again, after outliving Lex Luthor and all his enemies, after visiting the grave of Lois Lane, his only known friend, why, looking bent and weary, but not old, never old, why was Superman buying kryptonite?
So of course I recognised tonight's customer. Drab clothes and glasses, but it was him. No doubt. So can someone tell me why, after fighting crime since long before I was born, after saving the city countless times, after being loved and hated and loved again, after outliving Lex Luthor and all his enemies, after visiting the grave of Lois Lane, his only known friend, why, looking bent and weary, but not old, never old, why was Superman buying kryptonite?
Friday, October 16, 2009
NaNoWriMo Preparation - Article
Check this article.
Get to know your characters intimately. Hmm, I'm taking mine out for Chinese this weekend. For sure. Hope they don't stick me with the bill though...
Get to know your characters intimately. Hmm, I'm taking mine out for Chinese this weekend. For sure. Hope they don't stick me with the bill though...
Monday, August 17, 2009
All in A Day's Work
I hate the blood suckers most of all. The other are animals, they don’t have a choice, the wolves, the others. I put them down because they are a danger to my people. The bloodsuckers choose. They don’t all choose to become what they are but they don’t have to feed on people. They could live on the blood of pigs or wild beasts, some do, but they feast on man because human blood gives them a rush, it is a narcotic as well as a food source. Worst of all are those that seek it out. They have two mortal sins on whatever has become of their soul. They have committed suicide to become vampire and they murder every time they feed.
I’ve been following this one for a week. He’s smart, doesn’t draw any attention to himself, dresses real plain and has a legit night job so his hours don’t seem unusual. He’s a policeman, above reproach. So what if he is always on night duty, not many want the nights. I saw him feed on that girl in the alley, I couldn’t take him then. It made me sick, watching a murder, but they are too strong to take on when they’re awake, far stronger than a mortal man.
I made that mistake once and it cost me a friend and very nearly my own life. I was lucky, my back was broken and I was left for dead but my partner was gutted and drained of blood like livestock. The healers worked on me for months and it was a year before I could walk and another before I was strong enough to work again.
I’m outside his building now. It’s almost dawn. The gas lights go out and I douse my lantern. He should be in his casket by now; they aren’t much for staying up after they get home. No cups of tea in front of the fire place, no listening to the Victrola or reading newspapers. What do they care of our lives as long as they have their needs met.
I let myself in through a window. I’ve been here before when he has been out. You have to know where to find the casket; you have to know if there are any traps. This place is clean, he is over confident.
My weapon’s ready, my hand is steady and I am at peace. I open the casket and drive the stake home. This is the worst part, first the eyes open, then they hiss and spit, their blood boils and they melt, with a horrible stench that turns your stomach like nothing else.
His eyes flash open and he screams. He doesn’t melt he doesn’t hiss. It flashes through my mind, a decoy, the same face, the same face he’s been wearing. I’ve killed him, the innocent. I’m a murderer. I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
May God have mercy on my soul.
I’ve been following this one for a week. He’s smart, doesn’t draw any attention to himself, dresses real plain and has a legit night job so his hours don’t seem unusual. He’s a policeman, above reproach. So what if he is always on night duty, not many want the nights. I saw him feed on that girl in the alley, I couldn’t take him then. It made me sick, watching a murder, but they are too strong to take on when they’re awake, far stronger than a mortal man.
I made that mistake once and it cost me a friend and very nearly my own life. I was lucky, my back was broken and I was left for dead but my partner was gutted and drained of blood like livestock. The healers worked on me for months and it was a year before I could walk and another before I was strong enough to work again.
I’m outside his building now. It’s almost dawn. The gas lights go out and I douse my lantern. He should be in his casket by now; they aren’t much for staying up after they get home. No cups of tea in front of the fire place, no listening to the Victrola or reading newspapers. What do they care of our lives as long as they have their needs met.
I let myself in through a window. I’ve been here before when he has been out. You have to know where to find the casket; you have to know if there are any traps. This place is clean, he is over confident.
My weapon’s ready, my hand is steady and I am at peace. I open the casket and drive the stake home. This is the worst part, first the eyes open, then they hiss and spit, their blood boils and they melt, with a horrible stench that turns your stomach like nothing else.
His eyes flash open and he screams. He doesn’t melt he doesn’t hiss. It flashes through my mind, a decoy, the same face, the same face he’s been wearing. I’ve killed him, the innocent. I’m a murderer. I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The start of something...
ALL THE KING'S MEN
Every time Marco Conti looked around there was another demon, usually holding a bottle of Bass Beer or laughing it up with a young American-styled cheerleader. Amongst the demons there were other fiendish things, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the pointed ears and prominent fangs, the red tongues and the horns.
It was Freshers' Week at King's College. Marco had been in the city for less than a week and he now found himself drawn into a party culture he hadn't been aware of, nor prepared for. Back home, in Mantova, there had been festivals, of course, like the Festival della Letteratura where the people opened their arms, ears and hearts to the classics of long ago from the Divine Comedy to the more suspect tales of Shakespeare. His grandmother had been involved in the organisation of such events for years, her eye for detail almost as legendary as her sharp wit. She had been the one who managed, against the odds, to get a production of Austen's Pride and Prejudice in the Palazzo de Te. It was the impossible task, but for his grandmother it all seemed to fall easily into place. There were also carnivales in Mantova, with masks both hideous and beauteous, but the first year students at the London party seemed to slip too easily into the skins of their characters. The demons seemed too comfortable with their excess, the angels too distant, the cheerleaders too loud, the young man with the bull's head too drunk.
Perhaps it was the drink, he thought. In his own hand was a plastic cup filled with the brown beer he was supposed to come and love here in London. Marco lifted his head to scan the room one last time before leaving the cup resting on a mantelpiece next to a scuttled plate of sagging cheeses. The girl from yesterday, the one who had slipped him the yellow flyer with information about 'The Greatest Fresher Party Ever', hadn't shown her silver wings tonight. Marco wondered if he had perhaps read a little more in the way she smiled at him. Perhaps he was just too eager to make a connection. With a sigh, he moved his way through the throngs of teenagers, smiling politely at the ones who yelled something at him, and guiding away the ones who had no idea he was there. At the door he didn't look back. He pushed it open and breathed in the dark fresh air of the night beyond.
It wasn't late, especially during Freshers' Week, but Marco's body was ready to sleep.
He slipped off his domino mask and tossed it in the rubbish bin at the end of the first street corner. Two costumed guests sauntered behind him, swerving from one edge of the footpath to the walls of the shops: a zig zag journey that was punctuated with laughs and the rising of incomprehensible voices. Marco cast them a quick glance and noticed there were three now, where before there had only been two. A demon had his arms around the waists of a gaudy princess and some kind of 1980s homage to punk culture. They passed him as he stood there. He smiled and looked down, and the demon winked at him.
The walk to his shared apartment wasn't very far, although he had already found himself lost a few times since arriving. The further he moved away from the party the more he felt like sleeping. It was because of the move, he knew; the transplantation of his whole life from semi-rural Lombardy to the centre of the universe which was London. He had no one here, at least not yet. The room mates were friendly but still a little vague. He had his own room and they all had their spaces behind closed doors. The communal room was littered with 'someone else's mess' so Marco rarely stayed there long. Mostly he had brief moments at the front door in the mornings when he said a quick hello to one of the others as he was leaving and they were getting back from some all-night rave. No, he didn't have anyone here, and that was why he felt tired all of the time. Back in Mantova he only had a few family now, too, so it wasn't as if he missed his home town. He did, of course, but it wasn't debilitating. The tiredness was because he felt cut-off. His grandmother, his nonna, had died three years before. She had been his anchor: a person he could confide in, or not if the mood took him. She was always there, looking over the rims of her flat-topped glasses, her eyes the colour of warm chocolate. He wished she could have seen him here, in London. It was due to her, of course, that he was here; that he had won a scholarship to King's College. At least, that was what he knew in his heart. On the piece of paper he had received it hadn't explained the full story of how he had come to be awarded the two-year scholarship, but like his nonna always told him, Marco 'filled in the blanks' with his imagination.
It was eleven in the evening when he struggled with the front door, nearly snapping his key. The others weren't home, of course, so Marco allowed himself a few choice curses as he pushed his way inside, accidentally kicking a backpack which had been dumped in the hallway. He pulled out his key again and jarred his elbow. In disgust, he scooped up the letters and junk mail which lay strewn on the floor underneath the mail slot, and then kicked his way to his room. There was no point going to the kitchen: earlier there had been a suspect cheesy smell that Marco just didn't need to investigate, and had no will to clean up.
His room was small, as advertised. He had a bed across the far wall which left no room at either end. Above it was a window which looked on to the back courtyard, full of weeds and a half-dead tree. There were three plastic trundle crates under his bed which he had bought and which now housed his clothes. The room had no space for a wardrobe or set of drawers. Behind the door, which couldn't be seen unless the door was closed, was Marco's small desk (or scaffale, 'shelf', as he liked to call it since it was so narrow) and his laptop tucked up in its satchel. A mirror was attached to the roof above the bed, apparently by the previous tenant, and Marco hadn't been able to prise it loose yet. Looking up at it as he pulled off his jacket and hung it onto the hook on the back of the door, Marco saw himself as a little naive. Why had he expected to enjoy the night? Was it the girl?
"Idiota..."
Kicking off his shoes, he reached for his iPod and released some of the night's frustrations with a deliberate exhale: something he learned from his mother after one of her business trips to Siena. "Let it out, Marco... let the toxins back out into the world." He always wondered what was so great about releasing toxins into the world. Wasn't he supposed to be a good global citizen? Living in Lombardy often led to the experience of the 'creeping smog' when the 'toxins' from cities found their way into the valleys. Farming life had given way to the cheap industrial alternative. He gave up the thought and crumpled on to the bed in his boxer shorts. Looking into the mirror he felt a little more comfortable. In a way it was like his room back home: a space for himself.
In the last few years things had become more complicated. His mother had remarried a business guru from the South (which seemed something of an oxymoron). The step father had brought three children into the new arrangement, so Marco was suddenly crowded in his own house. Worse than that, though, was the decree which saw his nonna move out. Not to a nursing home, God forbid, but close enough. Marco knew where he stood in the new world.
He closed his eyes and surrendered to the music.
Il Nostro Caro Angelo.
His fingers ached for his guitar: the strumming, the rise and fall of Battisti's voice which was always a reminder of his parents' collection of vinyl. As a boy he would lie on the floor and close his eyes, offering an air guitar rendition of the songs. And always in the company of his nonna. She would sit in her chair mending something or reading, and she would smile as he gave himself up to the music - a boy pretending to be a pop star.
Il nostro caro angelo
si ciba di radici e poi
lui dorme nei cespugli sotto gli alberi
ma schiavo non sarà mai.
The young angel secretly gorges himself on the fruits of the bushes and trees, but he will never be enslaved.
The small apartment slips away from thought, replaced by a growing warmth which could be from the open fire place of his home. With eyes still closed Marco can feel his nonna's presence again, can smell the whisps of her perfume. She is humming softly and he smiles in his sleep, comfort and love so obviously surrounding him. His nose is tickled and he moves his head to the side as the edge of his nonna's quilt slips from her lap. He knows that quilt. Isn't it the very extension of his nonna's person? He allows his hands to search it out blindly, running his younger fingers across its raised symbols. Somehow he is a boy again. Squares within squares, threads of gold and magical writings that he could only ever guess at. His nonna indulged his fantasies, laughing with him as he imagined great creatures of myth leaping from the symbols. But when he tired her with his incessant imaginings she would take the quilt away, without obvious frustration, of course, but there was a sense of fatigue that even as a child he could recognise.
Marco is alone again, but he recognises sleep. Almost at the same time as this realisation occurs to him there is the sound of cheering, or perhaps chanting. A rising sound which washes towards him like waves and along with it comes a set of different smells: leather and horse, the trappings of a rider. Marco hadn't ever had a horse and only ever rode when visiting family in the east, but he could recognise the smell instinctively. His body moved in sleep, the sensation of riding overwhelming him suddenly. His body stronger now, older than before, and weighted down with metal straps across his chest.
With a start, Marco's eyes snapped open and he looked back at himself, although changed. His eyes were darker, older. His face was the same though: dark olive skin, wavy brown hair... although it was reined in by a golden circet around his forehead. His arms were bare, the muscles tight as he pulled on the leather straps linking him to the horse which still thundered beneath him. Behind his reflection Marco could see a city from the past, pillars and marble, but there were flames in his room and a sense of being trapped. His reflection leapt towards him: a Roman centurion charging through the mirror, and in that second Marco woke up a second time in a cold sweat.
He choked for air and sat shivering at the end of his bed, legs drawn up to keep from falling asleep again. Above him, the mirror reflected his huddled body, an outline of sweat on the sheets behind him. The room was silent. No sign of smoke or fire. No remnants from the dream.
The front door opened with a double set of bangs as his house mates returned from wherever it was they went. Marco wiped his face quickly and pulled on his t-shirt, in case they should decide to cheerily inform him of their return. It had happened before. But this time the noises quickly subsided and Marco was alone again. He turned on the wall lamp by his bed and bathed his little room in fluorescent light. It flickered once but then remained firm.
The dream had plagued him for a few weeks now, although he thought that a change in country may have displaced it. Normally he would be in the dream for longer, enough to witness his demise. The Roman would charge into a forum on horseback, in full centurion regalia, in front of hundreds of citizens. The ground in front of him had ruptured and a vision of hell, or the underworld, would greet him as he inevitably rode into the abyss. Every time he had felt the rise of heat as the dream ended. Every time he would wish to return to the dream and experience the smells and sights, the sense of accomplishment even in the face of certain death. The dream made him feel like a champion, like someone who led rather than followed.
But, in the end, it was a dream, and Marco would wake up.
He tried to exhale the toxins again, but gave up. Instead, he took up the letters from earlier and looked through them, noting the bills which would need to be paid, until he came across one addressed to him. The envelope was slightly larger than the others. Holding it in his hands, Marco felt the nudging of another memory. He opened the seal and carefully pulled out the letter. It was an invitation, but not hastily photocopied on to canary-yellow paper like the last invite he had received. It was an invitation to a meeting. Marco read it carefully twice, noting the signature at the end. Duvalle.
<'Mr. Conti,
Your presence is requested at the demesne of one Jeffrey Duvalle, President of the non-profit organization, The Phoenix Foundation. A casual dinner will be followed by a business proposal. Please call 065-333-4563 for directions. The appointment will be Friday, August, 21st at 8:00 pm.>
The invitation was written in perfect Italian. The script flowing and elegant, but obviously masculine. The tone of the letter grew more personal as he continued to read.
<My heart weeps for your loss. Your grandmother was an aquaintence, much loved, and I regret not being able to make her funeral to pay my respects to her and her family. It is my wish that you accept my invitation not only as a way to make up for my absence, but for your future as well. Your Nonna had great dreams for you, and I'd like to assist you in achieving those dreams. As a first step forward, I have a proposition I'd like to discuss with you. I ask only that you come with an open heart and mind.
Yours in sincerity,
Jeffery Duvalle
President, The Phoenix Foundation>
Marco's eyes flittered across the text, backward, forward, up and down. He picked out strange comforting words: regret, open heart, weeps, much loved, great dreams, Nonna, your future...
It didn't make sense. He dropped it on the floor with the bills and other postal refuse, and then lay back on the damp mattress, his eyes open and staring at himself through the mirror. He stayed like that for an hour or so before falling back into sleep.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
There was always a moment when the gentle rising and falling of sleep captured him entirely. Perched on the end of the girl's bed, Lilu allowed himself to enjoy the rhythms of human sleep. It was like a rapture, or a feast, he reminded himself. His black eyes blinked and the moment was gone. The girl's breathing had stopped. The dance was over, the music gone.
Lilu was feeling cold already. He examined the room quickly, wanting to leave. The girl's shoes were discarded by the door, her pink taffeta dress was scrunched and a little torn. The princess hadn't been especially chaste once the door had closed, but Lilu knew it was simply a costume - a skin that these young ones slipped into to hide from the mundanity of their lives.
The night had been a repeat of the last few months, of course. A disappointment. The seed that he had taken the night before would not stay inside the human. Poisoned by his infernal nature, the seed had turned upon its vessel and laid waste to what should have been fertile ground. Where would they find one strong enough to carry the germ, he wondered. In times past they had found women stronger, more able to keep the chaos and impure thing safely within their chastity. But times changed, women were no longer constrained by society's girdle.
With a quick lick of his lips, Lilu flexed his body and peeled his dark blue skin aside. In an instant he had cast off his male form and was replaced with the resplendent form of the succubus, Lilitu. Her skin was redder, smoother. She looked at the dead girl with uncaring eyes, like the discarded shoes by the door. In another instant she was gone, back into the night to seek out lovers and dreamers, to seek out the seed that would bring forth the cambion.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Marco awoke the next morning to the sounds of a reversing rubbish truck. Darkness had been replaced with morning light.
He loped out of his room after changing into his running clothes, and navigated his way out the front door and into the bright but ineffectual morning sun. Summer was retreating fast, he thought. In less than a week he would be in school again, and the thought gave him an odd sense of excitement and anxiety. He had to admit to himself that he didn't exactly know what he expected to get out of moving to King's College for two years. It wasn't going to reduce the overall number of years he'd need to study - in fact, it extended his degree to four and a half years.
Crossing a street, Marco paused and looked at a police cordon. The bright yellow tape caught his attention and he leaned against a shopfront trying to maintain his heartbeat. He had been running faster than he usually did and realised his anxiety had disrupted his usual morning equilibrium. There were a few other bystanders: casual gawkers and disgruntled types who felt the police cordon was somehow an affront to their personal selves and a way to make them late for work. Marco wiped his face on his t-shirt and walked slowly closer. A bobby was listening to the complaints of a neighbour. Marco could see the slightly glazed look in the policeman's eyes.
Two women near him huddled over coffee in styrofoam cups. Marco heard them talking about a dead girl.
"What happened here?" he asked.
The women looked at him like he had surprised them in some secret and compromising situation. One of them hid her surprise by taking a long sip from her cup. The other screwed up her face and looked him up and down.
"You fink I'm your fecking secretary?" she spat.
"You'll be reading about it in the papers," a more helpful young man said from behind. Marco nodded a thanks to the man in the suit and turned back to the scene. He was about to move on when the young man touched his arm. "It was a party murder. Third one this week."
Marco raised his eyebrows.
"Really?"
"Name's Buster Knowles," he said. "I'm sort of with the Daily News."
"A journalist?"
"Yeah, right. A journalist. You've got the wide-eyed look of a victim, kid. Here's my card."
Marco took the card and wasn't sure what to say. Knowles looked at the two women who had continued to stare at Marco, and then guided him away from the scene.
"I saw you at the party last night. You rushed out of there just as I was coming back from the john. You see, kid, the reason I'm interested in you is because you fit the bill for the next victim."
"What?"
Marco edged away from the journalist. Knowles was amused and stuck his thumbs into his trouser pockets. Marco assumed he was in his thirties. Grey streaked his hair at the temples and he wore his smile with creases at each end of his mouth. The laugh-lines were even more evident at his eyes and Marco had the feeling that Knowles was quite comfortable being amused at other people's expense. Apart from the suit the journalist looked more like a street fighter.
"You're new to London."
A pause. Marco reluctantly nodded.
"And you're enrolled at King's."
Knowles wasn't asking questions, but stating facts.
"The kid from last night was at that party, and the victim from last week was a girl from Slovenia. No one else has put one and one and one together, but I'm not a regularly-paid professional. I've got to rely on other things than simple arithmetic, which led me here. To you."
"I'll take your card, yeah?" Marco said. "But I don't think I'll be going to any more parties, thanks."
"Suit yourself," Knowles said. "But keep that number close."
Marco nodded and then gave the police cordon one last glance before jogging across the street to start his way back to the apartment. He wished he had bothered to bring his iPod or any other way to block out the streetscape he passed. Everything seemed convoluted: the sense of deja vu dominated him as he turned down street after street. He seemed to pass the same people in the street. Everyone started to look the same.
At last he arrived back at the familiar and stubborn door, but instead of kicking his way through like usual, he was happily surprised to see his housemate, Rez, at the door. The middle-eastern medical student smiled and opened the door wider.
"Just getting in?" Marco asked, and Rez shrugged, not sommitting to anything in his usual manner. Marco noticed Rez had a morning newspaper under his arm. Together they moved inside and Rez mumbled something about breakfast to which Marco found himself agreeing to something he immediately forgot.
After a shower Marco followed the sound of a hissing urn and wandered into the kitchen. The smell was still there but Rez didn't comment on it. Marco wondered whether it had been there for months and had become just another quirk of the house. He laid the mail on the table and sorted it into bills, which went in a special envelope on the refridgerator door; and other personal letters which stayed on the table until collected by their owners.
Marco sat and traced his finger around the letter he had received from the Phoenix Foundation. Rez brought a stained cup filled with black coffee and slid it across to Marco, and then sat and went through the mail.
Duvalle.
He remembered the man well enough from the day before his nonna's funeral, but he had never heard from him again and never really expected to. It had been three years, but now Marco had an invitation to meet the man, but to meet, to enjoy a meal and then hear a business proposal. It was absurd, of course. What business could Marco enter with such a man, he wondered.
Vendetta?
It had grown in his mind for the first few months after his nonna's death. Marco would try to recall the British man's face, his voice and movements. Why had the man slipped his hand into the coffin? Why had he arrived just as Marco had crossed that forbidden line and opened his grandmother's coffin? And why had there been such a sense of relief in the man's very body upon seeing Marco's dead grandmother?
Something had been done, Marco knew, and he realised that as a sixteen year old it had been easy for Duvalle to have manipulated or hoodwinked him. Marco had been so distraught with the death and the resultant visions that he hadn't questioned Duvalle's appearance.
"Are you going to another party?" Rez asked, popping the memory bubble which had slowly enveloped Marco. When Marco had lifted his eyes to look at his housemate, Rez had taken the advantage and smiled before sliding the invitation across to his side of the table. Marco watched it go and was surprised to see how quickly Rez reacted. "Wow, this is posh," he said.
"Have you heard of the Foundation?"
Rez shook his head.
"Then how do you know it's ... er, posh?"
"The paper, man. Feel the grain on this baby. So is it a philanthropic thing, part of your scholarship deal?"
Marco took the invitation back with a smile.
"I suppose so," he conceded, although the Phoenix Foundation hadn't even been mentioned to him before, and Duvalle was just a name from long ago. "It's hard to know with all this bureacracy."
"I hear you."
Marco mumbled his thanks and pocketed the invitation. He wasn't expected anywhere so he wandered back to his room and booted up his laptop, all the time wondering about the relationship between Duvalle and his nonna. There was obviously something genuine there - a love, perhaps. Would it have been too much to ask that someone else in the world missed his nonna as much as Marco did?
The programs whirred into action and he typed Duvalle's name into a search engine.
As the results revealed variant spellings and incongruous information, Marco thought back to the funeral home and Duvalle. He wanted to feel joy about meeting the man, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind, a sense that Duvalle had taken something from his nonna, from the very resting place that should never have been violated.
He gave up and left the room, shouting out a farewell to Rez who was singing in the shower.
Out in the open, Marco unclicked his phone and called the number from the invitation. 065-333-4563. He crossed the street as the connection went through.
"Ah, yes, hello," he said after a woman answered. "My name is Marco Conti and I am calling this morning to confirm an appointment with Signore Duvalle for Friday."
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Across the street, Buster Knowles grinned around his cigarette and took a handful of rapid shots, capturing the young Italian on the phone. It was nine o'clock and he figured he had done quite well for a half hour's work. He checked the photos on the camera and matched them with the ones from the dossier. It was the same kid, no doubt about it. The ones from the employer were passport photos and looked to be a few years out of date, but there was no mistaking Marco Conti.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He knew exactly who would be calling.
With a flick of his wrist he opened the connection and crunched out his cigarette.
"Hello love," he said. "I guess you already know who I met this morning."
His eyes followed Marco as the kid moved down the street. The voice on the phone was soft and hesitant, but the pauses came from a reluctance to engage directly with him, Knowles knew, and had nothing to do with a lack of confidence.
"I love working with psychics," he laughed into the phone. "You know what you're paying for, and you know how it all ends."
The caller said something and ended the call, leaving Knowles to look with something akin to pity at Marco.
"Shit, kid," he said, lighting up again. "You are one poor bastard."
Every time Marco Conti looked around there was another demon, usually holding a bottle of Bass Beer or laughing it up with a young American-styled cheerleader. Amongst the demons there were other fiendish things, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the pointed ears and prominent fangs, the red tongues and the horns.
It was Freshers' Week at King's College. Marco had been in the city for less than a week and he now found himself drawn into a party culture he hadn't been aware of, nor prepared for. Back home, in Mantova, there had been festivals, of course, like the Festival della Letteratura where the people opened their arms, ears and hearts to the classics of long ago from the Divine Comedy to the more suspect tales of Shakespeare. His grandmother had been involved in the organisation of such events for years, her eye for detail almost as legendary as her sharp wit. She had been the one who managed, against the odds, to get a production of Austen's Pride and Prejudice in the Palazzo de Te. It was the impossible task, but for his grandmother it all seemed to fall easily into place. There were also carnivales in Mantova, with masks both hideous and beauteous, but the first year students at the London party seemed to slip too easily into the skins of their characters. The demons seemed too comfortable with their excess, the angels too distant, the cheerleaders too loud, the young man with the bull's head too drunk.
Perhaps it was the drink, he thought. In his own hand was a plastic cup filled with the brown beer he was supposed to come and love here in London. Marco lifted his head to scan the room one last time before leaving the cup resting on a mantelpiece next to a scuttled plate of sagging cheeses. The girl from yesterday, the one who had slipped him the yellow flyer with information about 'The Greatest Fresher Party Ever', hadn't shown her silver wings tonight. Marco wondered if he had perhaps read a little more in the way she smiled at him. Perhaps he was just too eager to make a connection. With a sigh, he moved his way through the throngs of teenagers, smiling politely at the ones who yelled something at him, and guiding away the ones who had no idea he was there. At the door he didn't look back. He pushed it open and breathed in the dark fresh air of the night beyond.
It wasn't late, especially during Freshers' Week, but Marco's body was ready to sleep.
He slipped off his domino mask and tossed it in the rubbish bin at the end of the first street corner. Two costumed guests sauntered behind him, swerving from one edge of the footpath to the walls of the shops: a zig zag journey that was punctuated with laughs and the rising of incomprehensible voices. Marco cast them a quick glance and noticed there were three now, where before there had only been two. A demon had his arms around the waists of a gaudy princess and some kind of 1980s homage to punk culture. They passed him as he stood there. He smiled and looked down, and the demon winked at him.
The walk to his shared apartment wasn't very far, although he had already found himself lost a few times since arriving. The further he moved away from the party the more he felt like sleeping. It was because of the move, he knew; the transplantation of his whole life from semi-rural Lombardy to the centre of the universe which was London. He had no one here, at least not yet. The room mates were friendly but still a little vague. He had his own room and they all had their spaces behind closed doors. The communal room was littered with 'someone else's mess' so Marco rarely stayed there long. Mostly he had brief moments at the front door in the mornings when he said a quick hello to one of the others as he was leaving and they were getting back from some all-night rave. No, he didn't have anyone here, and that was why he felt tired all of the time. Back in Mantova he only had a few family now, too, so it wasn't as if he missed his home town. He did, of course, but it wasn't debilitating. The tiredness was because he felt cut-off. His grandmother, his nonna, had died three years before. She had been his anchor: a person he could confide in, or not if the mood took him. She was always there, looking over the rims of her flat-topped glasses, her eyes the colour of warm chocolate. He wished she could have seen him here, in London. It was due to her, of course, that he was here; that he had won a scholarship to King's College. At least, that was what he knew in his heart. On the piece of paper he had received it hadn't explained the full story of how he had come to be awarded the two-year scholarship, but like his nonna always told him, Marco 'filled in the blanks' with his imagination.
It was eleven in the evening when he struggled with the front door, nearly snapping his key. The others weren't home, of course, so Marco allowed himself a few choice curses as he pushed his way inside, accidentally kicking a backpack which had been dumped in the hallway. He pulled out his key again and jarred his elbow. In disgust, he scooped up the letters and junk mail which lay strewn on the floor underneath the mail slot, and then kicked his way to his room. There was no point going to the kitchen: earlier there had been a suspect cheesy smell that Marco just didn't need to investigate, and had no will to clean up.
His room was small, as advertised. He had a bed across the far wall which left no room at either end. Above it was a window which looked on to the back courtyard, full of weeds and a half-dead tree. There were three plastic trundle crates under his bed which he had bought and which now housed his clothes. The room had no space for a wardrobe or set of drawers. Behind the door, which couldn't be seen unless the door was closed, was Marco's small desk (or scaffale, 'shelf', as he liked to call it since it was so narrow) and his laptop tucked up in its satchel. A mirror was attached to the roof above the bed, apparently by the previous tenant, and Marco hadn't been able to prise it loose yet. Looking up at it as he pulled off his jacket and hung it onto the hook on the back of the door, Marco saw himself as a little naive. Why had he expected to enjoy the night? Was it the girl?
"Idiota..."
Kicking off his shoes, he reached for his iPod and released some of the night's frustrations with a deliberate exhale: something he learned from his mother after one of her business trips to Siena. "Let it out, Marco... let the toxins back out into the world." He always wondered what was so great about releasing toxins into the world. Wasn't he supposed to be a good global citizen? Living in Lombardy often led to the experience of the 'creeping smog' when the 'toxins' from cities found their way into the valleys. Farming life had given way to the cheap industrial alternative. He gave up the thought and crumpled on to the bed in his boxer shorts. Looking into the mirror he felt a little more comfortable. In a way it was like his room back home: a space for himself.
In the last few years things had become more complicated. His mother had remarried a business guru from the South (which seemed something of an oxymoron). The step father had brought three children into the new arrangement, so Marco was suddenly crowded in his own house. Worse than that, though, was the decree which saw his nonna move out. Not to a nursing home, God forbid, but close enough. Marco knew where he stood in the new world.
He closed his eyes and surrendered to the music.
Il Nostro Caro Angelo.
His fingers ached for his guitar: the strumming, the rise and fall of Battisti's voice which was always a reminder of his parents' collection of vinyl. As a boy he would lie on the floor and close his eyes, offering an air guitar rendition of the songs. And always in the company of his nonna. She would sit in her chair mending something or reading, and she would smile as he gave himself up to the music - a boy pretending to be a pop star.
Il nostro caro angelo
si ciba di radici e poi
lui dorme nei cespugli sotto gli alberi
ma schiavo non sarà mai.
The young angel secretly gorges himself on the fruits of the bushes and trees, but he will never be enslaved.
The small apartment slips away from thought, replaced by a growing warmth which could be from the open fire place of his home. With eyes still closed Marco can feel his nonna's presence again, can smell the whisps of her perfume. She is humming softly and he smiles in his sleep, comfort and love so obviously surrounding him. His nose is tickled and he moves his head to the side as the edge of his nonna's quilt slips from her lap. He knows that quilt. Isn't it the very extension of his nonna's person? He allows his hands to search it out blindly, running his younger fingers across its raised symbols. Somehow he is a boy again. Squares within squares, threads of gold and magical writings that he could only ever guess at. His nonna indulged his fantasies, laughing with him as he imagined great creatures of myth leaping from the symbols. But when he tired her with his incessant imaginings she would take the quilt away, without obvious frustration, of course, but there was a sense of fatigue that even as a child he could recognise.
Marco is alone again, but he recognises sleep. Almost at the same time as this realisation occurs to him there is the sound of cheering, or perhaps chanting. A rising sound which washes towards him like waves and along with it comes a set of different smells: leather and horse, the trappings of a rider. Marco hadn't ever had a horse and only ever rode when visiting family in the east, but he could recognise the smell instinctively. His body moved in sleep, the sensation of riding overwhelming him suddenly. His body stronger now, older than before, and weighted down with metal straps across his chest.
With a start, Marco's eyes snapped open and he looked back at himself, although changed. His eyes were darker, older. His face was the same though: dark olive skin, wavy brown hair... although it was reined in by a golden circet around his forehead. His arms were bare, the muscles tight as he pulled on the leather straps linking him to the horse which still thundered beneath him. Behind his reflection Marco could see a city from the past, pillars and marble, but there were flames in his room and a sense of being trapped. His reflection leapt towards him: a Roman centurion charging through the mirror, and in that second Marco woke up a second time in a cold sweat.
He choked for air and sat shivering at the end of his bed, legs drawn up to keep from falling asleep again. Above him, the mirror reflected his huddled body, an outline of sweat on the sheets behind him. The room was silent. No sign of smoke or fire. No remnants from the dream.
The front door opened with a double set of bangs as his house mates returned from wherever it was they went. Marco wiped his face quickly and pulled on his t-shirt, in case they should decide to cheerily inform him of their return. It had happened before. But this time the noises quickly subsided and Marco was alone again. He turned on the wall lamp by his bed and bathed his little room in fluorescent light. It flickered once but then remained firm.
The dream had plagued him for a few weeks now, although he thought that a change in country may have displaced it. Normally he would be in the dream for longer, enough to witness his demise. The Roman would charge into a forum on horseback, in full centurion regalia, in front of hundreds of citizens. The ground in front of him had ruptured and a vision of hell, or the underworld, would greet him as he inevitably rode into the abyss. Every time he had felt the rise of heat as the dream ended. Every time he would wish to return to the dream and experience the smells and sights, the sense of accomplishment even in the face of certain death. The dream made him feel like a champion, like someone who led rather than followed.
But, in the end, it was a dream, and Marco would wake up.
He tried to exhale the toxins again, but gave up. Instead, he took up the letters from earlier and looked through them, noting the bills which would need to be paid, until he came across one addressed to him. The envelope was slightly larger than the others. Holding it in his hands, Marco felt the nudging of another memory. He opened the seal and carefully pulled out the letter. It was an invitation, but not hastily photocopied on to canary-yellow paper like the last invite he had received. It was an invitation to a meeting. Marco read it carefully twice, noting the signature at the end. Duvalle.
<'Mr. Conti,
Your presence is requested at the demesne of one Jeffrey Duvalle, President of the non-profit organization, The Phoenix Foundation. A casual dinner will be followed by a business proposal. Please call 065-333-4563 for directions. The appointment will be Friday, August, 21st at 8:00 pm.>
The invitation was written in perfect Italian. The script flowing and elegant, but obviously masculine. The tone of the letter grew more personal as he continued to read.
<My heart weeps for your loss. Your grandmother was an aquaintence, much loved, and I regret not being able to make her funeral to pay my respects to her and her family. It is my wish that you accept my invitation not only as a way to make up for my absence, but for your future as well. Your Nonna had great dreams for you, and I'd like to assist you in achieving those dreams. As a first step forward, I have a proposition I'd like to discuss with you. I ask only that you come with an open heart and mind.
Yours in sincerity,
Jeffery Duvalle
President, The Phoenix Foundation>
Marco's eyes flittered across the text, backward, forward, up and down. He picked out strange comforting words: regret, open heart, weeps, much loved, great dreams, Nonna, your future...
It didn't make sense. He dropped it on the floor with the bills and other postal refuse, and then lay back on the damp mattress, his eyes open and staring at himself through the mirror. He stayed like that for an hour or so before falling back into sleep.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
There was always a moment when the gentle rising and falling of sleep captured him entirely. Perched on the end of the girl's bed, Lilu allowed himself to enjoy the rhythms of human sleep. It was like a rapture, or a feast, he reminded himself. His black eyes blinked and the moment was gone. The girl's breathing had stopped. The dance was over, the music gone.
Lilu was feeling cold already. He examined the room quickly, wanting to leave. The girl's shoes were discarded by the door, her pink taffeta dress was scrunched and a little torn. The princess hadn't been especially chaste once the door had closed, but Lilu knew it was simply a costume - a skin that these young ones slipped into to hide from the mundanity of their lives.
The night had been a repeat of the last few months, of course. A disappointment. The seed that he had taken the night before would not stay inside the human. Poisoned by his infernal nature, the seed had turned upon its vessel and laid waste to what should have been fertile ground. Where would they find one strong enough to carry the germ, he wondered. In times past they had found women stronger, more able to keep the chaos and impure thing safely within their chastity. But times changed, women were no longer constrained by society's girdle.
With a quick lick of his lips, Lilu flexed his body and peeled his dark blue skin aside. In an instant he had cast off his male form and was replaced with the resplendent form of the succubus, Lilitu. Her skin was redder, smoother. She looked at the dead girl with uncaring eyes, like the discarded shoes by the door. In another instant she was gone, back into the night to seek out lovers and dreamers, to seek out the seed that would bring forth the cambion.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Marco awoke the next morning to the sounds of a reversing rubbish truck. Darkness had been replaced with morning light.
He loped out of his room after changing into his running clothes, and navigated his way out the front door and into the bright but ineffectual morning sun. Summer was retreating fast, he thought. In less than a week he would be in school again, and the thought gave him an odd sense of excitement and anxiety. He had to admit to himself that he didn't exactly know what he expected to get out of moving to King's College for two years. It wasn't going to reduce the overall number of years he'd need to study - in fact, it extended his degree to four and a half years.
Crossing a street, Marco paused and looked at a police cordon. The bright yellow tape caught his attention and he leaned against a shopfront trying to maintain his heartbeat. He had been running faster than he usually did and realised his anxiety had disrupted his usual morning equilibrium. There were a few other bystanders: casual gawkers and disgruntled types who felt the police cordon was somehow an affront to their personal selves and a way to make them late for work. Marco wiped his face on his t-shirt and walked slowly closer. A bobby was listening to the complaints of a neighbour. Marco could see the slightly glazed look in the policeman's eyes.
Two women near him huddled over coffee in styrofoam cups. Marco heard them talking about a dead girl.
"What happened here?" he asked.
The women looked at him like he had surprised them in some secret and compromising situation. One of them hid her surprise by taking a long sip from her cup. The other screwed up her face and looked him up and down.
"You fink I'm your fecking secretary?" she spat.
"You'll be reading about it in the papers," a more helpful young man said from behind. Marco nodded a thanks to the man in the suit and turned back to the scene. He was about to move on when the young man touched his arm. "It was a party murder. Third one this week."
Marco raised his eyebrows.
"Really?"
"Name's Buster Knowles," he said. "I'm sort of with the Daily News."
"A journalist?"
"Yeah, right. A journalist. You've got the wide-eyed look of a victim, kid. Here's my card."
Marco took the card and wasn't sure what to say. Knowles looked at the two women who had continued to stare at Marco, and then guided him away from the scene.
"I saw you at the party last night. You rushed out of there just as I was coming back from the john. You see, kid, the reason I'm interested in you is because you fit the bill for the next victim."
"What?"
Marco edged away from the journalist. Knowles was amused and stuck his thumbs into his trouser pockets. Marco assumed he was in his thirties. Grey streaked his hair at the temples and he wore his smile with creases at each end of his mouth. The laugh-lines were even more evident at his eyes and Marco had the feeling that Knowles was quite comfortable being amused at other people's expense. Apart from the suit the journalist looked more like a street fighter.
"You're new to London."
A pause. Marco reluctantly nodded.
"And you're enrolled at King's."
Knowles wasn't asking questions, but stating facts.
"The kid from last night was at that party, and the victim from last week was a girl from Slovenia. No one else has put one and one and one together, but I'm not a regularly-paid professional. I've got to rely on other things than simple arithmetic, which led me here. To you."
"I'll take your card, yeah?" Marco said. "But I don't think I'll be going to any more parties, thanks."
"Suit yourself," Knowles said. "But keep that number close."
Marco nodded and then gave the police cordon one last glance before jogging across the street to start his way back to the apartment. He wished he had bothered to bring his iPod or any other way to block out the streetscape he passed. Everything seemed convoluted: the sense of deja vu dominated him as he turned down street after street. He seemed to pass the same people in the street. Everyone started to look the same.
At last he arrived back at the familiar and stubborn door, but instead of kicking his way through like usual, he was happily surprised to see his housemate, Rez, at the door. The middle-eastern medical student smiled and opened the door wider.
"Just getting in?" Marco asked, and Rez shrugged, not sommitting to anything in his usual manner. Marco noticed Rez had a morning newspaper under his arm. Together they moved inside and Rez mumbled something about breakfast to which Marco found himself agreeing to something he immediately forgot.
After a shower Marco followed the sound of a hissing urn and wandered into the kitchen. The smell was still there but Rez didn't comment on it. Marco wondered whether it had been there for months and had become just another quirk of the house. He laid the mail on the table and sorted it into bills, which went in a special envelope on the refridgerator door; and other personal letters which stayed on the table until collected by their owners.
Marco sat and traced his finger around the letter he had received from the Phoenix Foundation. Rez brought a stained cup filled with black coffee and slid it across to Marco, and then sat and went through the mail.
Duvalle.
He remembered the man well enough from the day before his nonna's funeral, but he had never heard from him again and never really expected to. It had been three years, but now Marco had an invitation to meet the man, but to meet, to enjoy a meal and then hear a business proposal. It was absurd, of course. What business could Marco enter with such a man, he wondered.
Vendetta?
It had grown in his mind for the first few months after his nonna's death. Marco would try to recall the British man's face, his voice and movements. Why had the man slipped his hand into the coffin? Why had he arrived just as Marco had crossed that forbidden line and opened his grandmother's coffin? And why had there been such a sense of relief in the man's very body upon seeing Marco's dead grandmother?
Something had been done, Marco knew, and he realised that as a sixteen year old it had been easy for Duvalle to have manipulated or hoodwinked him. Marco had been so distraught with the death and the resultant visions that he hadn't questioned Duvalle's appearance.
"Are you going to another party?" Rez asked, popping the memory bubble which had slowly enveloped Marco. When Marco had lifted his eyes to look at his housemate, Rez had taken the advantage and smiled before sliding the invitation across to his side of the table. Marco watched it go and was surprised to see how quickly Rez reacted. "Wow, this is posh," he said.
"Have you heard of the Foundation?"
Rez shook his head.
"Then how do you know it's ... er, posh?"
"The paper, man. Feel the grain on this baby. So is it a philanthropic thing, part of your scholarship deal?"
Marco took the invitation back with a smile.
"I suppose so," he conceded, although the Phoenix Foundation hadn't even been mentioned to him before, and Duvalle was just a name from long ago. "It's hard to know with all this bureacracy."
"I hear you."
Marco mumbled his thanks and pocketed the invitation. He wasn't expected anywhere so he wandered back to his room and booted up his laptop, all the time wondering about the relationship between Duvalle and his nonna. There was obviously something genuine there - a love, perhaps. Would it have been too much to ask that someone else in the world missed his nonna as much as Marco did?
The programs whirred into action and he typed Duvalle's name into a search engine.
As the results revealed variant spellings and incongruous information, Marco thought back to the funeral home and Duvalle. He wanted to feel joy about meeting the man, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind, a sense that Duvalle had taken something from his nonna, from the very resting place that should never have been violated.
He gave up and left the room, shouting out a farewell to Rez who was singing in the shower.
Out in the open, Marco unclicked his phone and called the number from the invitation. 065-333-4563. He crossed the street as the connection went through.
"Ah, yes, hello," he said after a woman answered. "My name is Marco Conti and I am calling this morning to confirm an appointment with Signore Duvalle for Friday."
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Across the street, Buster Knowles grinned around his cigarette and took a handful of rapid shots, capturing the young Italian on the phone. It was nine o'clock and he figured he had done quite well for a half hour's work. He checked the photos on the camera and matched them with the ones from the dossier. It was the same kid, no doubt about it. The ones from the employer were passport photos and looked to be a few years out of date, but there was no mistaking Marco Conti.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He knew exactly who would be calling.
With a flick of his wrist he opened the connection and crunched out his cigarette.
"Hello love," he said. "I guess you already know who I met this morning."
His eyes followed Marco as the kid moved down the street. The voice on the phone was soft and hesitant, but the pauses came from a reluctance to engage directly with him, Knowles knew, and had nothing to do with a lack of confidence.
"I love working with psychics," he laughed into the phone. "You know what you're paying for, and you know how it all ends."
The caller said something and ended the call, leaving Knowles to look with something akin to pity at Marco.
"Shit, kid," he said, lighting up again. "You are one poor bastard."
Friday, July 3, 2009
research reading
We were talking about writing a Mills and Boon so I've taken the initiative (and taken up the buy 2, get a 3rd free offer) and bought us some research.
I had to go out of the state to buy them anonymously and promptly hid them deep within my luggage, but I have 3 titles for us to start pulling apart.
They're in the 'sexy' category, which is the 2nd hottest according to the M&B ranking. 'Blaze' was the hottest, but those were not to be found :(
I chose them on titles alone, and they're listed in order of favourites...
3. The Innocent's Dark Seduction
2. The Billionaire's Bride of Convenience
and my fave title,
1. Bedded for Pleasure, Purchased for Pregnancy
Who wants to read which one?!
I had to go out of the state to buy them anonymously and promptly hid them deep within my luggage, but I have 3 titles for us to start pulling apart.
They're in the 'sexy' category, which is the 2nd hottest according to the M&B ranking. 'Blaze' was the hottest, but those were not to be found :(
I chose them on titles alone, and they're listed in order of favourites...
3. The Innocent's Dark Seduction
2. The Billionaire's Bride of Convenience
and my fave title,
1. Bedded for Pleasure, Purchased for Pregnancy
Who wants to read which one?!
Friday, June 26, 2009
too good to miss
Okay, this was Saturday's Odd Spot that I think we could have some fun with.
What about we list some of our finest abuse on the comments under this post over the holidays and the winner will be provided with cake at our first meeting?
I'm going to draft a few now...
What about we list some of our finest abuse on the comments under this post over the holidays and the winner will be provided with cake at our first meeting?
I'm going to draft a few now...
Friday, June 19, 2009
Check out my blog
Hi everyone,
check out my blog to see some of my 'works in progress'.
You'll notice there are four very different types of fiction here. Why? I have no idea! Please, if you have time, I would love any constructive criticism, ideas and, for one, a suggestion for the title.
Thanks for taking the time and I hope you enjoy.
Ell
check out my blog to see some of my 'works in progress'.
You'll notice there are four very different types of fiction here. Why? I have no idea! Please, if you have time, I would love any constructive criticism, ideas and, for one, a suggestion for the title.
Thanks for taking the time and I hope you enjoy.
Ell
Admella 150 Project
When: Friday 14 August and Saturday 15 August
Dusk (around 5:30pm)
What: A tour around the Portland North Cemetery which will last for 20-40 minutes. Along the tour the party will stop at certain places where they will witness: poetry readins, short performances, visual stimuli etc.
If you would like to be a part of this, the project is looking for short pieces of themed writing: poems, short fiction, monologues or dialogues.
Pieces should only go for 1-3 minutes maximum (very short) and should be creative and fictional.
Themes include: funerals, cemeteries, the Admella (of course), burial rites, death, ghosts, memories, past/present, fictional biographies... spooky stuff. For example you could write a monologue for a ghost who is dressed in a wedding dress and still pining for the man who was supposed to be meeting her at the altar, but who never made it back from the rescue attempt.
The project already has a few things booked including:
The Cockatoo Song Group
A Large Sail Boat 'thing' that will be carried through the cemetery
Choir
If you'd like to write something, but don't want to perform it, Ash has volunteered his Year 9 Drama class to do the readings.
For more information see Ash.
Dusk (around 5:30pm)
What: A tour around the Portland North Cemetery which will last for 20-40 minutes. Along the tour the party will stop at certain places where they will witness: poetry readins, short performances, visual stimuli etc.
If you would like to be a part of this, the project is looking for short pieces of themed writing: poems, short fiction, monologues or dialogues.
Pieces should only go for 1-3 minutes maximum (very short) and should be creative and fictional.
Themes include: funerals, cemeteries, the Admella (of course), burial rites, death, ghosts, memories, past/present, fictional biographies... spooky stuff. For example you could write a monologue for a ghost who is dressed in a wedding dress and still pining for the man who was supposed to be meeting her at the altar, but who never made it back from the rescue attempt.
The project already has a few things booked including:
The Cockatoo Song Group
A Large Sail Boat 'thing' that will be carried through the cemetery
Choir
If you'd like to write something, but don't want to perform it, Ash has volunteered his Year 9 Drama class to do the readings.
For more information see Ash.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
HORROR STORY
Written by Henrik Holmberg
A horror movie has certain rules. If you break too many the audience will be disappointed.
This is a very short, no fluff, blueprint of how to write a horror script.
1. The Hook. Start with a bang. Step right into a suspense scene. (”Scream” opens with a terrifying sequence with Drew Barrymore on the phone with a killer)
2. The Flaw. Introduce your hero. Give him a flaw. Before you can put your hero in jeopardy we must care for him. We must want our hero to succeed. So make him human. (In “Signs” Mel Gibson plays a priest who has lost his faith after his wife died)
3. The Fear. A variant of The Flaw. The hero has a fear. Maybe a fear of heights, or claustrophobia. (In “Jaws” Roy Scheider has a fear of water. At the end he has to conquer his fear by going out onto the ocean to kill the shark)
4. No Escape. Have your hero at an isolated location where he can’t escape the horror. (Like the hotel in “The Shining”)
5. Foreplay. Tease the audience. Make them jump at scenes that appear scary — but turn out to be completely normal. (Like the cat jumping out of the closet) Give them some more foreplay before bringing in the real monster.
6. Evil Attacks. A couple of times during the middle of the script show how evil the monster can be — as it attacks its victims.
7. Investigation. The hero investigates, and finds out the truth behind the horror.
8. Showdown. The final confrontation. The hero has to face both his fear and the monster. The hero uses his brain, rather than muscles, to outsmart the monster. (At the end of “The Village” the blind girl tricks the monster to fall into the hole in the ground)
9. Aftermath. Everything’s back to the way it was from the beginning — but the hero has changed for the better or for the worse. (At the end of “Signs” Mel Gibson puts on his clerical collar again — he got his faith back)
10. Evil Lurks. We see evidence that the monster may return somewhere..somehow..in the future..(Almost all “Friday The 13′th”-movies end with Jason showing signs of returning for another sequel)
Now you can start writing your horror screenplay. Good luck!
Find the original list here.
Written by Henrik Holmberg
A horror movie has certain rules. If you break too many the audience will be disappointed.
This is a very short, no fluff, blueprint of how to write a horror script.
1. The Hook. Start with a bang. Step right into a suspense scene. (”Scream” opens with a terrifying sequence with Drew Barrymore on the phone with a killer)
2. The Flaw. Introduce your hero. Give him a flaw. Before you can put your hero in jeopardy we must care for him. We must want our hero to succeed. So make him human. (In “Signs” Mel Gibson plays a priest who has lost his faith after his wife died)
3. The Fear. A variant of The Flaw. The hero has a fear. Maybe a fear of heights, or claustrophobia. (In “Jaws” Roy Scheider has a fear of water. At the end he has to conquer his fear by going out onto the ocean to kill the shark)
4. No Escape. Have your hero at an isolated location where he can’t escape the horror. (Like the hotel in “The Shining”)
5. Foreplay. Tease the audience. Make them jump at scenes that appear scary — but turn out to be completely normal. (Like the cat jumping out of the closet) Give them some more foreplay before bringing in the real monster.
6. Evil Attacks. A couple of times during the middle of the script show how evil the monster can be — as it attacks its victims.
7. Investigation. The hero investigates, and finds out the truth behind the horror.
8. Showdown. The final confrontation. The hero has to face both his fear and the monster. The hero uses his brain, rather than muscles, to outsmart the monster. (At the end of “The Village” the blind girl tricks the monster to fall into the hole in the ground)
9. Aftermath. Everything’s back to the way it was from the beginning — but the hero has changed for the better or for the worse. (At the end of “Signs” Mel Gibson puts on his clerical collar again — he got his faith back)
10. Evil Lurks. We see evidence that the monster may return somewhere..somehow..in the future..(Almost all “Friday The 13′th”-movies end with Jason showing signs of returning for another sequel)
Now you can start writing your horror screenplay. Good luck!
Find the original list here.
Short Story Competition - Science Fiction
http://shortstory.us.com/2009/06/free-writing-contest-for-science-fiction-writers-%e2%80%93-theme-what-if/
This closes August 31st. Have a look.
This closes August 31st. Have a look.
Some story definitions
■ Poetry - Please between 3 and 4 poems
■ Micro Fiction - Less than 500 words
■ Flash Fiction - Less than 1000 words
■ Short Stories - Less than 5000 words
This is according to Short Story Library
■ Micro Fiction - Less than 500 words
■ Flash Fiction - Less than 1000 words
■ Short Stories - Less than 5000 words
This is according to Short Story Library
Monday, June 8, 2009
My somewhat dodgy attempt at a horror story - I think it starts off ok, but the ending is weak. Any ideas?
The pain started in her lower left gum, right up the back where her wisdom tooth had never emerged. She used to joke about it sometimes, this lack of wisdom. No one laughed, it wasn’t really that kind of joke. The pain gave her hope for a while – perhaps that longed-for wisdom was finally arriving. But it faded after a few days.
The pain next emerged in the hinge of her jaw. It ached and seemed stiff, and sometimes as she chewed there was a clicking sound, as if her jaw was popping in and out of its socket. While out to dinner some friends commented on it. Did she always make that sound as she chewed?
Random pains started emerging all around her body. One day a wrist, another an ankle. Once there was a very specific sensation in the middle of her right bicep – it felt as if someone were giving her a slow injection into the muscle, pushing the needle in with exquisite control, millimeter by millimeter. She saw the doctor, who made a crack about belated growing pains and suggested she take anti-inflammitories. They didn’t help, and gave her stomach-ache into the bargain. By the end of summer she’d just got used to it. The pains, though annoying, were never very bad. She learned to ignore them and get on with her life.
That autumn she got a promotion. It meant more money and more responsibility. She now had the opportunity to put some of her ideas into practice. They met with some success and her reputation within the company grew. But she had less time to see Eric, her partner, less time with friends. And certainly no time to worry about the odd aches and pains.
A rash appeared on her thighs. It spread to her buttocks. Small, slightly raised points of redness marred her skin. It was embarrassing. Luckily she was working so late that Eric was generally asleep by the time she got home. She wouldn’t want him seeing her like this. She wouldn’t want to kiss him, either – her mouth was full of ulcers.
He was away the night she lay awake picking at one. It was large, and painful, and sat right inside the crease between the inside of her cheek and the roots of her teeth. Picking at it with her tongue hurt, and was probably making it worse. But there was something there, some protuberance that was annoying her. So she picked – she couldn’t help herself.
The thing, the annoyance, was numb. It was probably some tissue that had been killed off by the germs causing the ulcers. She got it between her teeth and bit down. But the texture was wrong, totally unlike dead mouth tissue. It was tough and fibrous, almost woody. She couldn’t bite all the way through. She tried with her fingers, but she couldn’t grasp it. It was too short, too wet. The tweezers in the bathroom were a better bet. With them she could grasp it, and did. She pulled. By now she was used to pain, and anyway, this was like picking a scab or squeezing a pimple – painful, but also deeply satisfying. Anyway, the scraping, sliding feeling of it wasn’t all that different from taking out her contact lenses.
It wouldn’t come all the way. Once she had a length of it she snipped it off with a pair of scissors. She stared at the pale, stiff thing, like a toughened piece of string. A word formed in her mind, only to be rejected. There was no way such a thing could be in her gum. She ignored the thought an went back to bed.
The next morning there was another ulcer on her tongue. Something was sticking out of this, too. She took out her tweezers and pulled. This was trickier, it seemed to catch inside and didn’t want to come. There was some blood. But she finally got it out – a network of fine fibres, smeared with red. There was something inside her, some illness or infection violating her internal spaces. She turned the shower to the hottest she could bear, ready to scrub hard, and undressed.
Her pyjamas caught slightly on the rash on her thighs as she pulled them off. The rash that had been red was now tinged with green. A field of small green bumps and spines peered from the skin on her thighs. She rubbed her hands over them and was met with a sensation like running her hands over not-too-recently shaved legs. She pulled at one of the larger objects. Green blades, enclosed within one another topped a small, delicate network of pale, blood smeared fibres . She could no longer deny what it was. Blood beaded at the hole in her leg, and inched its way downwards. She took out her tweezers again and sat on the bathroom floor, the shower forgotten. Blood pooled beneath her as she plucked the grass, blade by blade, out of her legs.
The pain next emerged in the hinge of her jaw. It ached and seemed stiff, and sometimes as she chewed there was a clicking sound, as if her jaw was popping in and out of its socket. While out to dinner some friends commented on it. Did she always make that sound as she chewed?
Random pains started emerging all around her body. One day a wrist, another an ankle. Once there was a very specific sensation in the middle of her right bicep – it felt as if someone were giving her a slow injection into the muscle, pushing the needle in with exquisite control, millimeter by millimeter. She saw the doctor, who made a crack about belated growing pains and suggested she take anti-inflammitories. They didn’t help, and gave her stomach-ache into the bargain. By the end of summer she’d just got used to it. The pains, though annoying, were never very bad. She learned to ignore them and get on with her life.
That autumn she got a promotion. It meant more money and more responsibility. She now had the opportunity to put some of her ideas into practice. They met with some success and her reputation within the company grew. But she had less time to see Eric, her partner, less time with friends. And certainly no time to worry about the odd aches and pains.
A rash appeared on her thighs. It spread to her buttocks. Small, slightly raised points of redness marred her skin. It was embarrassing. Luckily she was working so late that Eric was generally asleep by the time she got home. She wouldn’t want him seeing her like this. She wouldn’t want to kiss him, either – her mouth was full of ulcers.
He was away the night she lay awake picking at one. It was large, and painful, and sat right inside the crease between the inside of her cheek and the roots of her teeth. Picking at it with her tongue hurt, and was probably making it worse. But there was something there, some protuberance that was annoying her. So she picked – she couldn’t help herself.
The thing, the annoyance, was numb. It was probably some tissue that had been killed off by the germs causing the ulcers. She got it between her teeth and bit down. But the texture was wrong, totally unlike dead mouth tissue. It was tough and fibrous, almost woody. She couldn’t bite all the way through. She tried with her fingers, but she couldn’t grasp it. It was too short, too wet. The tweezers in the bathroom were a better bet. With them she could grasp it, and did. She pulled. By now she was used to pain, and anyway, this was like picking a scab or squeezing a pimple – painful, but also deeply satisfying. Anyway, the scraping, sliding feeling of it wasn’t all that different from taking out her contact lenses.
It wouldn’t come all the way. Once she had a length of it she snipped it off with a pair of scissors. She stared at the pale, stiff thing, like a toughened piece of string. A word formed in her mind, only to be rejected. There was no way such a thing could be in her gum. She ignored the thought an went back to bed.
The next morning there was another ulcer on her tongue. Something was sticking out of this, too. She took out her tweezers and pulled. This was trickier, it seemed to catch inside and didn’t want to come. There was some blood. But she finally got it out – a network of fine fibres, smeared with red. There was something inside her, some illness or infection violating her internal spaces. She turned the shower to the hottest she could bear, ready to scrub hard, and undressed.
Her pyjamas caught slightly on the rash on her thighs as she pulled them off. The rash that had been red was now tinged with green. A field of small green bumps and spines peered from the skin on her thighs. She rubbed her hands over them and was met with a sensation like running her hands over not-too-recently shaved legs. She pulled at one of the larger objects. Green blades, enclosed within one another topped a small, delicate network of pale, blood smeared fibres . She could no longer deny what it was. Blood beaded at the hole in her leg, and inched its way downwards. She took out her tweezers again and sat on the bathroom floor, the shower forgotten. Blood pooled beneath her as she plucked the grass, blade by blade, out of her legs.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Duotrope's Digest
http://www.duotrope.com/index.aspx
This website lists a whole lot of online and print journals that accept (and sometimes pay) submissions.
Let's all try and submit something somewhere before December 31st, yeah? Even if we get knockback letters.
This website lists a whole lot of online and print journals that accept (and sometimes pay) submissions.
Let's all try and submit something somewhere before December 31st, yeah? Even if we get knockback letters.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Blogger profile 'Random Questions'
Hey there GW's,
I came across some interesting random questions that I thought you may like to ponder with me. Some funny material for a short, creative paragraph, or perhaps something more...?
Pick one that appeals to you.
1.Your super power is that you smell like onion weed whenever someone lies. How will hyou maintain y our secret identity?
2. Your Aunty sent you a rooster-shaped maple syrup dispenser for your birthday. Write her a thank you letter no less than 300 words.
3. There's no 'I' in team, but there is 'meat'. Explain.
4. In the dream where you show up to school naked, why do you never go to the Lost Property box, or the Uniform shop?
5. You've successfully slain the dragon! Hurrah! Now how will you toast your marshmallows?
6. Which would you prefer and why: whittling with soap or whistling with wood?
7. If mud is dirt + water, what is clay? Explain your theory.
8. Your hand has been replaced with a rubber stamp. What does it say? Give some examples/scenarios where you would use your new 'hand'.
9. You've written a hit musical! Write the review explaining what your musical is about, including quotes from yourself.
10. Occillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal. Explain...please!
11. Do you believe that forks evolved from spoons? Explain.
12. Write your full name with your left hand. Tell that person's story.
13. The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog who wears a wig.
I hope these randoms get your creative juices flowing!
I came across some interesting random questions that I thought you may like to ponder with me. Some funny material for a short, creative paragraph, or perhaps something more...?
Pick one that appeals to you.
1.Your super power is that you smell like onion weed whenever someone lies. How will hyou maintain y our secret identity?
2. Your Aunty sent you a rooster-shaped maple syrup dispenser for your birthday. Write her a thank you letter no less than 300 words.
3. There's no 'I' in team, but there is 'meat'. Explain.
4. In the dream where you show up to school naked, why do you never go to the Lost Property box, or the Uniform shop?
5. You've successfully slain the dragon! Hurrah! Now how will you toast your marshmallows?
6. Which would you prefer and why: whittling with soap or whistling with wood?
7. If mud is dirt + water, what is clay? Explain your theory.
8. Your hand has been replaced with a rubber stamp. What does it say? Give some examples/scenarios where you would use your new 'hand'.
9. You've written a hit musical! Write the review explaining what your musical is about, including quotes from yourself.
10. Occillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal. Explain...please!
11. Do you believe that forks evolved from spoons? Explain.
12. Write your full name with your left hand. Tell that person's story.
13. The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog who wears a wig.
I hope these randoms get your creative juices flowing!
Monday, May 25, 2009
The stinky fridge oddspot
“We’ve got a call out Mac." Steve jabbed the lumpy man beside him."Wha...?" Mac replied with a start arms flailing as he sat up in the ambulance's passenger seat, trying get his bearings."Yeah, apparently about 15 of AT &T's staff have rang through in this morning complaining of a foul smell. Sounds like someone's carked it. We better roll." He started the engine.Mac said nothing, but slowly fastened his seat belt as Steve sped off from the corner of Main and 56th street, the empty Starbucks coffee containers rattling around on the floor at his feet.Mac and Steve ended up outside AT &T's head office in Dallas, Texas.The weather over the past week had been unseasonably warm, at least 10 degrees above average for August. It was bizarre to see the people on the streets without their heavy overcoats and scarves, as is usually the norm for autumn.Steve noticed that Mac wiped sweat off his upper lip as he heaved himself out of the ambulance van.
British National Party
The far-right British National Party, which is contesting 69 of Britain's 72 European Parliament seats, could have its election ads banned after a poster demanding "British jobs for British workers" was found to feature American models.
"Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger. Brian, have you seen today's paper?"
As if turning 35, having a bad hair day and finding your favourite dress didn't fit wasn't bad enough, now this. Jenny's day was turing from bad to worse. Nerves and the faint smell of stale bread in the office made her want to puke.
"Nope. Sounds like it's not good news. What's up?"
"They've found out about the modelling agency. I told you we should have gone for locals, in spite of the teeth."
"Oh, crap. So what's the angle?"
"'BNP sends British jobs to American beauties' They're accusing the clients of hypocrysy."
"Bugger. We're going to get fired, you know. "
"Yup."
Jenny was dying for a fag. But somehow she had to salvage this situation. It had all seemed such a good idea. The agency had had such a simple idea - to capitalise on the xenophobia and fear of economic disaster in the community and turn it to the British National Party's advantage. Brian, of course, had come up with some real humdingers, but the BNP had wanted something simple and comforting. British jobs for British workers. Short enough to read as the bus went past, familiar enough to ring a chord of nostalgia in the masses. Advertising gold. But the photographs had caused problems. The BNP hadn't been in favour of the 'authentic' shots of real British workers, and they felt that the scare tactics of showing immigrant workers getting rich was too blatant. They'd wanted Britisth workers, but slightly glamorous. And then the photographers had gone on strike. It was just so much simpler to go with the American agency. Jenny had worked with them before, and knew they were good. And, as it turned out, they had the perfect models. They had that classic British look, but with an American healthy glow. Utopian. Perfect. But not actually British.
Although the temptation to hide out in the lavatory was strong, Jenny instead went to beard the lion in his den. And the metaphor was accurate - Dan had a roar that could turn your toenails inside out and had been known to eat interns alive.
"Jenny, how could you let this happen? I should fire you now. This firm's reputation..."
"Don't bother. I quit".
"Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger. Brian, have you seen today's paper?"
As if turning 35, having a bad hair day and finding your favourite dress didn't fit wasn't bad enough, now this. Jenny's day was turing from bad to worse. Nerves and the faint smell of stale bread in the office made her want to puke.
"Nope. Sounds like it's not good news. What's up?"
"They've found out about the modelling agency. I told you we should have gone for locals, in spite of the teeth."
"Oh, crap. So what's the angle?"
"'BNP sends British jobs to American beauties' They're accusing the clients of hypocrysy."
"Bugger. We're going to get fired, you know. "
"Yup."
Jenny was dying for a fag. But somehow she had to salvage this situation. It had all seemed such a good idea. The agency had had such a simple idea - to capitalise on the xenophobia and fear of economic disaster in the community and turn it to the British National Party's advantage. Brian, of course, had come up with some real humdingers, but the BNP had wanted something simple and comforting. British jobs for British workers. Short enough to read as the bus went past, familiar enough to ring a chord of nostalgia in the masses. Advertising gold. But the photographs had caused problems. The BNP hadn't been in favour of the 'authentic' shots of real British workers, and they felt that the scare tactics of showing immigrant workers getting rich was too blatant. They'd wanted Britisth workers, but slightly glamorous. And then the photographers had gone on strike. It was just so much simpler to go with the American agency. Jenny had worked with them before, and knew they were good. And, as it turned out, they had the perfect models. They had that classic British look, but with an American healthy glow. Utopian. Perfect. But not actually British.
Although the temptation to hide out in the lavatory was strong, Jenny instead went to beard the lion in his den. And the metaphor was accurate - Dan had a roar that could turn your toenails inside out and had been known to eat interns alive.
"Jenny, how could you let this happen? I should fire you now. This firm's reputation..."
"Don't bother. I quit".
Hazmat.
The brakes squealed as the ambulance came to a halt. It was pandemonium, emergency crews everywhere, police directing traffic, firefighters running into the building axes at the ready with their breathing apparatus in place. No place for an inexperienced ambo but that was exactly where Tim Debney found himself.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tim looked up and saw a guy in a suit blocking his path. "I need to get in, there's people in need of medical assistance"
The guy looked at for a moment then handed him some breathing gear. "Good luck son, just get those poor bastards out of there"
"What am I facing? Gas leak? Anthrax?"
"No son. One of workers here went fishing during lunch about four years ago and never took his catch out of the fridge. Boss made him clean it out today but the minute he cracked the door all hell broke loose."
An office worker cleaning a fridge full of rotten food created a smell so noxious that it sent seven co-workers to hospital and made many others ill. Firefighters evacuated the AT&T building in San Jose after the fumes led someone to call emergency services. A hazardous materials team was called in.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tim looked up and saw a guy in a suit blocking his path. "I need to get in, there's people in need of medical assistance"
The guy looked at for a moment then handed him some breathing gear. "Good luck son, just get those poor bastards out of there"
"What am I facing? Gas leak? Anthrax?"
"No son. One of workers here went fishing during lunch about four years ago and never took his catch out of the fridge. Boss made him clean it out today but the minute he cracked the door all hell broke loose."
An office worker cleaning a fridge full of rotten food created a smell so noxious that it sent seven co-workers to hospital and made many others ill. Firefighters evacuated the AT&T building in San Jose after the fumes led someone to call emergency services. A hazardous materials team was called in.
odd spot story
Kiwifruit might be New Zealand's national fruit, but fewer Kiwis are eating it out of fear it could trigger a fatal allergic attack. Experts say 1 per cent of the country's 4 million people are believed to have developed some kind of allergy to the fuzzy fruit.
Murray comes from a family of farmers. His father was a farmer. His grandfather was a farmer. His grandfather's father's father was a farmer. Throughout his whole existence, Murray had always thought that he would grow up to be a farmer, without any thought of ever pursuing another career.
When he turned the magical age of 18, Murray expected the metaphoric keys to the family farm to be handed his way. He was excited, he was anticipating a big hand-over, a celebration to rival Christmas. So when the day came and went without any sort of fuss or ceremony, he was puzzled. Not puzzled enough to actually ask either of his parents about it, but puzzled enough to let it simmer in his mind for a few days.
After five days of straight simmering, Murray worked up the courage to ask. Straight out ask his father where his metaphoric keys were and when it was that he could actually start making some farm-related decisions.
Murray knew that they answer to this was approach in a not-too-confrontational manner, but with just enough directive to show his father that he was serious enough about the issue to get a real answer. His father was renowned for his 'let it be' attitude to life and to farming and it was always particularly difficult to introduce change. His father had been the same way; as had Murrary's grandfather and his grandfather's father's father. It was their way.
But Murray was determined not to let them dissuade him.
After the morning coffee and biscuits had been distributed, Murray made his move.
"Dad"
"Yes son"
"Dad, I've been wondering about family farm."
"What about the family farm son?"
"Well dad, about the fact that I turned 18 last week."
"What about turning 18 last week?"
"Well, I've been waiting to get the keys to the farm dad"
"What keys to the farm son? You've got the keys to the ute, the tractor, the shed, the grainstore, the house and the poisons. What other keys do you want?"
"No dad, not real keys, the metaphorical keys. You know, the handing it all over keys"
"Oh" his father replied.
The two men sat there and pondered their coffee and metaphorical keys for the rest of their working day.
The next day Murray tried bringing up the conversation again.
"Dad?"
"Yes son"
"Can we talk again about the keys?"
"The keys son?"
"You know what I mean. When can I start making decisions about the farm?"
His old man was quiet and sat quietly again for a minute or two, before finally giving Murray the answer he was looking for.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"You can have the keys to the farm, metaphoric or not. On one condition."
"Okay, what?"
Again, his father hesitated before making this revelation:
"You have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again."
"Huh?"
Murray's felt that he had obviously misunderstood his father's meaning, and just stared at him for a moment or two before repeating the questionning statement.
"I have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again?"
"Yes son"
"But why dad? Why?"
"Well son, no one eats kiwis anymore. They're all too allergic".
"What? Too allergic? That's rubbish."
"No son, it's God's honest truth. Our sales have been dropping for years and recently not one of my crates have pre-sold. It's a tough market out there for fuzzy fruit. I think it's time that we moved on. It's time that we grew bananas instead."
Murray pondered his father's comments before replying.
"Bananas? You want me to pull out all of our vines and replace them with the hated enemy of the kiwi, the banana? The Queensland equivalent of the plague? The fruit that it the exact opposite of what we proudly grow now? All because of some ridiculous allergy that some shonky medic in the city came up with?"
"Yes son"
Both men paused, barely able to look in each other's direction.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"If you want the keys, then that's my condition. You have a think about it and let me know what you decide, but them vines over there are ready for pruning. And I'm not pruning em this year."
"What happens if I don't want to change to bananas?"
"Well son, I'll be selling the family farm to Queensland Incorporated and our family heritage will be lost."
Murray comes from a family of farmers. His father was a farmer. His grandfather was a farmer. His grandfather's father's father was a farmer. Throughout his whole existence, Murray had always thought that he would grow up to be a farmer, without any thought of ever pursuing another career.
When he turned the magical age of 18, Murray expected the metaphoric keys to the family farm to be handed his way. He was excited, he was anticipating a big hand-over, a celebration to rival Christmas. So when the day came and went without any sort of fuss or ceremony, he was puzzled. Not puzzled enough to actually ask either of his parents about it, but puzzled enough to let it simmer in his mind for a few days.
After five days of straight simmering, Murray worked up the courage to ask. Straight out ask his father where his metaphoric keys were and when it was that he could actually start making some farm-related decisions.
Murray knew that they answer to this was approach in a not-too-confrontational manner, but with just enough directive to show his father that he was serious enough about the issue to get a real answer. His father was renowned for his 'let it be' attitude to life and to farming and it was always particularly difficult to introduce change. His father had been the same way; as had Murrary's grandfather and his grandfather's father's father. It was their way.
But Murray was determined not to let them dissuade him.
After the morning coffee and biscuits had been distributed, Murray made his move.
"Dad"
"Yes son"
"Dad, I've been wondering about family farm."
"What about the family farm son?"
"Well dad, about the fact that I turned 18 last week."
"What about turning 18 last week?"
"Well, I've been waiting to get the keys to the farm dad"
"What keys to the farm son? You've got the keys to the ute, the tractor, the shed, the grainstore, the house and the poisons. What other keys do you want?"
"No dad, not real keys, the metaphorical keys. You know, the handing it all over keys"
"Oh" his father replied.
The two men sat there and pondered their coffee and metaphorical keys for the rest of their working day.
The next day Murray tried bringing up the conversation again.
"Dad?"
"Yes son"
"Can we talk again about the keys?"
"The keys son?"
"You know what I mean. When can I start making decisions about the farm?"
His old man was quiet and sat quietly again for a minute or two, before finally giving Murray the answer he was looking for.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"You can have the keys to the farm, metaphoric or not. On one condition."
"Okay, what?"
Again, his father hesitated before making this revelation:
"You have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again."
"Huh?"
Murray's felt that he had obviously misunderstood his father's meaning, and just stared at him for a moment or two before repeating the questionning statement.
"I have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again?"
"Yes son"
"But why dad? Why?"
"Well son, no one eats kiwis anymore. They're all too allergic".
"What? Too allergic? That's rubbish."
"No son, it's God's honest truth. Our sales have been dropping for years and recently not one of my crates have pre-sold. It's a tough market out there for fuzzy fruit. I think it's time that we moved on. It's time that we grew bananas instead."
Murray pondered his father's comments before replying.
"Bananas? You want me to pull out all of our vines and replace them with the hated enemy of the kiwi, the banana? The Queensland equivalent of the plague? The fruit that it the exact opposite of what we proudly grow now? All because of some ridiculous allergy that some shonky medic in the city came up with?"
"Yes son"
Both men paused, barely able to look in each other's direction.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"If you want the keys, then that's my condition. You have a think about it and let me know what you decide, but them vines over there are ready for pruning. And I'm not pruning em this year."
"What happens if I don't want to change to bananas?"
"Well son, I'll be selling the family farm to Queensland Incorporated and our family heritage will be lost."
The Ride Home
A German football club is to refund the tickets of 600 fans who travelled to see them put in a "pitiful performance" that ended in a 4-0 away defeat. Energie Cottbus supporters travelled 600 kilometres to Gelsenkirchen to see their team lose. It was the team's sixth loss in seven games.
"Ach tung, baby," the conductor said with a lop-sided grin as he leaned around the pole in the centre of the train carriage. The cluster of red and white fans barely looked up, and behind them the grey sprawl of some city's tail sped passed the window. The conductor felt the rail beneath the carriage, ba-doong-ba-doong-ba-doong.
His smile was getting tired.
"Tickets, please," he said, as he rearranged his hold on the pole.
A man swivelled out his hand without looking up. The conductor was relieved that he hadn't had to yell. He hated it when football fans got rowdy, although these sad-looking people didn't seem lively enough to muster up any kind of fracas.
"Danke."
The man's voice was deadpan. Danke. There was no How was your day? or How long till we arrive? Just Danke.
The conductor took the tickets from the outstretched hand, and felt a little queasy at how saturated with the sweat of disappointment the pieces of paper were.
The carriage moved around a corner and the torpid fans all shifted their weight as one, moving first left and then right.
"So how was the game?"
Six pairs of eyes lifted to the conductor: narrow, defeated but still dangerous. One of the women parted her lips, as if to speak. She was probably young, but her face had been hardened by the long journey and the weight of the red and white cap pulled down over her curly dark hair.
"Not good, eh? Well, there's always next week, I suppose."
Without any more small-chat, the conductor moved on, reaching out for the next pole and the next set of Cottbus Energie fans.
Sometimes it really paid to be from Gelsenkirchen. It wasn't everyday that you got the chance to rub the noses of Energie fans for a full five hours.
He looked at his watch, and smiled.
Three hours, twenty-nine minutes to go.
He peered down at three university students, all decked out in frowns and Energie scarves.
"How was the game?"
"Ach tung, baby," the conductor said with a lop-sided grin as he leaned around the pole in the centre of the train carriage. The cluster of red and white fans barely looked up, and behind them the grey sprawl of some city's tail sped passed the window. The conductor felt the rail beneath the carriage, ba-doong-ba-doong-ba-doong.
His smile was getting tired.
"Tickets, please," he said, as he rearranged his hold on the pole.
A man swivelled out his hand without looking up. The conductor was relieved that he hadn't had to yell. He hated it when football fans got rowdy, although these sad-looking people didn't seem lively enough to muster up any kind of fracas.
"Danke."
The man's voice was deadpan. Danke. There was no How was your day? or How long till we arrive? Just Danke.
The conductor took the tickets from the outstretched hand, and felt a little queasy at how saturated with the sweat of disappointment the pieces of paper were.
The carriage moved around a corner and the torpid fans all shifted their weight as one, moving first left and then right.
"So how was the game?"
Six pairs of eyes lifted to the conductor: narrow, defeated but still dangerous. One of the women parted her lips, as if to speak. She was probably young, but her face had been hardened by the long journey and the weight of the red and white cap pulled down over her curly dark hair.
"Not good, eh? Well, there's always next week, I suppose."
Without any more small-chat, the conductor moved on, reaching out for the next pole and the next set of Cottbus Energie fans.
Sometimes it really paid to be from Gelsenkirchen. It wasn't everyday that you got the chance to rub the noses of Energie fans for a full five hours.
He looked at his watch, and smiled.
Three hours, twenty-nine minutes to go.
He peered down at three university students, all decked out in frowns and Energie scarves.
"How was the game?"
the odd spot
a nice challenge - write up the story behind the odd spot segment...
http://www.theage.com.au/oddspot/
http://www.theage.com.au/oddspot/
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