Archive | September, 2009

Monday Morning Adventures

28 Sep

This morning, I have watched the Disney film Atlantis, and I am in the process of watching Treasure Planet as I write. All I can say is ‘wow’. This is a genre I think Disney is severely underappreciated in…rollicking adentures that have wonderous elements of steam/cyberpunk. These films inspire me to write again.

I haven’t written anything substantial in quite some time. Going through my old drawing/writing books, odd little journal type things I’ve kept since year 10, I found some surprisingly good sketches (hours and hours of boredom in maths and chemistry classes) and very, VERY few half-decent streams of narrative.

I think my main problem is, that like Noel Fielding, my style relies heavily on nonsense.

There was a crunching noise, and he swore loudly. As he pulled the steering wheel violently to the left, he felt his world tip upside-down. He tumbled once, only vaguely aware of the huge sound around him. Everything was grey like the upholstery, then black like the dashboard, then red like whatever it was that was running from his forehead, then blue as a window flashed into view. It was a gorgeous day, he thought, before realising how utterly ridiculous it was to contemplate the weather whilst inside a rolling vehicle. What should he be thinking about? Shouldn’t his life be flashing before his eyes by now? He was particularly looking forward to seeing himself as a twenty year-old again, back when he had hair.

His mind hadn’t wander this much since his last staff meeting.

Shouldn’t he be at least mildly aware of the pain in his head and the sound of glass tinkling to the ground? He could hear glass tinkling to the ground…then he noticed the absence of the sound of metal being wrenched and pulled. The car had stopped.

 

“Any crash you can walk away from…” he whispered to himself as he pulled his rather rotund body from the car. This involved exiting through the back window, which was pointing uncomfortably towards the sky. The rest of the car was buried completely in a mound of earth so his car resembled the top of a vegetable sticking out of a garden bed. He held his hand to his forehead, identifying the stickiness as a drying cut. He turned from the car and looked at his surroundings. Because he was expecting to see the familiar country road between his house and the township where he worked, he was understandably confused to see a small forest of tall, slim trunks topped with broad, flat leaves. That forest had never been there before, or perhaps he’d just never noticed it. Yes, that was it. It had always been there, of course, but he was always so tired when he drove along that road, whether he had just woken up and was heading into town for work, or he had finished work and was heading home for a nap, that he had just never taken it in.

Regaining his senses, the man reached into his pocket for his mobile phone for the purpose of calling his wife or a taxi, and found instead a small, flat stone. That was curious, but only for a second. His phone must have slipped out of his jacket while the car was rolling, and the stone must have slipped in as he pulled himself out of the hole his car was now living in.

He turned back to his car with the idea of climbing back into the wreck and locating his phone in the forefront of his mind. His car was gone, which was more than a little bit unusual. In its place was a carrot the size of an SUV, or at least, Mr Pennant-Cord assumed it was a carrot, because the root of the vegetable was buried in the hillock that had once housed his car. Convinced that he was suffering from concussion, he asked a nearby post-box to quiz him, to check for signs of amnesia

 

“Your name?”

“Melville Pennant-Cord.”

“What year is it?”

“1998, I believe. March, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the frosts are early this year, aren’t they?”

“Golly, yes. Just the other day, my wife and I went for a stroll after breakfast and she tripped on a heel and fell into a snowdrift! Imagine, snowdrifts in March!”

“It really is unusual. Global warming, I suppose.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

 

Mr Pennant-Cord finished his conversation with the post-box none the wiser as to whether he was concussed.

 

 

I need to branch out.

For a Friend…Lazy Roo Woman

23 Sep

Here is my favourite quotation from this week:

Maths Tutor:  Just letting you all know, we have a really big whiteboard marker this week, so be careful.

Later…

Student: Whoa, this marker is huge!

Maths Tutor: I warned you!

 

Anyhoo.

 

It was a dark and stormy night…

No, Roo Woman knows how that one ends.

 

 

The machines were silent now. Until earlier last year, they had emitted unsettling snapping sounds, like fingers being broken. Harry stepped through the understated, brushed-metal arch, stood on the platform and sighed a little as his body was pulled apart, atom by atom.

 

…And stepping off the platform, brushing a little portdust from his jacket, he realised he’d left his wallet behind. He looked back at the arch. He technically hadn’t left the terminal yet, and the machines were sensor-driven. It’d save him another ticket fare if he just snuck back the way he’d come. Cheeky, but no more illegal than fare-dodging on a train.

 

The terminals had been running for years now. The system was perfect. Lines of cubicles, arches, and now-silent machinery operated with a smooth adherence to two vital rules. There was a ten-minute off-period after each travel; no one could enter a cubicle until the power-generators had slowed down sufficiently to have excess static removed manually. Men in green overalls with huge trolleys of equipment worked the machines systematically. The ten-minute downtime for each cubicle was not an issue, not with tens of thousands of individual machines lining the station. The second rule, was that the men in green overalls were not to be spoken to, or come into contact with. Something about residual charge. The signs displaying the rules were filled with meaningless justifications. They were taken as gospel.

 

Harry reassembled on the other side right on top of someone. He fell forward, the stranger in his cubicle cushioning his impact slightly. Harry uttered a surprised apology, rolling the oddly limp stranger from under him…

 

 

Tune in next week for another installment of mind-splurge on a blog. But tonight, we shall leave you with a haiku about nothing whatsoever.

When I see the rain
I think of small, droplet-shaped
Things made of water.

A Bio Tale

1 Sep

For many years, Beedle and Po knew not of the other’s existence. Eleven years, in fact. It was one fateful day in the warmest month of the year that Beedle, stumbling from the weight of his calculus textbooks, ran headlong into Po.

The results of the collision were four broken bones, (all were Po’s), a pair of shattered glasses, (also Po’s), and grass stains on the knees of two pairs of grey trousers, (both, once again, Po’s).

Why Po had two pairs of trousers is a completely different story, and is unimportant to our current narrative.

Po broke two ribs, his wrist, and the third toe of his left foot. His mother drive him to the hospital, grudgingly, and dropped him at the front desk, further injuring his swollen toe. Beedle waddled into the waiting room and placed one calculus book on every vacant chair (of which there were six), before sitting down next to Po.

“I am very sorry,” he mumbled. He handed Po the bent frames of a pair of glasses, and both pairs of grey trousers. “I found these for you…the washed a few miles downstream, but my canoe was speedy enough to catch them up.”

Po thanked Beedle and put the wet trousers in his knapsack.

“My….elephant is double-parked…” Beedle mumbled, looking at his shoes sheepishly. Po said it was fine, and that Beedle could go back to his elephant. Beedle hurried off, and Po went into surgery for his toe.

Fifteen years later, Beedle and Po were still fast friends, thanks to Beedle’s speedy canoe.

________________________________________________________________________

 

The italics are contributions from Erasmus Verdigris, the champion.

 

I’m not sure what my mixtape is on about at the moment. I’m thinking that I’ll burn a copy when it’s finished, and send it to the person it should go to. Who that is, who would know.

My life as a graph
Is not a continuous
function. Stupid maths.