Stuff and Nonsense: A growing heap of things of various length

[sneakyonfoota]

Preface



Today seemed as good a day as any to start my own thread. I've been planning on it for a while, but kept pushing back the when. It got to a point of "now or never" and so here we are, rather hastily as these things go.

What I am presenting here is a series of exercises, not a polished collection. I hope to see in plain, linear view a visible progression as I dare to tackle other styles and formats and genres. So I give fair warning now: many of these will be hit or miss. I probably will not go back to edit any of the following content, but in the very least I will make comment about where it could have or should have been changed or improved.

I would like to say that I will update frequently, but I hesitate to make any promises in that regard. The most I can say is that I will try to post something as often as I can and hope that will suffice.

Feedback would be greatly appreciated and encouraged, although I must say that praise does not interest me, even if deserved.

- s.

November 23, 2007

~

Advert

A tall, animated man pointed at a large sheet of Bristol paper resting on a tripod easel. Drawn onto it were sketches made in charcoal pencil, laid out in comic panels.

“It’s like this, right. We’ve got some bloke on a horse, yeah? Wearing one’a them buckle hats? What're they called? Well, anyway. It’s broad and peaked so you can't see his eyes. Mysterious stranger type. He’s plodding down the path, only it’s Sherwood, see. Next we’ve got him staring down at a buncha Merry Men—John Little front and center, Will Scarlet to the side and a very fat and drunk Friar Tuck holding a turkey leg. Anyways, Locksley, right? Swings down on a rope, makes his big appearance. ‘Stand and deliver,’ right? So our man, he pauses for a panel and then swipe! Fast as lightning he whips out a coupla of our pistols—dramatic frame of that—and blam blam blam! Blows them away. Then in the last panel we show our man going on his way with the bodies of Locksley and his lot on the path, stiff limbs in the air. Tuck’ll still be clutching his turkey leg, see, and Scarlet his knives, Locksley will only have nocked his bow—didn’t have the time to let it fly. Big, block text on the bottom: Ua Siaghail! ...Something something.”

He grinned proudly and raised his brows.

One of the two other men in the room looked at the man, the sketches and then the man again.

“Ought... Ought I to applause now, or something?” he deadpanned.

“Would you?” said the first man, in a patronizing, sing-song voice.

“Well, I will!” said the other seated man, clearly older than both, and he clapped his hands. “Well done, Desmond. Brilliant! Er, of course the last bit will need some improvement.”

“Of course, of course, Father,” said the first man, smiling and drinking in the compliment. “In fact, I thought dear Kieran could fill that in for us.”

The second man sighed and cradled his brow in the crook of his hand. “Must I?”

Desmond shrugged. “I’m an artist, not a writer.”

Clearly, Kieran wanted to say, but thought better of it.

“Come on, lad,” said their father, resting a hand on Kieran’s shoulder, causing the man to recoil a bit at the touch. “Show some enthusiasm like your brother, hey? After all, this will be your company someday.” Then added lowly, turning away, “Though I pray not soon.”

“As do I,” muttered Kieran, seething in his seat.

[sneakyonfoota]

In keeping with what I said yesterday about not going back to edit previous entries, I will not change the typo of "applause" in Advert. I only realized my mistake this morning.

I wrote Advert for two reasons: the first being that somedays you feel like killing off Robin Hood; the second being that it was a dry run-through for a pair of important characters (the two being Desmond and Kieran) who will appear in a roleplay in the near future. Personally, I feel that Desmond was more properly expressed than Kieran. However, his artist-writer line may be a bit misleading, as Kieran is not a writer himself, but a scholar.

The next bit of writing shares the same setting as Mad Science (an RP I had posted yesterday), which is the Weiman city of Zeist.

~

Gassers - Briefing

Guten tag, Herr Verheyen. Or would bonjour be more appropriate? Please, have a seat.

Please forgive our haste in bringing you here. I realize that it must have been a lengthy and tiring train ride from Brussels. However, with what I am about to tell you now, you will understand why time is of the essence. Your bags have been brought to your hotel room--1603 at the Jahreszeiten. Now. Onto business.

I take it you've read the papers. We've tried to keep things under wraps as best as we can, but those reporters... Well, to start at the beginning. The first kidnapping was reported eight weeks ago. Since then we've gotten as many as three in a span of seven days. Thirteen legitimate cases, five more confirmed to be copycats.

It starts like this.

A young woman, some reported as young as 16, not one above thirty yet, alone, late at night. A car pulls up to the kerb. Accounts vary on the make, model and colour. Three men walk out. Tall, all wearing pinstripes, hats and gloves. And gas masks. Tinted lenses so you can't see their eyes. The old kind with the hose--GM-24s. Available at any junk store or military surplus. They grab the girl, spray gas into her face and she passes out. Sometimes force is necessary, but it's all over soon after. When she comes to she's gagged, blindfolded and tied up like a hog. From there they don't see or hear a thing until they're dumped the same place they were picked up. The only thing she can feel is the motion of the car. Perception of time is skewed, but most accounts estimate it to be about an hour.

We've set up an escort program and extended services for taxicabs and public transport, but despite these measures some unfortunate seems to slip through the cracks.

Those cases we rule to be the work of our suspects have the victim led down a large stair and into a room where they are unbound, stripped and then bound again. The rest... Well, we have other detectives addressing those cases. We have ruled out that the M.O. of our suspects has changed.

I won't go into the detail about the procedures. The files are all here and available to you. We're clearly dealing with monsters.

[sneakyonfoota]

Today’s was a struggle. I don’t think it was the best one out of all of the ideas I’ve had, but it was the only one that went anywhere.

~

First-Person Narrative #1


“Oh dearie, me. Now you’ve done it. You’ve killed Edward,” said Éva, sighing out smoke after taking a leisurely draw from the lip of her cigarette holder.

I was shaking where I stood, and was just barely managing that. My waistcoat was soaked and heavy with his blood and I dropped the knife I wrestled from his grip, still dripping and hot. Like a judge’s gavel it fell against the rug with a dull, terminal thud.

Every instinct I had told me to run—to get out of there, out of that room, out of that house, to anywhere so long as it was far, far away. To run as far as my legs could carry me—anywhere but here. Was it restraint that rooted me to the spot? Or was it a victory of the intellect over dull, base impulse? Was it plain cowardice? Looking back, I guess it was that conflict that prevented my flight. Or maybe it was the cold, expressionless gaze of Fraulein Éva Tauber, judging me—eyes outlined in kohl, lashes perfectly straight and curled into black rays emanating from her amber-yellow eyes. Her mouth was a pair of prim, Falu red lips outlined in black and pressed together into an unimpressed line.

She brushed past me and casually stepped over to the body of the late Edward and peered down at his wide, unblinking eyes. A slight grunt escaped her nostrils as the sight.

“Well, that’s that, then,” she said.

“I--... It was self-defense! Self-defense!” I stammered, babbling like an idiot.

“Save it for the inspector, darling,” she said, waving a dismissing hand.

[sneakyonfoota]

Stand by for profanity.

~

It’s Getting Bigger


Monday, September 16
I woke up this morning with an itch on my left arm. It was a tiny bump, but all around it was red and the skin was raw from scratching it in my sleep. When I held my arm up to my eye I could see a little stinger sticking out the middle of it. I tweezed it out with my nails and it left a little hole behind. It’s damn itchy, so I had to wrap it up with linen. Throughout the day I’d break down and try to scratch it through the bandage, but you know how that never works.

(Why am I writing this down?)


Tuesday, September 17
It’s still there. And swollen. About the size of a coin now and puffy. I reckon I ought to visit the chemist’s and get some ointment or something. It’s probably my fault, having itched it so much yesterday. I’m starting to think I shoulda sucked on it like what they say to do if you’ve been bitten by an adder.


Wednesday, September 18
Got some cream. Took off the bandage today to see that my bump’s gots a friend. Fúck.


Thursday, September 19
Thank God I’m a righty. My whole left arm is ridden with pox. I’m smearing this cream all over and it isn’t doing shite. Been wearing a glove at work so’s nobody can see it. Going to see a barber tomorrow and see if he can do anything about it. Or may just shear off and peel off the skin, I don’t care. I’m getting right sick of this.


Friday, September 20
An eye. There is a fúcking EYE on my arm. Right below the elbow. I wanted to stab it out, but it’s like it’s got a mind of its own now—my arm, I mean. It flinches and flails in these fúcking spasms, like it was a trout on the deck of a boat. It blinks at me and it rolls and I just covered it up with a bandage. I notice I’m beginning to lose feeling in my fingers. It’s like they’re getting stiff or something. I can wiggle them all right with my free hand, but I can’t make them move myself. If someone can’t cure me soon I reckon I’m going to start hacking it off bit by bit…


Saturday, September 21
EYES EYES EYES! FÚCKING EYES EVERYWHERE! (illegible text follows, transcribing from first legible word. -ed) Jesus Christ… I lost all feeling in it now. It’s hanging dead and limp from my shoulder. I didn’t sleep last night so much as passed the fúck out due to the pain. It felt like my body was rejecting it, or if it was trying to rip itself loose from the inside. Fitful night. Haven’t been to work in days. I’m going to the yard tomorrow and get a bunch of the lads to get this thing off me. I don’t care.


Monday, September 23
I didn’t leave my bed all yesterday, cos I thought it’d leap out and throttle me. I guess it’s not coming back, though. Where it crawled out to, I don’t know. And I don’t care, either. I’m just glad that it’s gone. I prayed. I admit it. I prayed like a little it was the Rapture or something. I’m reading everything since a week ago trying to make sense of it all and I don’t know. Who the fúck am I supposed to tell, eh? Tell a bobby to keep a look out for a crawling arm? I bet it slipped down into the sewer and that’s the end of that. Shit. Fúcking week. Fúcking everything. I need a drink. I need to get pissed. I’m going to drink it all the fúck away and hope I don’t remember nothing when I get up tomorrow. Reckon I’m going to need to carry a piece of pipe or something in case it wants my other one. Fúck that.

[sneakyonfoota]

Advert #2, Advertisement before a motion picture - Ivanhoe

INT. THRONE ROOM - DAY

The throne room of PRINCE JOHN, regent of the kingdom in the absence of his brother, Richard the Lionheart. Prince John sits upon an ornate throne resting atop a three-step dais, flanked by FRONT DE BOEUF and BRIAN DE BOIS-GUILBERT.

The heavy twin doors of the throne room are thrown open and the two standing men automatically bring their hands to the hilts of their swords.

The Prince watches with slight interest.

Standing in the doorway is IVANHOE, a trio of men-at-arms sprawled out and unconscious behind him in the corridor. He is alone. And apparently unarmed.

Front de Boeuf and Bois-Guilbert draw their swords and step to confront Ivanhoe, but the Prince raises a hand.

JOHN

Hold.

The two men obey.

JOHN
(with faux beneficence)

And what brings Wilfred of Ivanhoe to my humble chambers?

IVANHOE

Justice!

Ivanhoe whips out an Ua Siaghail revolver and fans the hammer, hitting Front de Boeuf between the eyes and putting two slugs into Bois-Guilbert's chest.

The two collapse in unison.

JOHN'S POV

Looks right at Front de Bouef's body, then Bois-Guilbert's.

BACK TO SCENE

He gapes.

Back to Ivanhoe, he steps forward and cocks the hammer of his pistol.

JOHN
(begs)

Wait! Wait! I give up! I'll pay the ransom! I'll--

IVANHOE

You'll do nothing but die, usurper!

He fires a round into John's chest.

The Prince looks down at the wound in horror and pain, back at Ivanhoe with an anguished expression and then slumps and dies with a theatrical groan.

ROWENA steps into frame from off screen and kisses the victorious Ivanhoe on the cheek. He twirls his pistol, holsters it, then pulls her close and the two dip in a passionate kiss.

A title card appears on the screen: UA SIAGHAIL PISTOLS AND FIREARMS.

~

Desmond held his pose, displaying the imaginary text of the advert's title card, a wicked grin spread wide across his face.

"Well, what did you think, eh? Good one, innit?"

A beat. Kieran regarded his younger brother through half-lidded eyes, then raised his novel back to his face.

"Kindly remove yourself," he muttered.

[sneakyonfoota]

I don't really want to make it a habit of making commentary before each piece, but in this case I felt that I needed to establish some context.

I have no pride for this one. Indeed, it was written hastily and sloppily and I edited it as I wrote it and was too disgruntled afterward to give it another look over. And that will probably show.

In an attempt to stray the collection away from its trend of death (even comically used) and prose I came up with an admittedly bad free verse poem that would serve as a reflection of a person residing in the fictional city of Zeist referenced in Mad Science. The poem obliquely describes sights encountered daily by a citizen of the city.

It would probably sound more impressive in Weische (German).

I summoned my eye-rolling memories of poetry analysis from secondary school for this one. Indeed, I can picture myself right now seated in class x-number of years ago and thudding my forehead against the desk.

~

city of ash and steel

i am awakened not by the light of dawn
but the endless clanking of gears
and the hiss of steam
and pull of drive chains

through a window caked in grime
the sun peeks through with weak rays
between cracks of progress in the skies
shut out

the phalli of industry shoot their billowing seeds into
heaven's sullied virginity
the air we breathe foul and laced with a kiss of poison
the water we drink, a tea of heavy metals

helmets and masks and capes we don
an armour to protect ourselves from ourselves
and what we've done
and what we continue to do

we speed along
in perfect, shiny wheeled coffins
from shelter to shelter
hermetically sealed and perfect and comfortable

while the world around us dies

[sneakyonfoota]

Comic book script failure

Page One (splash)

Continued from where the last issue left off, DIRECTOR CRANE of the Royal Bureau of Paranormal Investigation and Research opens the door to his study to find a man seated comfortably before his desk garbed in Victorian-era full evening dress. His top hat is held by the brim between the fingers of his folded, white-gloved hands resting on his lap.

The seated man is ARTEMIS JAB, or as the Director had known him twenty or so years ago, “Jack.” The two men were apparently close in age back then, however this is not so evident now—Jab’s face is still as sharp as a razor, his hair and finely trimmed beard still that rich, deep shade of auburn brown. Crane, in his middle- to late-fifties shows signs of advanced age, his face creased with deep wrinkles, his moustache is already a snow white, his hair is mostly grey and his hairline has receded far back, creating a widow’s peak.

Jab is grinning.

TITLE: The Fall of Icarus

CAP: My Lord…

CAP: That face… I had forgotten up until now.

CAP: Jack.

JAB: Good evening, Inspector!

JAB: Or should I say Director Crane?

Page Two (six panels)

Panel one

This panel should be lined up with the second one across the page.

A portrait image of Jab in sepia from Crane’s memory wearing clothing that is out of style now: a frock coat with a stock collar. A smirk upon his face.

No dialogue.

Panel two

Back to Jab as he is in the room, identical expression

JAB: Would you care to join me for a drink?

Panel three

This panel along with four and five ought to be lined up across the page.

Crane is still stymied.

No dialogue.

Panel four

Crane’s expression turns into one of thoughtful resolve, his brow knitted.

No dialogue.

Panel five

He makes a step out of frame to his liquor cabinet.

No dialogue.

Panel six

This panel fills the rest of the page.

We’re viewing from a perspective behind a bottle Crane has his fingers wrapped around, facing into the room. Jab is in the background. Crane’s expression reacts to Jab’s next line.

JAB: Oh, beg pardon.

JAB: I think the Enniskillen would be more appropriate. Special occasion, you know.

Page 3 (five panels)

Panel one

Crane holds the bottle indicated by Jab, the label close to his face.

CAP: It was a twenty year-old whiskey—a gift from Abberline and a souvenir from bygone era.

Panel two

He removes the lid.

CAP: Despite any reservations I may have had in the past, I unscrewed the cap--

Panel three

Crane winces slightly. A pair of Old fashioned glasses are visible close to his hands.

CAP: --and felt intoxicated by the mere whiff of its aroma.

Panel four

Crane hands Jab his glass.

JAB: Cheers.

Panel five

Over Crane’s shoulder. His glass of whiskey is visible and held in front of him and Jab has his raised.

JAB: A toast. To you, Mister Director. For exemplary service to His Majesty and to the Regent.

Page four

Panel one

Crane downs his in a single swig, head back, arm bent.

CAP: Having nothing to add to that I downed my glass and did my best to conceal my disgust.

Panel two

Jab looks amused and a little too comfortable in his seat for Crane’s liking.

CRANE: To what do I owe this intrusion?

JAB: Ah! Now there’s the Inspector Crane that I once knew.



--incomplete

[sneakyonfoota]

An entry for a mediæval bestiary

Yea, liketh vnto he, the king of all serpens, wing'd and claw'd. The great basilisk beeth but a dogsbodie to he, greatest of all beasts, the Leviathan to him a wyrm, Typhon a mydge. A hundreth behemoth would not make a meal for He, the Jabberwock. Its breathing sighs the father of all wynds, the beat of its thou-sand wings sire the hurricane. Its great maw drains the rivers and the seas, its furie raises the mountain and lays low the valley. It beeth a great lord of the heavens and of the seas, the land quaketh beneathe its feet. It taketh and it giveth, a bringer of ruin and of great providens. It speaketh with the blasting voice of a hundred-fold quire, terrible, beautiful, overwhelming and immens. Great fortune, for ill or good, goeth to he whom spies the Jabberwock.

[sneakyonfoota]

Emily & the Unexpected Guest

Emily had never had to open the front door to anyone before. The idea that a person rapping his fist against it in request for entry was completely alien to her. She twisted the knob and pulled the door open to find a very tall person standing before her. His hair was long and black like hers, but his skin had a slightly jaundiced, sickly, even corpse-like palour to it. The stranger's gold eyes regarded her with what seemed to be a seething contempt, magnified though a monocle clenched in the crook of his right eye. A sneer seemed to worm its way through his shut-tight lips and one corner of his mouth was upturned. He had a peculiar odour about him, a mixture of singed fabrics and heavy metals masked by a liberal application of a heady Eau de Cologne. In one hand he tightly grasped the handle of a briefcase, the snarling brass head of a beast that topped his polished black gentleman's cane.

The two stood, staring at each other; Emily hanging onto the door, the man standing still, unmoving and as silent and ominous as a gargoyle perched upon eaves of a cathedral. His right hand squeaked as the leather of his glove tightened around the the head of his cane. He sighed heavily with impatience and pushed through inside.

Emily shut the door behind him.

The man removed his top hat. He looked around and scanned the surroundings of the foyer, appraising the walls, the curtains, the rugs, floor tiles, the wainscoting and the dangling, dusty, empty remnants of spider webs in on the ceiling. Taking notice of the drawing room he repaired to it and seated himself in an armchair, dropping his luggage onto the floor with a thump.

Emily followed.

The man set his hat upon his lap and stood his cane between his knees and kept it balanced with a finger, teetering back and forth like a metronome.

At last, he spoke.

"Tea. Black," he intoned, not removing his gaze from the back of his cane.

His voice was tired and weary and low. It had a severe, demanding bent to it bordering on threat that Emily thought lended itself more to a chimæra or a manticore, the girl having associated with each not a fortnight ago.

The man then shot Emily a glare and she darted away to the kitchen.

[sneakyonfoota]

154 words. I started writing this at the end of November and promptly forgot about it. I am posting it right now to get back into the habit. I promise something new and decidedly more finished tomorrow.

~

The sign swayed in the breeze, hung up rusting iron eyelets and creaking as it did. It read “The Thieving Magpie” in raised letters with an impish bird with a pin held in its beak and a coin tucked under its wing. I stood there, watching it go back and forth. The rest of the world seemed distant then, as if I were bewitched or entranced. The sound of hooves clip-clopping against the stone road, the murmured conversations of men and women walking and going about their business in converging and scattering waves were only phantoms to my senses.

It was in the spring when I came. April. I was but a lad of sixteen, left the Podunk countryside to set off on my own in the big city. Thames.

A squawk and a brush of feathers snapped me back to reality, as a Fellpool riding upon the back of a moa tramped by.

[sneakyonfoota]

830 words. I didn't plan on this entry to be this long. Too many line breaks to make paragraph formatting reasonable.

~

Mad Algie (1 of 3)

What a splendid hole in the ground we've stuck you in, Algie, thought the Lord Mayor as he and a guard strolled down the dimly lit corridor. As usual, the asylum felt more prison than hospital with its iron slide locks barring the rows doors on the outside. Their destination was the tenth of such cells in this block and the Lord Mayor barely had to move a foot forward to keep up with the laboured bow-legged gait of the guard.

A squat man with a droopy walrus mustache, the guard would frequently glance at the Lord Mayor and then dart his eyes back forward. His keys rattled arrhythmically with each step. With his mind and eyes fixated elsewhere, the Lord Mayor did not notice the guard's mouth gape like a trout pulled from the water, gasping for water to breathe. The man in fact found it very difficult to strike up a conversation with the Lord Mayor, as he towered over him, pale skinned and garbed in black, his dark eyes pierced like sharpened flint. To the guard the Lord Mayor had the demeanour and charm of an undertaker, as if death hung about the man or dragged behind like his shadow.

At last he spoke as they passed the third cell, "B-Begging your pardon, milord, but... I see Mad-- er, Lord Algernon every day, milord. I... wouldn't get your hopes of getting through to 'im."

The Lord Mayor ceased his step and then peered down at the guard.

"'E just sits there, mumblin' to himself," the guard continued. "Sometimes we've got to force feed 'im so's 'e won't starve to death. Skips 'is meals, that one." He glanced down the hall at the tenth cell, sniffed and then scratched the side of his nose with a finger. "Bring three cups and three bowls three times a day and they just go to them roaches an' rats."

The Lord Mayor raised a brow to that remark.

"Er, figuratively speaking, milord." The guard coughed.

The Lord Mayor scanned the hallway, making note of the large circular crests drawn onto the walls with chalk. They pulsed with a dull glow like a heartbeat.

"I see there are more wards than the last time I was here," the Lord Mayor observed.

"Ah. Well, that's the thing, see. The reason why I figured you'd be here, milord. We sent word to your father straight away after it happened."

"I have heard nothing."

"Ah..." The guard looked up at the Lord Mayor and looked away with a sniff.

"Please enlighten me."

The Lord Mayor took a step forward and the two continued their slow trek down the corridor.

The guard cleared his throat. "Ah, well. See... 'E escaped, milord. On the night of Samhain. 'E was there when we brought 'im his meal for the night, gone at midnight. Caused a right panic for us, no mistake. But then at around dawn 'e was back in there. Awake in the corner of his cell, singin'..." The guard coughed again. "Singin' Happy Birthday, milord."

The Lord Mayor's expression became inscrutable.

"Happy Birthday?"

"Aye. We don't know where 'e went, what 'e did or when exactly 'e came back. We're hoping these here arrays will keep him shut up here where 'e belongs--begging your pardon, milord."

Another uncomfortable moment of silence.

"I see. Thank you, guardsman."

At last they approached the final cell in the block. The guard lifted the bar across the door fumbled with his keys to find the correct one. He stood on his tiptoes to slide open a peeking slot and quickly shut it again. He rapped against the door and called to its occupant, "Oi! Chambers! You've got a guest!" He inserted his key, unlocked the door and took a step back.

"I'll be just out here, milord. I, er... I'm supposed to give you one of these," the guard said, presenting an amulet on a thick chain to the Lord Mayor. "I'm wearing one m'self, as a precaution. But..."

The Lord Mayor shook his head. "There is no need."

The guard nodded and pocketed the amulet. "Aye. I figured."

The Lord Mayor opened the door and saw his shadow stretched long in front of him, draped over a squatting figure on the far side of the cell. It couldn't have been more than ten feet by ten feet in there.

"Just holler if you need me, milord," said the guard.

The Lord Mayor shut the door quietly behind him. He took a step forward and could hear the peep slot slide open again along with the indistinct whispers of the man squatting. As he stepped closer he could begin to make out the words.

"Mutton pies, mutton pies..." said the man. "Silk threads on branches... Serpents coiled in a knot... Tapestries of naked ladies... Damn. Another ess. Start again from a. Abbot's cassock... Cow's bells... Wait--Is that right? Start again, Mr. Chambers..."

"Hello, Algie," said the Lord Mayor.

[sneakyonfoota]

374 words.

It unnaturally cuts off at the end. I decided to call it quits on this one for now. I thought it better for my sanity to post something than to let another day go by with me sitting on another entry.

~

Mad Algie (2 of 3)

The cell smelled of cold, bare rock. The air was stale but for the slowly pervading waft of the squatting man's messy, unwashed hair and disheveled clothing.

"Hello, Algie," said the Lord Mayor.

The squatting man slowly turned his head over his shoulder and spied the shadowed figure of the Lord Mayor from the corner of his eye. Recognizing him, the squatting man threw himself to the Lord Mayor's feet and clawed his hands up his trousers to firmly grab hold of the Lord Mayor's waistcoat.

"Sebastian!" breathed Algie, in a low, hoarse voice. "Is it really you?" He paused for a moment looking up at the Lord Mayor, stood and wrapped his arms him in a tight embrace. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "I... I thought... I... I... I dreamed a terrible dream, Sebastian!" Tears rolled down his haggard and stubbly face and a pained whine escaped from his throat as he buried his face in the Lord Major's lapel. "I dreamt that I..."

The Lord Mayor sighed and held Algie by his shoulders and separated them.

"No, Algie," said the Lord Mayor, clearly and patiently. "I'm not Sebastian. I'm--"

A dawning look of recognition overtook Algie's face.

"Max!" Algie chuckled. "Maxwell, old boy!" He grasped the Lord Mayor by his arms and looked him over. "You've... You've grown out your hair! You look just like Sebastian now..." Algie craned his neck to the left and right and over the Lord Mayor's shoulders. "Where... Where is he? Where is our big brother now?"

The Lord Mayor's lips crinkled into a frown.

"Algie," said the Lord Mayor, firmly. "I'm not Maxwell, either. I'm Ford. Do you remember me?"

Algie squinted and grimaced as he examined the Lord Mayor's face.

"Ford? No, no." He shook his head. "That's impossible. Ford is just a little boy. Ford just turned eight yesterday. But you were there, Max. Of course you know that."

"I am Ford, Algie. Do you remember where you are? Do you remember why you are here?"

Algie shook his head and his hands feel away from Ford's sleeves.

"No," he replied lowly. "I don't remember anything, Max."

He turned away and sat on the edge of his low, straw bed.

[sneakyonfoota]

596 words.

~

True Confessions of a 40 Year-Old Ogre

Every morning you wake up ten minutes before the alarm clock and just stare at its red digital face as it counts down, knowing that you can't close your eyes knowing that the minute you drift off the morning's traffic and weather report will blare and ring in your disproportionately small cauliflower ears. At 5:29 you gingerly raise an arm and flick off the alarm and sit up in bed with a sigh, a groan and a crack. Another day of the same. Another day of being you. Another mindless routine of routines. You wonder why you do this to yourself, but in your heart you know why--it's because you don't know any better, and the alternative--written in postcards from Ma and Pa back on the yak farm--is far more painful. So you accept your fate and swing those tree-trunk legs of yours over the side of the bed and despite those inch-thick calluses you feel the rough granite sides of the slab you use as a box spring. Stiff and sore you lumber as only a nine-foot galoot like you can lumber and wince and squint when the bathroom light turns on like a flashpan. Yeah, there you are in the mirror. All pug nose and thick brow and sloping forehead. You twist the knob for cold between your thumb and forefinger and splash water on your face from a basin the size of your hand. You smack your lips and a shiver runs down your spine as the shock adrenalizes you enough to carry you as far as the kitchenette to make coffee. You dry your face, smell your breath against your palm and trudge your way to the kitchen, comprised of another tiny sink, a refrigerator, a neglected and grease-encrusted electric stove and a microwave too weak to melt the icy hearts of those breakfast burritos you buy in the dozens because they're fast and cheap. As the black-brown water drips down into the glass carafe you start to think how it looks like an hourglass, and then you start to think about all the things your life still lacks despite being in upper lower management, having your own place, being free of debt and possessing a correspondence degree in Latin languages. What you'd really like is to be is one of those guys who have one really important thing that he cares about... some men have cars, some have stamp collections, some have women, some have men if they like that--which you certainly don't--and some have their kids. But you know you're no spring chicken, or even on the radar of the feminine persuasion at large. And if it weren't for the latest hockey scores to talk about you wouldn't have anyone you'd call a friend. As the stream of dark liquid breaks into drops the hourglass image returns and as you wonder about turning your life around, being that guy you'd like to be but aren't, you hope in your heart that some sort of miracle like the ones in books and movies will suddenly happen to you out of the blue, some sort of change that will make things a better, or in the very least different. The last drops of coffee fall from the filtre. You sigh, pour yourself a mug, put it to your nose and let it that heady smell fill you. You look at your reflection in its surface, throw your head back and tilt the mug to your lips. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

[sneakyonfoota]

392 words.

~

The Butcher of Bembridge Street

The panicked footfalls, pants and cries of fleeing men faded into the distance. There was silence but for the wind clapping a half-unhinged shutter against a building. Fourteen men lay dead on Bembridge Street in front of Mr. Barker's Fine Cuts of Meat, their blood draining into the cracks between its bricks.

Only three men stood there; solemn, still and unmoving.

The greatest among them, of stature and girth had his hat to his breast. He was known to those who were unfortunate enough to know him as Mr. Shrike. The second man was dressed in a suit of beige and cream and regarded the aftermath of the last few minute's toil with a mixture of detachment and disgust. This was Artemis Jab, also known as Jack B. Nimble. He sheathed a pair of daggers in the lining of his frock coat.

The third man wore upon his face a wicked grin below a carefully groomed moustache, a heavy apron around his waist and clutched a bloody knife in his hand. The front of his shirt was soaked against his chest in blood, as were his bare arms to the elbows below his uprolled sleeves. The third man; one Eustace Hat, alias Bertram Barker, owner and proprietor of Barker's Fine Cuts of Meat; turned to face the other two.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I sug-gest we vacate this vicinity expeditiously."

The mad gleam was gone from Hat's eye as he nonchalantly wiped his slick butcher knife within a fold of his blood-brown apron. In the corner of his eye he spied his cleaver, still stuck in the back of the skull of the man he had struck down whilst in mid-flight--the man's frantic pace could not escape the fatal reach of Hat's blade. He stepped over and planted the toe of his boot against the base of the man's neck, stooped and wrenched it out. For a brief moment he admired his vague reflection in its side and grinned, the thin film of saliva on his teeth reflected back upon his weapon.

"R... Right," uttered Jab. He coughed. "A right mess you have left behind, Eustace. A bloody cóck-up if I had ever seen one."

"A cóck-up, dear Jab?" said Hat, hurtly. Then he released a stiff chuckle. "Good gracious, no! This is cause for cele-bration! For today I have become legend'ry."

[sneakyonfoota]

Word count to be edited in later. Poorly realised.

~

A Gathering of Ancients

I welcome you, one and all. Many of you have traversed immeasurable distances and braved harsh and treacherous roads to come here. For this I extend my most heartfelt thanks and appreciation. It is with great honour and with great sadness that I see this truly unprecedented gathering. In our long, bloody history, not since our noble race had risen above the dull, soulless and base existence of mere beasts have we, as a single people, become united as comrades and as brothers to achieve a single, monumental and all-important task. By setting aside but for one moment, one day, our long-standing blood feuds, our petty squabbles and our wretched bigotries, today we have achieved what long had been thought impossible. May this landmark day be a beacon, shining us on our way! The shining path to victory! To glory!

Which brings me to our grim task: survival.

We are dying. Our great race, rulers of the sea and the sky, and of over and under the mountains and from shore to shore, is dwindling.

The signs have been all around us for much time, and we can deny it no longer. We cannot avert our gaze to our doom, not when it stares at us but a scale's breadth from our very faces!

Silence! Brothers and sisters, please!

For so long we have been blind! Blinded by our greed! Blinded by our pride! Blinded by our hate! But no longer!

[...]

The clan elders, from all of our far-flung tribes have agreed. We must seek out the Great Dragon, the one some of you have called our God, while others have denied its existence, calling it a mere legend or fable. I tell you now that I have seen the Great Dragon, and I swear upon tooth, claw wing, and my honour that it is real. And that it is out there, somewhere. God or not though it may be, the Great One is a being beyond any one of us, of any elder, of our entire kind. We will send out a company made up of the strongest, the most clever and the most wise to find the Great One. Upon their shoulders they will carry the hope and burden of the survival of our race, our species, of our civilization and very way of life.

[sneakyonfoota]

Word count pending.

This one just frustrated me. I will probably revisit this one later and continue the scene. Although I mention Spinners (the flying cars used in the film Bladerunner) it is missing the laser pistols and mecha that I had originally wanted incorporated into it.

~

Viva Vladivostok

I came to Vladivostok for a vacation for chrissake. You know, hit the casinos, slam back a few at the bars, try to hook up guilt-free, watch some aging transvestite sing old pop songs from twenty years ago in a cheap lounge with shrimp cocktails for a ruble. So what am I doing in an alley having the shit and piss being beaten out of me by a couple of thugs?

"Hey, hey, now... I thought this town loved a winner," I said, flashing my best, blood-stained smile.

Bad move. Before I knew it I had another bite of knuckle sandwich with a side of brick wall. I slid down into a slump.

I guess I don't blame 'em. The "witty" action hero banter didn't work back in Moscow, either.

Next thing I know is that I'm shoved to the ground and my sides are being kicked in. The two goons stop and beneath the sound of my panting and my heart throbbing in my ears are footsteps. The kind of footsteps that only Berlutis can make. Don't ask me how I know.

My eyes were hazy when I looked through the cracks between the fingers that shielded my face. I couldn't make out his face, but his eyes I could see well enough. They were cold, expressionless, glassy balls in his shadowed face. He crouched down and opened the front of his coat to reveal a badge to me. The alley was lit only by a single flickering bulb by the back door of the bar. The light coming from the headlights of a passing car in the street flashed the glint of the raised star. I think he was a captain.

"Consider this a warning, friend," he said in a flat monotone like a railway platform announcement. "Your only one. If you step into another one of Mr. Brezhnev's casinos or hotels, I will personally remove each and every one of your fingers and toes and feed them to you, even if it means forcing them down your throat against waves of your stinking abezyana vomit to do so. God help me I will."

Now that was just rude.

He stood up and left, but not before spitting on the ground in front of me. His muscle followed, leaving me to my thoughts. I could hear their Spinners start up and the sound of tyre treads against the wet asphalt, and the heat of the Captain's glare as they drove past. My right eye had swollen shut, but I knew he was looking at me. He was looking and he was genuinely disgusted by me.

Fúck.

I laid there for I don't know how long. Could have been a minute, could have been an hour. I didn't really come back home from where I was until I heard the back door to the bar open up again. I heard the flick of a lighter and a sigh. That's when I dared to open my eyes again.

"Hey. You alive there?" said a voice, though seemingly lacking in genuine concern.

I coughed and groaned.

"Yeah," I managed. The inside of my mouth tasted like I had sucked on a rusty bar. "Don't mind me."

I blinked and winced.

"Need a doctor or something? Call a cab?"

I managed to sit up, somehow.

"Nah. I could use a smoke, though."

[sneakyonfoota]

Word count pending.

~

Found on the cover of a cheap paperback

The Baroness shook with the impact of the blow, but held fast. Ratchette was thrown back in her seat. Her viewscreen broke into static and she could feel the stomp of the incoming meleph through her chair and control stick. Blind and helpless, for the first time in her life, she feared that this narrow cockpit would be her coffin.

* * *

For a Weiman girl named Ratchette, there was no place she felt more at home than in the cockpit of a meleph. Growing up at her grandfather's garage she'd sneak into the hangar and climb inside one of those huge robotic suits to pretend she was a pilot like the ones she saw on the fernsehen.

At sixteen years old and a junior division champion, she stands on the threshold of the dangerous, life or death world of professional meleph battling, where the disgrace of loss could be worse than dying and where deals made in secret decide the fate of the brave men and women who seek wealth and glory on the arena floor.

[sneakyonfoota]

Trying to get my groove back.

~

Girl v. Mirror

You're not special, you know.
You're not even pretty.
You're average. Plain.
But at least you're not fat.
Look at you. All chicken-y.
And pale. You're all sheety and ghost-like.
And your hair. It's like that shampoo advert.
How did it go again?
"Greasy roots, dry ends?"
Your face is scrunchy.
And your eyes are too far apart.
You're blah.
And you cry too easy.
Why don't you just disappear?