Category > stories
Aquarionic Fiction
That's interesting
I went to Bath yesterday. This was a more important trip than it seems for several reasons. The first is merely the most obvious: I was terrified.
Bath is a wonderful, beautiful city. I could spend hours wandering around taking photographs, content to let it wash over me. I've spent hours in coffeeshops planing stories there, it inspires me, and it makes me want to live there. Bath is wonderful. Bath is great.
Bath terrifes me more than anything else I know.
On the 11th of August 2001, there was an Alt.fan.pratchett meet in Bath which I went to. The results of that evening are detailed in this Article but, to summerise, various events meant I spent the night of the 11th sleeping on a park bench because I had no money, lost my hotel and there were no trains back. I've been to Bath several times since then, because LoneCat lived there and so a) My desire to see my girlfriend overroad my terror and b) I had a confirmed place to stay. Yesterday I went there, however, in order to stay at a hotel. So I was terrified.
Also, I was angry, which wasn't helping.
After one of the reactions to the story I put online on Sunday, I was - and still am - considering closing the fiction section of Aquarionics permenantly. Within a few short paragraphs, this person managed to do what several years of shouting into black holes has failed to do, and stop me writing. There will not be a story on Sunday. There will not be a christmas pantomime, because all faith I have in my writing has just been shot to pieces, and it's going to take me a while to recover. I'm not going to even argue about the difference between basing a charector on how you'd react and a Mary Sue. If you don't belive there is one, I would ask you do to do me the great honour of fucking off right now. I'm not even going to start on the reasons why "That's $foo" (where $foo is an author) is insulting no matter who $foo is, because the one thing worse than being told your writing sucks is being told that you've stolen it from someone else.
Given a choice of one thing to put on an "Occupation" form, I tend towards "Writer" - unless they want to know what I'm being paid for - simply because it's a description of what I am as apposed to what I do. I write things. My life is scripted, sometimes as much as three seconds ahead. What I do have is an inferiority complex the size of Belgium. It's taken me ten years to come to the conclusion that some people might enjoy stuff I write, it doesn't take much to knock me back again, so I'm not going to open myself up to it again. Once upon a time, I begged the world for feedback. I hereby retract that statement, and instead clarify it as "constructive feedback", as in "Will help build it".
Where was I? Ah, Bath.
So I left work two hours early, spent an hour and a half waiting for the bus, and got home in time to miss the train I wanted to get. Got the next one, went to Bath, and met LoneCat and the out-laws at the station. Went to B&B, slept, and went on the freezing morrow to watch my girlfriend get her Masters. (Now, if I wasn't employed right now, this fact alone would send the inferiority thing back to the state it was last summer, and I *lost* last summer to all intents and purposes, but I digress.) Sat though ceremony. Ceremony boiled down: "Blah blah, Bath Uni is great, blah blah £70 Million development blah blah Bath uni is great, blah blah, pomp, ceremony, paper, blah blah, Bath uni is great, Swindon is also great, blah blah National Anthem"
Then I bought gloves, a hat, and a scarf because they were on special offer, and caught the train home, having been given a Bath Bun, which was very nice. I read my book until Paddington, where I pulled the CD player and headphones out of my bag... and broke the plug off. So I read my book to Kings Cross, and again to Cambridge, where I finished it about 45 minutes before we got there. I then realised I didn't have my house keys, and phoned home to see if ccooke was there. He wasn't. He said he might not be. So I phoned LoneCat to see if she had got home. LoneCat was staying in Bedford for dinner. Hmm. So I phoned ccooke's mobile. He was the other side of Cambridge. So I phoned our letting agency, who said that they would send someone with the key. Then that they didn't have the key, but they'd send the person with the key to our house, but it would cost me £10. By this time I'd been waiting outside our front door for 20 minutes, and was *really* glad for the gloves, scarf and hat. So I didn't need to be scared of Bath. Just of Cambridge...
Those who spoke on this:
Paragone?
I write stories.
Just not here.
Well, I do. I wrote on the Christmas Cake Saga, The Station Saga, the Phone Saga and my favourite of the lot, Christmas Fracture, which appears to have been mislayed in the epistulization of Aquarionics.
I try not to misrepresent myself, though I should. This past week I’ve deleted more entries than I’ve posted, mostly because I find myself whining (Still homeless, still jobless, still not king yet), meaning that not only am I not exactly at my creative best (I’ve plotted my two main threads of story now, at least vaguely. Can I bring myself to write them though? Like hell) and slightly too busy feeling sorry for myself to get involved in anything else. (Anyone, anyone even thinking of mentioning how little I have to moan about while people are being killed in Iraq will get the full, eight A4 close typed rant about exactly what has brought me to this condition. Also on why there is not – and nor should there be – any relationship between how we should feel and how the government is governing our country. I’m quite entitled to be depressed simply because my goldfish has died, no matter how many points the stock market rose yesterday. I’m digressing. You really should stop me digressing like this, It’s bad for the flow of essay writing. Not that I can write essays, you understand. No matter how much I know about a subject, the essay I write will be crap, simply because people who mark essays all hate me. It’s a conspiracy of evil directed against me. I’ve seen the manuals they’re given! They have samples of my handwriting in case I forge my name! They have guides for how to mark me down for using the word “Didn’t” even if Plato couldn’t have argued with my reasoning! It’s all a ploy to keep me down! I will avenge! I WILL AVENGE!!!!!)
Ahem.
Do you see my point? You should. My point of writing this weblog is to provoke discussion, to entertain, and to keep the people who I should email more informed of my location and situation. It’s all, in other words, an excuse so I don’t have to phone my parents that often. I don’t misrepresent myself, but I will leave out non-relevant information that will either cause me problems or detract from the entertainment value of the post. If I do misrepresent myself, it’s in such a way as to exagerate to the point that it’s fairly obvious what I’m doing. For example, the poorly thought out conspiracy theory above. As far as I am aware, the essay markers of the world are not conspiring against me.
Oh no, they still haven’t beaten the bionic monkies yet.
The idea that a weblog is more than a weblog (It’s a toy! It can pick locks!) and is a carefully considered lie is one that disturbs me, mostly because I tend to believe in the people I read on weblogs. Not what they say (Which is fortunate, else Epistula would have been written in, in order, Java, Perl, Python, C++, Java again, Python once more, and finally Client side Javascript with XLT Transforms) (Mmmmm. Ikky), but in the people who write them. I’m not going to say what I believe of them, for fear of a) embarrisment, and b) libel. But I do.
I read a few fictional diaries, mostly because I know they are fiction. I enjoy meta-fiction (The Dice Man, K-PAX, Stuff that is fiction but is written in first person by the author’s version in that universe) purely because of my multiversal tendancies, and one day I hope to do a fictional diary.
But when I do, I’ll tell you so.
Right now, I’ll concentrate on finding a house, and a job, and a life. Then I’ll see what fiction can offer me.
Things
Okay, we’re back. This is what happened.
I went on Hiatus. I wrote a Hiatus Page that said, essecially, “Time to try something new”.
Then I got four seperate messages assuming I’d gone overboard again. So I wrote the mixed-font thing that then got linked to inline by BB & Vaughan (That’s Inline as opposed to Blogroll). So far, so hoopy. But what of the hiatus?
The purpose was to rediscover writing, and to get writing done. In this, I both suceeded and failed. I failed to get any new writing done at all, but did manage to clear up a couple of older pieces, and instead sat around fiddling with Aquarionics (Error pages now work properly) New Projects (The ESR Edits Jargon-File thing inspired me to create a Wiki as a better way of handling the Jargon File. More info when I’ve worked out how to import anything into PHPWiki) and stuff like that.
But on thursday I went out and sat by the riverbank with a notebook and a pen, and then in a Caf with said notebook and pen, and plotted The Novel from beginning to end. Then I went back home to actually write it, and failed, and went onto IRC, Vice City, Usenet & Weblogs instead.
So the problem appears to be that I don’t have the self-disipline to seperate Work from Play when they are in the same place (I know from experience that given seperate places, I’m fine), and since I don’t currently have the resources to seperate them effectivly (My laptop has no battery-life, and a new battery for my 50 laptop will cost 103.73 inc P&P.) this is causing me a Problem. TBH, I’m not sure how I can counter this, short of getting a new room to be an office, so I’m back here.
And soon, I shall go back to the Riverbank.
This concluded, I’ve managed to tidy up some other works (Including Alinda, below) for online publication, mostly serving as a warmup exercise for Toffia. Meantime, I’m back to the circular world of “We won’t hire someone without experience” for the forseeable, and sitting at my desk:
Those who spoke on this:
Pingter:
Hmm, maybe you could find a friendly café somewhere nice that will let you plug your laptop into the mains?
Marco:
Regarding employment… if you don’t mind being outdoors and getting a bit dirty, try checking the demand for part-time stevedores in your area (yes, I know Reading might not have a very high demand. Widen the search).
I never thought I’d recommend this job, but while it isn’t the most fun thing I can imagine, it’s not boring, it’s not complicated, you get lots of fresh air and the pay is not laughable.
And no qualifications are needed.
Marco:
Um. Yes. I did say “widen the search”, but on the third hand there’s also travel time to include in the equation.
It was, all in all, an instance of not thinking it through far enough before posting.
Yes, another one.
World Creation
So, Last night I hit the pivot point in the story.
I am, as you may know, writing The Novel. There are two stories in my head, and one is a six part fantasy epic, and the other is a novel. I’ve been working on The Epic since I was twelve, and whilst I’ve now got a fully formed world with magic systems, a plot, people, places and things, I’m not writing it because I can’t do it justice just yet. So The Novel.
The novel is in a Wiki, at the moment. I’ve discovered that Wiki’s are a wonderful device for working out ideas and plots. Terry Pratchett spoke of “The Pit”, a massive document on his computer that contains his personal encycopaedia of the Discworld, of which parts are published as the Discworld Companion, and wiki’s are the perfect way of documenting and crossreferencing stuff like that.
However, for some reason whilst I can work out the meanings and effects whilst working on the wiki, but inspiration lacks. The only time I get hit by inspiration is when I can’t type, so I got the idea for the story while my hard-drive was dead in autumn, stewed it for six months until I worked out the central plot points while sitting in a cafe by the river in Reading, and yesterday, when my computer was being a DVD player in the lounge I went out to take the rented DVDs back. In the back of my mind was a tune from a movie, which I thought about, and around, and then suddenly like a large game of tetris, a whole load of plot points stopped hanging around in mid-air, and dropped into place. Not only did I now know why the heros we helping, I know what they have to do.
When talking about the ultimate question “Where do you get your ideas from”, Neil Gaiman – one of my favourite writers – said it was from asking “What If’s”. Jill McGown says they come from everywhere. In my experience, they come from not being there.
“Sgfjxxafg” – my one physically published story came from a single fragment of a sentance that my oldest younger brother wrote in a story when he was six or something. “Home” came from one too many train journies from Sunderland back home, Chris- published in Extraverse – came from trudging along my old walk to school on holiday from University, “do androids dream” from the obvious book. Rosalind from a George Farquhar play, a Shakespearian play, a real life performance and a real life farce. And “Happily Ever After” came from a challange to write something less depressing than usual :-)
That’s why I haven’t been writing real stuff recently. I’ve been working on Other Things, a state which is likely to continue for a while, and since I’m loathe to go on hiatus again, I’m going to put all the short stories back on the site, one at a time, from now until I return. Keep watching, this could be fun…
Sgfjxxafg
I’m a fan of Robert Rankin’s books, in fact I spent a fine day in 1999 on a boat with the man (See, I have pictures. We are in the second row, me far right, with – right to left – Liz Waller, Kate Vinyard and Craig Burton).
His latest book is just out, The Witches of Chiswick, and I am namechecked in the “Thanks” section. Why? Because I have contributed to “The Brentford Mercury”, the official magazine of Sproutlore, the Robert Rankin fanclub. It’s the only time I’ve ever been published in print, and it was this short story. The story was inspired by a single line from a story my oldest younger brother wrote when he was eight or something, which stuck in my head for ever. The line was ”’A human being what?’ said the alien”, and this is the story it became:
Sgfjxxafg
The chances were that it was an alien.
When you are sitting in the garden of England, most totally unremarkable field in the world, watching the corn grow, and a large spinning plate-type object spins down from outer-space carving an almost perfectly circular pattern in the crops. You can be reasonably sure that the item you are dealing with has not “popped down from London for a look at your quaint scenery”. This is a quite different type of alien. “Crimanettly” said our illustrious hero, in a manor not dissimilar to that Vulture in the Disney Robin Hood thing.
Let us look at out hero for a moment.
He is just under 6 feet in height, he has mousy brown hair, or would
have if he washed it more often, which is plastered backwards over his skull in a manner that patently doesn’t suit him. You get the sense that the reason for this is that no one has thought to tell him it doesn’t work, because as a general rule is he background scenery. You could know him for years and forget him in an instant. We shall call him Simon. Because that is his name.
Simon was sitting in a field bewailing his lot. He was good at it. Ever since he had read about it in some book or other he had discovered it a useful way to pass the time, and by now his bewailing of his lot was that of an all star performer. Simon could bewail for England.
Currently he wasn’t bewailing his lot, because, as was hitherto mentioned (and yes, he uses words like hitherto, which is one of the reasons for his social isolation, and therefore to the bewailing of lots) a large alien space-craft has landed in the corn field in front of him. From the craft, an alien appeared. He was green, or she was green, or it was green.
I’ll start again.
The Alien was green in colour, and appeared as a large ball of slime. It appeared to face Simon for a moment, before oozing into the appearance of one of his own kind. Well, not strictly of his kind, more of a female type of his kind. An exceedingly nice example of the female type of his kind in fact, so Simon’s brain wasn’t working well as she asked him:
“What are you?”
Simon blinked a few times
“I’m sorry?” he answered.
“What are you?” repeated the alien
“I am a human being.” Said Simon.
“A human being what?” Said the alien
If this was a cartoon, you would probably see the gears turn in Simon’s head as he tried to work this out. But it isn’t, so you don’t.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Human being what?” Said the alien
“I don’t follow”
“I, for example, am a Sgfjxxafg being what ever it is that you are” replied the alien(she pronounced the xx very well for a throat that was never designed for it)
“Oh, Homo Sapiens” said Simon
“A Human being a Homo Sapiens?”
“No, it’s…” was as far as Simon got before the alien, exasperated beyond measure, drew it’s laser and shot him. A few minutes later the space ship left, rising over the Elm Tree Pub behind it, leaving a perfect crop
circle behind.
—-
“And that’s why we haven’t seen Simon for a while” said the new bloke at the bar.
At a signal, John got up for the next round.
“How do you know all this then?” asked Jim
“I saw it all, I was behind a… er… tree” replied the teller of tales, looking out the window at the sign.
John came back, holding a tray loaded with the nectar of the sods,
“There ain’t any trees in that field, and anyway, even Simon would be able to explain the phrase ‘A Human Being’” decided John, as he handed the tale-teller his newest measure of large.
“A Human being what?” said the alien, as he accepted his pint.
—
Nicholas Avenell, March 15th, 2000
Those who spoke on this:
AdrianO:
Namechecked by Rankin? Damn you! :-)
There was a time when I nearly got an appearance in one of his books. He’d done a talk at Waterstone’s, (circa Nostradamus Ate My Hamster) and was bemoaning the fact that the Red Lion, Brentford, had closed and was now a McDonalds. I mentioned I’d played there once in a heavy metal band called Loose Tourniquet.
He liked the name so much that, on learning that there was a live video of it somewhere, he promised to immortalise us in the next book if I sent him a copy.
And could I find the damn thing?
Could I buggery.
Scatter
The most common advice for writers is just to get on with it. Pick something at random to write about, and then follow the thread as far as you can. For a while, I ran out of threads and couldn’t think about anything to write, so I wrote about the lack of threads.
It was a sunny day.
All the days had been sunny so far, a study in metiorlogical consistancy, Bright, sunny, beach weather. Which was a coincidence, what with the beach.
And everything.
They ran along the beach, hands interlocking. A single entity, forever in lov…
A car drove passed his window, and shattered Jason’s concentration.
The most terrible thing for a writer is the dreaded granite stone wall of Block. And for the last four weeks, he had suffered from it in abundance. The last of his candles flickering around him, Jason tried to write a story he could sell, so he could buy things.
Important things, like food. And Rent.
Bathed in the light of the cathode ray tube, the endless white screen filled his mind. He needed to write a story, something nice, upbeat, Sellable. The idea of going back to the agency for another temporary job filled him with horror, and for a moment, an instant, a flash of mental lightening gave him a story, of love, of betrayal, and of… something. There must be more to fiction than love and betrayal. Depressive, angsty stories did not, said the editors, sell magazines. Love stories are supposed to have happy endings, they said, write them.
Jason Wood looked at the scattered remains of his life and disagreed.
He closed his eyes, and let the stories take him. A flash, a scene a…
...a dark alleyway, the gun pointing at his head.
“Your money” said the voice,
“And my life?” he asked naievly
“I doubt it” said the mugger. There was a gunshot, and Jason felt his live flash before his eyes. But he wasn’t dead, he heard the thump of the mugger’s corpse hit the floor! He was saved!
“Thankyou, Oh Thank…” he babbled at the newcomer, a dark figure outlined against the streetlights.
“Shut up” said the man. “And give me your money or I kill you”.
And he felt his spirit sink, until he realised that…
...the boat was sinking. He almost laughed, Somebody had finally managed to sink Bloodbeard! ha. They should know it wasn’t that easy. Bloodbeard leaped into the fight, decapitating with a swift blow of his curved sword, Lopping off the sword-arm of a kingsman, and relegating all in his way to either an early grave, or eternal memory of his razor sharp blade. As he reached Hamlinson, he sliced the man in front of him down with a swipe to the neck. Blood fountianed over him, and although he was already splattered with the blood of a thousand men, this affected him as no other had done, for the randomness of physics had placed the ultimate target of this blood to be his eyes. Bloodbeard wiped his face with the back of his hand, and was just in time to see the sun glisten off Hamlinson’s blade before his neck was seperated from his shoulders, and Bloodbeard the pirate was no more…
...would we ever be alone. As our eyes met across the room, it was love at first sight, a future made together. As quickly as she could she disentangled herself from my foppish elder brother and headed for me.
“Do you dance?” I asked the vision before me
“My prince” she bowed, and offered her hand. I took this for an affermitive, and for the remainder of the evening we waltzed, arm in arm, together.
Towards the midnight hour, my brother summoned me. With great regret I left the vision behind me, and cursed by siblings timing.
“I have made my choice” he said, as I arrived.
“You have chosen a wife?” I replied, incredulous.
“Indeed. That was the purpose of this ball, was it not?” It was indeed, and I had a terrible forboding for the next sentance. Completely justified, as it turned out. The clock struck midnight, and the musictions stopped, as my brother raised his voice for the benifit of the entite audience. “I have chosen my wife. The next queen shall be” He left a dramatic pause I could have hit him for. “Cinderella”
There was a pause as the final toll of the bell marked the entrance of the new day. Cinderella glanced into my eyes, and at that moment I felt all her pain. Then she acted.
“NO!” she cried, and ran out of the hall, while the guards were too stunned to stop her. She got away so quickly I feared she would trip over her dress. But she escaped cleanly, although she left behind a slipper. My brother would take the kingdom apart to look for her, I knew. I hoped he discuise was good…
...”grief. Get ahold of yourself”, Jason thought aloud. Pirates? Cinderella? He needed reality.
Jason sighed, got himself another drink, and tried to break though writers block
Rosalind
Not quite as much dirty laundry as it looks like. There is an audio version of this floating around somewhere, but I’ve lost it. If anyone has the MP3 version of Rosalind email me (not attaching the file just yet :-) please. Thanks Andrew. It’s now linked from the end of the post
The Scene: A school stage, after hours. Two sixthform (17ish) students are in the remains of school uniform (smartish shirt/trousers, Shirt is undone at the neck) rehersing for a performance this evening
- Ian
-
“What? Arms across? Worthy? Methinks you should hold them open when a friend’s so near.
The man has got the vapours in his ears. I must expell this meloncolly spirit..”.
Damn. I’m going to have to start that one again. Starting positions. - Ian
- Si? The lack of response to your first name is only slightly more strange than your failure to pick up on the orignial mistake. But not by much. Simon? The man has got the bloody vapours in his ears. SIMON!
- Simon
- Hmm?
- Ian
- It lives! It breathes! It is alive, I say, Alive!
- Simon
- Ian, old chap
- Ian
- Yes frankenstien?
- Simon
- Go find a cliff to throw yourself off
- Ian
- Aha. So you are alive after all, I was begining to wonder if I wasn’t going to have to do this thing this evening by myself. What’s wrong?
- Simon
- Nothing that can be classed as new
- Ian
- Ha. So we are doing the wrong play then
- Simon
- And what play should we be doing?
- Ian
- Why, As You Like It, by old WS,
‘From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth being mounted on the wind
Though all the world bears Rosalind‘
That is, I assume, your major problem. - Simon
- Furthest thing from my mind
- Ian
- Do we detect the foul stench of falsehood from my friend? I belive we do
- Simon
- Ha. Shall we go back to As You Like It then?
‘All the world is a stage,
And all the man and women are merely players
They each have their entrances and their exits,
and one man in his life plays many parts - Ian
- Nah, Skip to
‘...and then the Lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woefull ballard,
Made to his mistriss’ eyebrow;‘
That’s your problem then. You are identifying with the depressingness of Jaques, whilst I am going for the lightness of Touchstone - Simon
- The Rosalind poetry was by Orlando, and spoken by Rosalind herself
- Ian
- Pedantry is the last resort of the losing party. The point is still valid, you are mooning over yonder fair maiden, instead of doing something about it
- Simon
- There are complications
- Ian
- She’s female. There always are, It goes with the terror
- Simon
- You mean territory
- Ian
- I know what I mean
- Simon
- She is a friend, I don’t want to spoil that
- Ian
- So you prefer to moan about it to me, yes?
- Simon
- It’s an easier option
- Ian
- Come on, lets get back to this scene. We only have a few hours left before curtian. It’ll take your mind off it
- Simon
- You mean this scene? This scene were two friends are discussing My charector’s love life, or lack of it, because he hasn’t tried hard enough in your Charecters opinion?
- Ian
- Yes. ‘Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the life…
- Simon
- Where they then go on to discuss your charector’s love life, which is being hampered only by your complete and total stubboness. I mean your charectors, obviously
- Ian
- Shut up. ‘But the life has departed. What? Arm’s Across…
- Simon
- And correct me if I’m wrong, But the stubbonness in question is on the inability of one party to do an action. Good morning Mr Pot, Can I help you?
- Ian
- I told you to Shut Up. And besides, there are complications on this too. You don’t know what you are talking about.
- Simon
- No, Mr Plume, I have no idea. Mainly because every time I enquire as unto the name of this Miraculous Helen, this Misstriss of Troy, This Slivia to your captian Plume, Juilet to your Romeo, Jessica to your Roger Rabbit, I am so vigourously repulsed, that I dispair of ever finding…
- Ian
- OK, alright. For fuck’s sake, It’s Rosalind.
- Long Pause
- Simon
- Have you ever had a moment, an instant which seems to drag on for hours, an event of such earth-shattering magnetude that it would take you days to see the extent of it? A point when you can see the world shatter into equal pieces and fall away from you. And you stand, in blackness, and in total deprevation of reality, stripped of all the layers of cotten wool designed to insulate you from the real world. You can analize every insult two of your friends have directed at each other, every conversation they have had with each other, and with you, that you have been party to. And woe betide that you should find something. and at that point, all your elequonce, all your studied phrases and dramatic emphasis will leave you. Everything will leave you. a broken shell.
You bastard. - Simon
- ‘You absolute and total and utter fucking bastard. So you have been egging me on for the past two fucking years to ask out your fucking Girlfriend?
- Ian
- She isn’t my girlfriend. She refused to go out with me until I told you
- Simon
- Nice to know she was thinking of me
- Ian
- Don’t be like that.
- Simon
- Like what? Like fucking what? Like I’ve just been betrayed by my two best fucking friends?
- Ian
- There was no fucking involved
- Simon
- Shut the fuck up! And when were you going to tell me? When were you going to pop the bubble and actually do what Rose…
...that’s it, isn’t it. That’s what this mysterious friend of yours wanted. The Canyon in your relationship. The thing you had to do before it went any further. Fucking Jesus! I’ve spent the last two weeks counsuling you to ruin my fucking life!
- Ian
- But I didn’t
- Simon
- No. You carried on stringing me along. You were still trying to get me to ask her out three minutes ago! Why? Why continue? So that I found out from her lips rather than yours?
- Ian
- Yes
- Simon
- What?
- Ian
- I knew how much Rose meant to you…
- Simon
- ...Means to me. But carry on…
- Ian
- alright, Means to you. So I couldn’t tell you. I’ve been trying for weeks now
- Simon
- how… how long has this been going on for?
- Ian
- It’s three weeks since she told me. Three weeks since she gave me the ultimatium
- Simon
- And how long have you been seeing Rosalind for?
- Ian
- I told you, she refused to see me properly until I..
- Simon
- Don’t fuck with the words, Ian
- Ian
- A month tomorrow. Simon. Simon! You can’t go now!
- Simon
- Yes, actually, I fucking can. Exit, stage right. Exuant Omnes. Pursued by a bear-stard, like as not.
- Ian
- Where are you going?
- Simon
- I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there
- Ian
- But… The Performance?
[Download the original file]
Attachments
Those who spoke on this:
Liz:
You’re an amazing writer Aqua. I’ve had the audio version of this on my favourites mp3 folder for months.
/me worships her God
hugs and kisses
Liz xxx
Happily Ever Now
For a while I lost the ability to write non-depressive endings. Someone bet me I couldn't do it even if I had to, in fact. This was the result. They were, you'll note, correct. Cirra 2000: Happily Ever Now.
Happily Ever After.
By Nicholas Avenell 23/02/2001January 26th.
There is no such thing as a happy ending.
There are no endings, only beginnings. The end of a story is the start of a new story. Therefore to get a happy ending, you must stop the story before completion, because completion in the "And then they were married and they had children and lived happily ever after" sense fails to take in the final and ultimate deaths of both Snow White and the Prattsome Hince.
And the dwarfs, slowly drowning to death in the dust that Snow White used to tidy.
Or the Queen, who is an evil bitch, and appears to remain that way. Doesn't she get a chance to be good?
No. Because the story ends there. Finito.
By the rambling above, you may gather that Claire and I have split up. A week ago you may have ended the story with us walking, hand in hand into the sunset. Or riding up on the big-wheel, or the kiss at the top, seeing the whole village spread out below us like a map. Not that either of us noticed at the time, being -as we were - Otherwise Engaged.
Either of those would have been a perfect ending to the movie. The Perfect Couple. Living Happily Ever After. The End.
It was an amicable departure. By which I mean that I didn't say much, and she told me that we can remain 'Just Friends'. I suppose I could keep track of my 'Just' friends, of both the "I love you as a..." and the "Can we remain.." variety.
But I won't.
And it was amicable. She is moving away. Long Distance Relationships Don't Work (LDR's, in fact, do work. They just suck mightily. So I'm told. Oh, and both parties have to *want* them to work. Which screwed that idea) and... and...
...and she wants a new life, and I'm not in it.
30 January
Helped Claire pack, and watched the car pull out and away. She has my address, she has my number.
I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for contact though.
Throwing myself into work. DVD reviews are in, Cinema tomorrow to catch the last release, Films are cowards, I know. They never come singually, but gang up and pounce at you five at a time. Last two tomorrow evening.
Oh, I have my new writer, BTW. Name of "George", apparently. Poor sod. I expect he has some nom de'plume he'll want to use instead. The question is, will the big magazines take any notice of anyone who doesn't use their real name? Read the flick-pages. Still nothing. I keep sending them the magazine. For Christ sake, I leave this god-forsaken dump in *Five Months*. I *Have* to get a job by then or it's another year at the Fuckit & Run, serving lager to overweight football addicts who wouldn't recognise a real soccer-ball if it bounced against their stomach. Most would probably not even fucking notice.
Anyway, George is apparently showing his face in the office tomorrow. Meanwhile I need to find someone to take to the screening.
31 Jan. 9am
(From office, emailed home)George showed up. George is, in fact, Georgina. Bet Central had a mightily loud giggle at that one. Bastards. Writing style is flowing, slightly academic, and just a touch too serious for the stuff we normally put out. Better get to work.
3rd February
George & I went out to the screening, and then out for a meal to talk the films over. Nothing fancy, just a Maccy-D. Inteligent. Film-buff. Occasional (she says) weekness for romantic comic-dies. That might be a problem.
5th Feb
Weakness! *HAH*.What she should have said is: "My critical senses go into overload", She ripped the fucking thing into confetti! The page of this magazine should be placed in a steel box lest the thing contaminate the very earth.
Fucking *hell* the girl is good.
10 Feb.
Flick with G, For fun rather than for the mag. Proper meal this time, restaurant recommended by the foodies.Went up to the river. Didn't even notice the trash :).
Sat by moonlight discussing the film.
Then we stopped discussing the film.
11/2 Slept late.
No, In case this is found, nothing happened.
Not sex, anyway. Just talk, sleep. Friends. Lovers in all but the physical act.
14 I still can't bring myself to write out that full date, not after last year. Letter from Claire - and a card - saying how much she enjoys her new place. New boyfriend. That makes me feel better, I suppose. It isn't really *that* long since we split.
G. comes back from her family today. Not much chance of a movie, what with the date, anything not a R-C will have been shunted for something that is.
I've been reading this diary again.
There are no happily ever afters.
That doesn't mean that the happiness cannot last for a fairly long time.
Tomorrow she might have to move away, or I might catch her with the entire football team (Happy Valentines Day *sigh*) or she might do a Gemma and just dump me in the public eye (Front page of the /fucking/ magazine. Bitch).
But for now. For this moment, and for this day, I am in love, and she loves me.
And the only we need is the Happily Ever Now.
Let me tell you a story
This is Bob’s fault
I
The kingdom was in ruins. Count Jim “Twee” Moriarty had suceeded, quite literally in fact when he stormed the castle, proclaimed himself king, and sat down to do some ruling on the great Royal Throne of Albian. The Throne, beyond all other things in the Kingdom, was the symbol of the monachy. It was big. It was stone. It was really, really uncomforable, and it was in the castle.
In a village not far from the castle, the usurped king sat and bewailed his lot. When the Count and his army of golden giants had stormed the castle, he had only just managed to get away with his life, a few of his household, and a few knights. He must, he decided, get his kingdom back. They would wait until early morning, when the giants guarding the castle were sleeping, sneak in and steal the Amulet of Yendor, which enabled the Count to control the Giants. They began walking at dusk, and reached the castle just before dawn, his tired staff in tow. They would storm the castle, and they’d do it all with a few sleepless knights.
II
The first hurdle to be cleared was getting into the castle. The gate was guarded by a Golden Giant, who was fortunatly asleep as was planned. Unfortunatly for the King, it was asleep with one giant hand completely blocking the gate of the castle.
“No Problem” said a knight in black armour, and cast a spell to summon wind and rain to drive the giant away (He was a dark and stormy knight), but this didn’t work, and he was swept up by the Giant and thrown several miles into a handy bed of candyfloss. The second fighter attacked with a large lump of wood, but alas the knight-club didn’t work, and he too was thrown. One after another the knights tried, and all but one failed. The final knight was an expert in getting into castles (He was a fort knight) and suggested that they waited a while. Sure enough, the giant fell asleep again with his hand over the door, but this time the King – at the knights suggestion – sent a couple of his Pages though, who were able to fit though the gaps around the Golden Giant’s hand and into the castle, where they opened the back door for the King and company to march though.
Which all goes to show, said the knight, that you should always let your pages do the walking with the yellow fingers.
III
When they got to the throne room, they found it was gone. Not the throne room, but the throne. The Count had heard the fighting by the gate, and had ordered a couple of his giants to lift it and take it, and as the king looked out of the window he could see the giants carrying the chair – and the Count in it – towards a village in the north. The King gave chase.
A couple of hours later, the King and his supporters arrived at the village. The residents of the village, who didn’t want any trouble – pointed to a straw house towards the south. The King went inside and demanded to see the Count “He isn’t here” the owner said “He’s not here”, and indeed he seemed not to be lying, since there was nowhere in the small straw cottage to hide the massive throne. But then, with a crack, the ceiling of the cottage gave way and the throne crashed to earth, crushing the cottage owner.
Which just goes to show that people who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.
IV
The Count leapt up from the throne and ordered his Golden Giants – who were hiding around the back – to attack, but the king snatched the Amulet off the count and wore it himself while the Knight caught hold of the Count. “You are accused of High Treason” said the King “The sentance is death”.
They dragged the count outside and tied him to a rock with his head over a treestump, and the Knight raised the Cottage’s wood-axe over his – the count’s – head.
“But!” said the King, “You may live if you tell me where you hid the royal treasury”.
“Never!” said the count “I’ll never speak”
“Right.” said the King, and nodded to the Knight, who swung the axe again.
“NO! WAIT! I’ll tell! I’ll Te…” began the count.
thunk concluded the axe.
“Bother” said the King.
Which just goes to show that you should never hatchet your counts before they chicken.
Fin.
Those who spoke on this:
Marco:
Okay, I probably don’t need to tell you that those are some truly godawful puns. But in the interest of leaving orbit around the Feedback black hole, I will give you a full round of applause.
Very, very enjoyable.
So, when’s the next story up?
Deadlines
Nothing to see here. Move along
Those who spoke on this:
lee:
please bring the drugs you were on when you wrote this to GM.
Vaughan:
You’ve got a lot of deadlines coming up, haven’t you? I can tell. Nothing gets past me when it comes to observation, you know.
Rosemary:
offers you a big pot of tea and some valium
Pause
I’m writing again. All else is suspended until further notice.
In case I forget to mention it, or haven’t bounced at you yet, or anything:
We have a house. We are moving. We sign the contracts on the weekend of the 24th, and move soon after. Yay.
- 2004-01-16 16:38:41
- By Aquarion
- From Catrion Towers, Reading
- More Journal Entries
- Filed under Moving To Letchworth & Stories
Those who spoke on this:
Rosemary:
Hooray! happy hugs to you both
I hope the days of Cambridge-instameets can return, too :-)
Pingter:
I do fear the part on the forms where it says “list the places where you have lived in the past three years.” Will you get extra sheets to write on?
dearg:
Woo, good news!
And about the moving too… ;)
Whitelisting
Where have all the mails gone, long time passing?
Where have all the mails gone, long time ago?
Where have all the mails gone? Gone to spam-bins, every one.
When will bayes ever learn? Oh when will bayes, ever learn.
Those who spoke on this:
Missing: One story
I’ve lost a story.
You know how once you put something online, you’ll never be able to take it back? I’m hoping – with this post – that this is true. Somewhere in one of the Aquarionics server moves, the story “Emma” got lost (The file is “emma.html”). Somehow it’s not only vanished from my local hard drive, but also from Aquarionics and it apparently never hit web.archive.org.
The chances of someone out there saving this are fairly remote, but I thought I’d ask anyway. It was written about two years ago.
I hate losing content.
Those who spoke on this:
Sam:
I looked for a half hour, and I can’t find it. I’m sorry. I remember that it was really good. :(
Non-harmful
Shaun of the Dead is really good.
Other things under construction:
- Review of Locomotion
- State of the Education System
- The Sands Conspiracy
- Oxford Tweed and the Lawn Chairs of Doom
Also:
It should be noted, to start with, that Stave was not chasing after multiple-centries old bottles of port because he had nothing else to do. Far from it, its just it was a conveniant way to keep out from under the feet of the several hundred groups who were currently trying to kill him.
- 2004-09-14 22:23:06
- By Aquarion
- From Casarufus, Letchworth
- More Journal Entries
- Filed under Computer Games, Movies & Stories
Dan - PI
The story has moved away from this. Roles have moved around, Dan isn’t a PI anymore, and isn’t like this anyway. Seems a shame to waste it, and I haven’t posted anything creative for a while, so you can read it.
This is an extract that never will be, from the story that will one day be known as something other than “Toffia”
It kind of needs editing, but you don’t get nicities like that :-)
—Nicholas Avenell, London, 2004
Story begins:
There is no such thing as an ordinary case which involves treacle mines.
Say the word “Treacle Mines” to a person, and you will get a number of possible reactions. From those with historical knowledge you will probably get a lecture on the golden, gloopy mud that made cutting off parts of the New Forest for farming trees so incredibly difficult. From most, however, you will get an image of trying to dig into rocks and get refined sugar. It takes a certian type of mental state to come up with small explosive charges which coat the surrounding area in thick, gloopy, difficult to move though and – take it from me – impossible to clean stuff. The treacle mines came later, though, because we start before I was hired. Before, in fact, I knew I was going back. Before, and this was the annoying bit, I was awake.
I don’t get frosted glass in my door-panel. I didn’t have a 1950’s style fan, bare floorboards, and a single safe in the corner to hold my prized possession: a Colt 45. This was because I couldn’t afford an office, lived in London where the requirement for cooling was generally rare, and the only 45’s I owned were some records in a box on top of the wardrobe. I had a carpet which may once have not been brown, a trenchcoat that had once been brown, a sink that may once have been white, and a detective agency that may once have had clients.
Somewhere in the world there is a detective agency that does well, can afford an office and a secretary they can pay, and generally doesn’t live in squallor. Classically, however, this is not where a case begins and I have ever been a slave to the classics.
Too much of the singular pronoun. I do have a name, in fact I have several. I am known mostly as “Dan”, which is short for something, and took on the surname of “Black” because I found it amusing at a time when I needed a new name. I’m currently asleep in the bed that folds up into a couch that dominates my office. It may once have had springs, it may once have been comfortable. As it is, I sleep lightly, my body honed into a state where I can defend my life at the slightest noise in the appartment, or from a spring making a last bid for freedom via my spine. The latter is more usual, but it was for the former that I was glad this evening, for as I lay sleeping a duo of questionable morals climbed the stairs.
Those who spoke on this:
Ben:
Me too, very good..
Dinner on the table
I’ve been playing probably too much “Vampire: The Maskerade: Bloodlines” recently. This takes the bare bones of a scene from the game and extends it a little. It’s mostly practice for 1st person format.
I got a surprise when I got home.
“Heather? Why is there a man chained to the shower in the bathroom?”
“He followed me home, Master.”
My name is Soon. It wasn’t a name I’d have chosen, to be honest. In fact, I’m of the humble opinion that it’s a bloody stupid name to give a creature of the night. Which is what I am, in fact. My name is Soon, and I’m a vampire. Christ, I sound like something out of ‘Vampires Anonymous’. The name was given to me by my Sire, who has since passed away from this moral realm. Again. She was executed for biting me and turning me into a vampire (Which was very – aha – kinde of her. Sorry, vampire joke. It’s funny if you’re dead) without the expressed permission of those more important than her. She does have a name, but I won’t speak it. I don’t remember much about my life before my death, but I do remember having a thing about not speaking the name of the dead aloud. Thus my renaming, and the unnaming of my redead sire.
Currently, I’m carving a niche for myself in the realms of LA as one of the few who will deal both with the Anarch – who dislike the organised tiers of vampires – and the Camarilla – who are the organised tiers of vampires, and have the somewhat arrogant belief that so is every other Kindred (or Vampire, to you) including, and here’s the bit that really pisses the other side off – the Anarchs. I can see both sides’ point, and the point of the Sabbat (Who prefer – ironically – Anarchy) (And I’d deal with them too, if they weren’t so hell-bent on using my dead hide as wallpaper). I have, at this point, had something of a capital N Night involving Beckett – a historian/werewolf/smug-arsehole; the possible End Of All Things and an explosion that would have killed me were I not already ahead of the game on that score, and have come home to find Heather and this instance of humanity in my apartment.
Oh, Heather, Right.
Heather is a ghoul. She accidentally came between a man with a shotgun and where he wanted to be sometime a couple of nights ago, and ended up dying in a room in a hospital. I was passing though on my way to find some blood and found her. To be honest, she looked pretty grim. There was something I could do, though…
Vampire blood is sovereign specific to humans. It cures everything from a sore throat to the more mild forms of death, and will have you up and running within an hour or two. Not only does it cure you, but you get some of our strength and ability to resist things like gunshots. It’s rich, tasty and comes on tap from your friendly neighbourhood vampire.
On the downside, you become a willing slave of the kindred whose blood you drink, willing – and determined – to do anything in your now considerable power to make your master or mistress’ life a more pleasurable one. In my case, this means someone who can do things while it’s daylight, mostly. I don’t need a ghoul, and really find the happy-dog-good-dog attitude faintly embarrassing. But she would die if I kicked her out – not that she’d go – because she needs to drink from me every so often and will do forever. Which means its a constant reminder of what you’ve done. And then when they try to please you…
“He followed me home, Master”
Which is somewhat easy to believe. Heather is somebody I would have considered cute while I was alive – the dead don’t feel such things without strong medication – and doesn’t look like she could – for example – kick you clean over a high wall. The idea of this brick-shit-house of a man following her down the dark alley where we make our home is not one I find surprising.
“And I thought you might be hungry”
And this puts me into something of a quandary. I can’t kill innocents. That is, I can, obviously. It’s not as if it’s harder to pierce the neck of an innocent and drain the sweet wine from their veins than someone who is trying to kill you, to the contrary most of the time. This is a moral thing. I don’t want to get into the habit of draining the guiltless, because that’s one step on the journey to losing all trace of humanity. There are vampires who lose the civilised edge, who roam the streets slicing, dicing and feeding on whomsoever gets in the way. I know. I’ve been sent – by both sides – to kill them. They are beasts, and they are hunted like them.
On the other, and possibly more relevant hand, I probably can’t let him go. He’ll call the police, and at the very least Heather will be locked away and will die (as I can’t feed her in prison. What would I do? Send her a cake with a bag of blood inside?), and at the most I’ll have to kill some policemen. In both cases, mortals will be wandering around telling people how they saw people who were talking about sucking blood, chained them to a radiator, whatever. This is the Masquerade, the diplomatic fiction that vampires don’t exist, which persists so that vampires can exist without being hunted down by the 100,000 people each that the mortals outnumber us by. Letting him go would break the masquerade, killing him would break me.
I know I should talk to Heather for putting me in this spot, but you can’t really chastise a ghoul without shattering their fragile little existence, so I don’t. But what do I do? I can’t let him go.
Of course, the fact that he was planning to mug, possibly rape and murder, Heather doesn’t spell him out as an innocent, but the possibility remains that today was the first day he got back from work, maybe as an investment banker, and said “Dash it all, this stable income is far to much for me, I long for a more perilous career! I know, I shall become a mugger!”. He could be an innocent.
Fuck it. I drain him. I’m an undead monster, after all.
Those who spoke on this:
Cathy:
Wonderful, I liked this a lot. I want to go back and read it a couple more times now :-)
Abbot:
Go for the gusto. I’d even like to see a sequel- I can barely find any fics about Heather. Then again, I consider her the most under-developed character in the game.
Abbbot
Chris
I hadn't realised this had dropped out of the archives, actually. This is 'Chris', written about two or three years ago (About 2002, I think) and later published in Extraverse. (It is not, nor should it be construed as, an example of my current mental state).
"You know the drill, Name, Number, Tone" Beep
It wasn't a dark, or stormy night.
This was depressing.
"Hi, Chris? It's Jane"
It was early evening, and the sky was bathed in a golden pink that would cause grown poets to cry. The grass was green, the red-bricked houses either side of him poked out from behind carefully pruned hedge-rows. The last time he had walked down this road he was going to school.
"Listen, please. I know the last few weeks have been tough going"
Far beyond drive-time now, the main road was empty. He had left suburbia behind and was heading into the mild little country lanes beyond. The birds were singing, and the only sound was the light crunch of trainers upon the gravel to the side of the road.
"Losing that job was a blow, I'm sure. But there is something we need to talk about that is more important"
It should have been a dark and stormy night. It deserved lightening, and thunder, and great symphonic crashes and waves. Or, at least, the kind of windy, dark night that makes you glad you're inside and not out. It deserved depressing weather.
"Us"
But there wasn't. There was just the red tinged sky of the early evening (Shepherds delight), and the bright songs of the birds in the trees and the hedge-rows.
"There isn't really any way I can say this to you, not without hurting us both, and not to your face"
When was the last time anyone had gone down this road? A bridle-path spun off to the right and he took it without thinking. It was overgrown and the path lay somewhere beneath the layers of nettles and thorns, but it was away from there. It. Everything.
"I've met someone else"
Somebody else had been here. A rusty can sat in the path, seemingly spat out of the undergrowth as an illegal alien. An undesirable. Surplus to nature's requirements. He kicked it, and the can went sailing over the remains of the barbed wire fence, landing within the field of corn.
"I feel so stupid talking to an answer phone, but I don't know where you are, and your mobile is off. You'd like him, you really would. He's called Dave, he's got a job at a securities place up in London"
There really wasn't any point. Not without her. So they hadn't known each other long, it was sudden. Quick. And it was most certainly too soon to lose her. He remembered the party they had met at, She had already got a boyfriend, but they became friends, and soon it... Blossomed.
"I feel really bad doing this to you, But I just don't love you enough any more"
There was no way he could have her now. He had her. *They* would get married, and they would have children, and in fifteen years time they would meet again and say "What would life be like if...".
No.
He found a stream in the woods at the end of the path, and sat by it. Miles from anyone.
"I'll put the engagement ring in the post. I think it's better if we never see each other again"
From his jacket pocket, he withdrew a dull metal object, Raised the gun to his temple.
The explosion lifted clouds of birds from the trees.
And, as the explosion rings out across the countryside, and even while the body slumps into the stream, there is a click as the caller hangs up.
And Dave's body begins to decompose.
Those who spoke on this:
Dallan:
Can I point out, aside from any incorrect initial speculation, how genuinely unnerving that story is?
Not to mention the Kay-esque misdirection.
I wasn’t aware you wrote fiction, actually, but this is pretty good.
-D.
Blofeld school of driving
LoneCat’s fault.
“Mr Bond?”
“James Bond, yes.”
“Good. I believe you have been sent here to retake your driving test.”
“Yes. As a result of a mass-conspiracy against me by forces within the government, my licence to drive was revoked”
“Less of a mass-conspiracy, I’m told. I believe you were photographed doing one hundred and eighty miles per hour?”
“I was in pursuit of terrorists.”
“So your report read. Said terrorists were apparently disguised as… an Ice Cream van. In any event, you were photographed doing six times the speed limit. Past a school”
“A school for terrori”
“In a tank, Mr Bond.”
“Yes.”
“A reasonable person might ask how you found a tank that was capable of doing that kind of speed. They may even ask how you managed to do so without destroying most of the cars also on the road. They may even ask how you failed to capture the ice-cream van at the end of it. However, being both aware of your extreme aptitude towards Macgyveresque inventiveness and having read the damages list placed against you, I will refrain.”
“A reasonable person might ask how come you are a driving instructor, instead of a criminal mastermind?”
“One precludes the other? But yes, Mr Bond. I was hired for four reasons. First, I already know you exist, and therefore am not any more of a security risk to MI5. Second, the pay is slightly better. You should see the risk bonus I get just for sitting in a car with you. Third, the cat’s life I save may be that of my own.”
“And fourth?”
“Revenge, Mr Bond. Humiliation and revenge. Now move off, taking note of all applicable signs and instruction…”
“Now. What do you think you did wrong there?”
“I think I forgot to indicate in advance of the last junction”
“Correct. Also?”
“I didn’t check my mirrors?”
“True. I was thinking more of the way you took an uninstructed sharp left – where no sharp left was on either the map or the road, I should point out – and careered down the mountainside narrowly missing trees (Which did detach the wing-mirrors, making your lack of check slightly more understandable) before joining the road below with a handbrake turn and immediately performing an uninstructed emergency stop on recognising that scant feet in front of us was an unmoving lorry”.
“You would have preferred I didn’t do the emergency stop?”
“I would have preferred we did not leave the initial road. I expect you have a good explanation?”
“There was a terrorist behind me.”
“For the last time, Mr Bond. Nuns on bicycles are not terrorists!”
“She was carrying a gun!”
“That was a bread stick. Now put what is left of the car in to neutral, restart the engine and return us back to the starting point, taking note of all possible hazards – with the exception of nuns – and reacting accordingly.”
“You expect me to talk?”
“No, Mr Bond. I expect you to drive.”
Aquarion and the Snail Invasion
(This happened sometime in 2002, while I was still in Cambridge. I wrote this for AFP, but decided to cross-post it here)
It was a dark and stormy spring day in the calm and peaceful city of Cambridge.
There was a knock at the door.
A word about my method of dress. Generally, I don’t wear socks or shoes while I’m at home. Ever. It just doesn’t occur to me to put them on unless I’m going somewhere, a fact of minor irritation to various house-mates/parents/girlfriends over the years as bare feet are better at tracking things around the house than socks are. One year, for example, my mum put a small shovel-load of smiley-faces glittery things in my birthday card, which obediently fluttered prettily to the floor. Despite hoovering many times thereafter, there was still a small drift of them under my desk when we moved out some four months later. Bare feet make things drift.
Anyway, I digress.
Actually, I digressed away from the initial digression, so I should finish that digression – which was relevant – before I go back to the main thrust of the story. Bare feet then.
There is very few things less pleasant, I have discovered, than stepping on a snail whilst not wearing either shoes nor socks. There is a deeply unpleasant “crunch”, followed by an even less unpleasant squishy sensation, which makes you take a step backwards, leading to another deeply unpleasant crunch. I was in the back garden, either putting up or taking down washing, in our snail-infested garden, on an afternoon after heavy rainfall, when there was a knock at the door.
I carefully “crunch squish ick”-ed my way to the front door (Wiping my feet with relief) and attempted to open it.
I failed.
Snails, you see, can move like lightning when the little buggers feel like it, and several of them (I discovered a minute or two later, after a show of manly force) had managed to crawl inside the door frame in the time it had taken whoever left most recently to open and close it.
I don’t actually know if anyone has ever used snails as a raw ingredient for making glue. I can say, without a doubt, that it would have been incredibly effective, as the three or four snails that had completed their suicide mission to seal the primary means of escape from our house had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
Then, with the above thought process, it hit me. It was a kamikaze mission! They had sealed the door deliberately, and the ones crawling slowly up the back garden path were merely a scouting patrol for the huge army of snails that were coming for revenge for their squished brethren!
I got the front door open. The two Asian ladies beyond explained they were looking for people who would like to read the Watchtower. I, in turn, explained that the snails were invading and I had to go and stop them. I closed the door.
The Witnesses have never bothered me since.
Those who spoke on this:
Jens Ayton:
followed by an even less unpleasant squishy sensation?
Moth:
Perhaps he likes the squish. Who are we to question the sense of relief and satisfaction Aquarion may feel when he realises he has become death, destroyer of snails?
Jens Ayton:
Well, er… sane people?
Nah.
Nice to see indications that you may still be breathing, by the way.
Flagstones
A resolution has been made to Just Write, rather than agonise about what I’m supposed to be writing, and the little book of instant story ideas said “A decision”. So we have this. (It’s crap. Sorry. But it may mean that I write something less crap in the future)
The rest of the world thinks me
Itai:
Ah, comments! Can’t help fiddling with a new toy.
As regards your story, I beg to differ [1] – I very thoroughly enjoyed your short story [2]
[1] Well, not actually beg, begging being defined as asking for permission to do something, which as far as I’m concerned is a lengthy, uncomely process with which I have never bothered in my life.
[2] ‘Thoroughl ‘ being loosely defined as: ‘read it, absurdly didn’t realize what you were talking about, until, some time later, realization dawned’. This quite clearly has nothing to do with your writing. Personally, I blame it on alien mind-control devices.