So, I've been hearing voices in my head lately.
Not the kind of voices that make people shuffle away nervously from me while averting their gazes, but the kind that I would like to believe every writer hear. Let me explain.
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Last week in my novel class I was asked by the teacher whether my novel was in the first or third person. For those of you who don't know, the first person is from the main character's point of view, while the third person narrates everything in the scene. Well, maybe not the best explantion, but I'm pressed for time.
Anyway, for my new project I decided to go with the first person perspective, and when asked why I replied, 'because that's how the voice in my head sounds like.'
Now, admittedly this got a few giggles and wry looks, but let me explain via writing what my mouth couldn't. For those of you who know me personally, you know that I have difficulty trying to say everything that is on my mind and most of my sentences come out in one, long gibberish mess that would make the Di Vinci code look like a child's plaything. It's like there's a path missing between my brain and tongue and the words are the first casualty.
Anyway, back to the voice. I'm not sure what other writers think, but this is what I believe; a story comes to you via a voice. Whether it be the dark, moody tone of a thug, the cheerful, happy-go-lucky child, or the sarcastic, but loveable rouge, you'll be sitting alone doing nothing when this voice starts talking to you. For me, it's almost like the person is sitting right across from me and we're chatting about what he/she has been up to lately.
For my latest project, my character -who I haven't decided on the name yet-, started with the words, 'To the best of my knowledge, it's been one hundred and thirty seven days since it started.' I paused on whatever it was that I was doing and listened. Then, from somewhere in my mind, he began to form his story. From pure nothingness he spoke to me and I rushed to my computer to type what he was saying. I wasn't writing the story, I was just the medium for this voice to tell his tale.
And I think every first person story begins like that. Whether it be pure fantasy, or a hard hitting crime novel, us writers are the mediums for these voices. Which bring me to my next point; the third person perspective.
I've always preffered to think of the third person voice as just another voice. It's like being on the train and listening to someone else tell their story. The third person voice is a voice like any other character, albiet an omniprescent god-like figure. From here it's like being behind the camera directing a movie. You can choose the angles you want to focus on, the detail in the picture whether you want to focus on the broad, free roaming plainlands of your fantasy world, or the grimy cup of coffee in the sink that reminds the hero/heroine of their loved one.
Sometimes I wonder if the person who I really am is just a character inhabting this physical shell. It also makes sense why most writers are either slightly loopy like I am or just very introvert. With all these voices clamouring against each other to be heard, it leaves little time to be alone. And it's hard to give each voice the justice that they deserve.
But I do know one thing. No matter how alone I will ever get, the imaginary characters and their stories that pop into my mind will always keep my company. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Lately my spark for writing has diminished, but I feel it starting to shine once more. Maybe one of these voices will fan the flame into something bright, and together we can acheive something great.
-George
P.S As I re-read this and contemplate if I should do some editing, I also realise there's a path missing between brain and fingers. Yet I hope you were able to fathom some idea of what I'm trying to say.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Exit Light
Well, with school holidays and work starting again, I'm finding less time to write. So, to get me back into the writing mood I have revived an old short story I wrote on Facebook notes. Just something to get the juices flowing once to me. There's probably a dozen or so mistakes that I'm too lazy to correct.
The following piece started of as a satire with all the vampire craze, but with the character's voice, and a year of hanging about with some awesome writers, I'm sure I can flesh this story out. So without further ado, I present to you the first chapter (still going to work on my finished novel, not going to forget that), and probably last chapter, of 'Exit Light'
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The following piece started of as a satire with all the vampire craze, but with the character's voice, and a year of hanging about with some awesome writers, I'm sure I can flesh this story out. So without further ado, I present to you the first chapter (still going to work on my finished novel, not going to forget that), and probably last chapter, of 'Exit Light'
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Somewhere, somehow, I found myself stuck in a situation reserved only for the more...trashier romance novels. It was as if the universe was mocking me. You see, the night was clear, the moon hanging above me, its pale face laughing amongst the sea of stars surrounding its pale, radiant glow. The air was cool and crisp, the last breaths of autumn swirling around my short cut brown hair. For a moment time stopped and all that remained were the two of us.
Fuck, you know you’re stuck in a bad novel when the main protagonist describes the world like that.
If it were up to me, I would have preferred to describe the night like this. This night was average, nothing extraordinary about it. It was a Friday night and there was nothing significant about it. It was neither too hot nor was it too cold, in fact there were nights like these stretching back before humans even thought of the word Friday. We were standing underneath a drooping willow, its low branches hiding us from the world; or, as I would like to say, we stopped underneath a dead tree because I could not stand listening to her annoying chatter any more. The smart suit I was wearing was a rental, the pure white dress she wore was cheap, and the blond, curled hair designed to hide her pale sapphire coloured eyes made her look like a hooker.
She looked at me, her eyes seemingly gazing into my soul. Which was crazy, because vampires don’t have souls.
‘I love you,’ she said with her sigh, her breath a faint tickle against my pale skin.
I shifted uncomfortably and groaned inwards. Great, there was the L-word again. I remember back in the day when hunting used to be a challenge. When I had to work for my meals by creeping in the shadows and trying not to get caught.
‘You make me feel beautiful,’ she continued, burying her face into my chest. ‘It was as if we were made for each other.’
‘You don’t say,’ I mumbled. What possessed me to try this? Stupid Tony, he egged me on into this bet. I should have grabbed her in a dark alleyway and had my meal. All this prancing and talking about true eternal love was boring me to a second death.
‘You make me feel safe, Kester,’ the girl whose name I had forgotten said. To be honest they all look the same, and I’m never interested in them for more than a week or two.
‘Yeah, I’m going to have to cut you off there,’ I said. ‘How long have we known each other?’
At first she looked confused, then she smiled gently into my chest. ‘It’s been three weeks, yet I feel like I’ve known you forever. It as if fate has—’
‘You know what, screw this.’ I pulled her off my chest and held her away from me at arm’s length like she was a crucifix. This was getting too far. ‘Stop this romance bullshit. I’m a vampire, you’re a star struck girl who has read way too many vampire novels and written a staggering amount of bad fan fiction about us. Yes, I’ve read your fan fiction. It’s bad, real bad. So bad in fact that it makes me want to smash up a coffin and drive a piece of wood through my shrivelled up heart. If that wasn’t enough, I’m at least two hundred and fifty years older than you. I’m old enough to be your great-great-great grandfather.’ I’m sure I left out one or two greats, but at this point of time I could not care.
‘Kester, stop,’ she cried, the tears staining her mascara. ‘Don’t push me away. I know you’re not a killer. Deep down you want to be like us, to stop feeding and feel normal. Let down your walls and let me in.’
Yeah, fat chance. See, here’s the thing that all these novels and movies forget to tell you. Vampires don’t have emotions. No, correction, we do have some emotion, the main one being hunger, but it takes a lot for us to feel some. Extreme happiness, extreme anger, extreme sadness; you get what I’m saying? You picking up what I’m putting down? Comprende?
You see, we’re killers. We don’t want to be human. We enjoy our position in the food chain. We do not sulk in the shadows, recite bad poetry, and wish to rejoin the cattle. We like our blood from the human neck and any vampire caught sucking blood out of a rat is in need of a bad staking. You know what we call vampires who are like this?
Failures.
Stake bait.
Annoying.
What I’m trying to tell you is this. I’m a vampire, you’re food, and any of that lovey-dovey crap you’ve read or seen in the last ten years is a joke to our very existence. If you’re expecting this to be about how I overcome my savage nature by true love, please put down the book. If you’re expecting the beast in me to be charmed by some beauty, then I request that you pull your head out of your arse, stop with all that Disney bullshit, and join the rest of us in the real world.
Where was I? Oh right, blond bimbo with grand delusions of making me human.
‘No,’ she continued, ‘you’re different. You are kind and sensitive, while at the same time making my heart race and my blood boul. You’re like some kind of drug that I’m addicted to—’.
To be honest, I zoned out around about this point. Seriously, thousands of years of being a scary bad ass now reduced into nothing from a few short decades of badly written novels. The Coven should have sunken their fangs into all those poets and novelists when they had a chance.
‘I show you what it means to be human, Kester,’ girl whose name I can’t remember said. She turned her neck towards me, the idiot offering herself on a silver platter. Well, not silver, that shit stings like there’s no tomorrow. ‘Turn me,’ she whispered. ‘Let us spend the rest of eternity together.’
Turn her? Was she fucking kidding me? One, I don’t have the clearance to turn anyone into a vampire. If every vampire did what they pleased and turned whoever they want into a vampire, then the whole night would be overrun by sulking, emotive, brooding vampires. If that did happen, someone please drive a stake through my fucking heart. Secondly, even if I did have clearance to turn her, why would I? The last three weeks have been torture for me. Could you imagine spending the rest of eternity with her?
Yet again, my mother when I was alive told me never to waste good food.
I extended my fangs and pierced her skin. Her blood rushed into my mouth, soft like velvet, warm, and tasting, strangely enough, like hot chocolate. You see, everyone’s blood is different. Younger people are easier on the palate, while older people are more a hearty meal. Personality also comes into it. Nice people taste sweet, bitter people taste bitter, and the real assholes, the scum of the earth, taste what I like to call ‘licking your tongue alongside the bottom of sewage pipe.’
At first she moaned in pleasure, her eyes rolling back into her head. Then, when she realised I wasn’t about to stop, she struggled at first. With my superior strength, I kept her pinned down until her struggles ceased and continued my feeding. It wasn’t until she went limp in my arms that I realised I drank too much.
‘Fuck,’ I cursed, dropping her body onto the ground. I bit down on my wrist and drew blood. Tilting her head back, I poured it back down her throat while I tried to pull out my mobile.
‘Come on you stupid piece of shit.’
I hate phones, especially the new ones with the touch screens. For some reason us vampires have trouble using them, must be because we’re dead and the technology has trouble sensing us. Eventually I turn on the old Nokia and start pressing buttons, the screen illuminating my surroundings.
‘Emergency service,’ a bored, tired female voice says at the other end.
‘Judy, it’s Kester. I’ve done it again.’
There’s a pause at the end of the line and a sharp intake of breath for pure theatrics.
‘Dark Night, Kester,’ Judy sighs, ‘would you please stop trying to kill people?’
‘I can’t help it, Judy. They start talking about true love and it pisses me off to the point where I stop focusing on when to quit drinking.’
Judy sighed and I can hear her tapping away at her keyboard.
‘Okay, Kester, we have your position. Hide the girl in the bushes and the extraction team will come and get her. I’m guessing you want her memory wiped as well?’
‘Yes please,’ I sigh. I wipe the last drops of my blood off her lips and sling her over one shoulder. ‘I’m guessing I owe you, Judy?’
I don’t have to see it, but I can sense her cruel, seductive smile on the other end of the phone. She lets loose a small, seductive laugh that sends shivers down my spine. Remember earlier on how I said vampires could only feel extreme emotions? Let’s say that I was scared enough of Judy to actually feel fear, that’s how bad she is. The woman had some sick sexual pleasures that made me cringe whenever I owed her one. All I could hope for was that she didn’t bring out the silver encrusted whip again.
‘Of course, my pet,’ she said. ‘Now dump the body and I’ll arrange the time for us to meet.’
I give an empty laugh and disconnect the call. Stupid girl whose name I couldn’t remember, stupid Tony for challenging to me to last three months in a stupid relation. I dump the body in the bushes and step outside. At least I could be content on a full stomach. It’s hard to stay angry when full, and it would take a lot to make me stay furious. I step into the night, under the moon’s gaze, which has suddenly turned disapproving. I stare back and slowly extend a middle finger at it. It knows what I am. Does it disapprove of the lion when it brings down the zebra? Does it disapprove when the wolf brings down the sheep? No, so why should it disapprove of me?
I am a vampire.
I am mother fucking, bloodthirsty killing machine who relies on deceptions and lies to feed.
I am a creature of the night, a supernatural being of your worst nightmares.
I am Kester, the Bloodied Angel of Death.
I had to kill many people for that. No, seriously, you wouldn’t believe how many people I have had to kill for that last title.
I step away from the girl, her face an already fading memory, and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do for the rest of my night.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I whistled a little tune and walked into the night feeling like a complete badass.
Fuck, you know you’re stuck in a bad novel when the main protagonist describes the world like that.
If it were up to me, I would have preferred to describe the night like this. This night was average, nothing extraordinary about it. It was a Friday night and there was nothing significant about it. It was neither too hot nor was it too cold, in fact there were nights like these stretching back before humans even thought of the word Friday. We were standing underneath a drooping willow, its low branches hiding us from the world; or, as I would like to say, we stopped underneath a dead tree because I could not stand listening to her annoying chatter any more. The smart suit I was wearing was a rental, the pure white dress she wore was cheap, and the blond, curled hair designed to hide her pale sapphire coloured eyes made her look like a hooker.
She looked at me, her eyes seemingly gazing into my soul. Which was crazy, because vampires don’t have souls.
‘I love you,’ she said with her sigh, her breath a faint tickle against my pale skin.
I shifted uncomfortably and groaned inwards. Great, there was the L-word again. I remember back in the day when hunting used to be a challenge. When I had to work for my meals by creeping in the shadows and trying not to get caught.
‘You make me feel beautiful,’ she continued, burying her face into my chest. ‘It was as if we were made for each other.’
‘You don’t say,’ I mumbled. What possessed me to try this? Stupid Tony, he egged me on into this bet. I should have grabbed her in a dark alleyway and had my meal. All this prancing and talking about true eternal love was boring me to a second death.
‘You make me feel safe, Kester,’ the girl whose name I had forgotten said. To be honest they all look the same, and I’m never interested in them for more than a week or two.
‘Yeah, I’m going to have to cut you off there,’ I said. ‘How long have we known each other?’
At first she looked confused, then she smiled gently into my chest. ‘It’s been three weeks, yet I feel like I’ve known you forever. It as if fate has—’
‘You know what, screw this.’ I pulled her off my chest and held her away from me at arm’s length like she was a crucifix. This was getting too far. ‘Stop this romance bullshit. I’m a vampire, you’re a star struck girl who has read way too many vampire novels and written a staggering amount of bad fan fiction about us. Yes, I’ve read your fan fiction. It’s bad, real bad. So bad in fact that it makes me want to smash up a coffin and drive a piece of wood through my shrivelled up heart. If that wasn’t enough, I’m at least two hundred and fifty years older than you. I’m old enough to be your great-great-great grandfather.’ I’m sure I left out one or two greats, but at this point of time I could not care.
‘Kester, stop,’ she cried, the tears staining her mascara. ‘Don’t push me away. I know you’re not a killer. Deep down you want to be like us, to stop feeding and feel normal. Let down your walls and let me in.’
Yeah, fat chance. See, here’s the thing that all these novels and movies forget to tell you. Vampires don’t have emotions. No, correction, we do have some emotion, the main one being hunger, but it takes a lot for us to feel some. Extreme happiness, extreme anger, extreme sadness; you get what I’m saying? You picking up what I’m putting down? Comprende?
You see, we’re killers. We don’t want to be human. We enjoy our position in the food chain. We do not sulk in the shadows, recite bad poetry, and wish to rejoin the cattle. We like our blood from the human neck and any vampire caught sucking blood out of a rat is in need of a bad staking. You know what we call vampires who are like this?
Failures.
Stake bait.
Annoying.
What I’m trying to tell you is this. I’m a vampire, you’re food, and any of that lovey-dovey crap you’ve read or seen in the last ten years is a joke to our very existence. If you’re expecting this to be about how I overcome my savage nature by true love, please put down the book. If you’re expecting the beast in me to be charmed by some beauty, then I request that you pull your head out of your arse, stop with all that Disney bullshit, and join the rest of us in the real world.
Where was I? Oh right, blond bimbo with grand delusions of making me human.
‘No,’ she continued, ‘you’re different. You are kind and sensitive, while at the same time making my heart race and my blood boul. You’re like some kind of drug that I’m addicted to—’.
To be honest, I zoned out around about this point. Seriously, thousands of years of being a scary bad ass now reduced into nothing from a few short decades of badly written novels. The Coven should have sunken their fangs into all those poets and novelists when they had a chance.
‘I show you what it means to be human, Kester,’ girl whose name I can’t remember said. She turned her neck towards me, the idiot offering herself on a silver platter. Well, not silver, that shit stings like there’s no tomorrow. ‘Turn me,’ she whispered. ‘Let us spend the rest of eternity together.’
Turn her? Was she fucking kidding me? One, I don’t have the clearance to turn anyone into a vampire. If every vampire did what they pleased and turned whoever they want into a vampire, then the whole night would be overrun by sulking, emotive, brooding vampires. If that did happen, someone please drive a stake through my fucking heart. Secondly, even if I did have clearance to turn her, why would I? The last three weeks have been torture for me. Could you imagine spending the rest of eternity with her?
Yet again, my mother when I was alive told me never to waste good food.
I extended my fangs and pierced her skin. Her blood rushed into my mouth, soft like velvet, warm, and tasting, strangely enough, like hot chocolate. You see, everyone’s blood is different. Younger people are easier on the palate, while older people are more a hearty meal. Personality also comes into it. Nice people taste sweet, bitter people taste bitter, and the real assholes, the scum of the earth, taste what I like to call ‘licking your tongue alongside the bottom of sewage pipe.’
At first she moaned in pleasure, her eyes rolling back into her head. Then, when she realised I wasn’t about to stop, she struggled at first. With my superior strength, I kept her pinned down until her struggles ceased and continued my feeding. It wasn’t until she went limp in my arms that I realised I drank too much.
‘Fuck,’ I cursed, dropping her body onto the ground. I bit down on my wrist and drew blood. Tilting her head back, I poured it back down her throat while I tried to pull out my mobile.
‘Come on you stupid piece of shit.’
I hate phones, especially the new ones with the touch screens. For some reason us vampires have trouble using them, must be because we’re dead and the technology has trouble sensing us. Eventually I turn on the old Nokia and start pressing buttons, the screen illuminating my surroundings.
‘Emergency service,’ a bored, tired female voice says at the other end.
‘Judy, it’s Kester. I’ve done it again.’
There’s a pause at the end of the line and a sharp intake of breath for pure theatrics.
‘Dark Night, Kester,’ Judy sighs, ‘would you please stop trying to kill people?’
‘I can’t help it, Judy. They start talking about true love and it pisses me off to the point where I stop focusing on when to quit drinking.’
Judy sighed and I can hear her tapping away at her keyboard.
‘Okay, Kester, we have your position. Hide the girl in the bushes and the extraction team will come and get her. I’m guessing you want her memory wiped as well?’
‘Yes please,’ I sigh. I wipe the last drops of my blood off her lips and sling her over one shoulder. ‘I’m guessing I owe you, Judy?’
I don’t have to see it, but I can sense her cruel, seductive smile on the other end of the phone. She lets loose a small, seductive laugh that sends shivers down my spine. Remember earlier on how I said vampires could only feel extreme emotions? Let’s say that I was scared enough of Judy to actually feel fear, that’s how bad she is. The woman had some sick sexual pleasures that made me cringe whenever I owed her one. All I could hope for was that she didn’t bring out the silver encrusted whip again.
‘Of course, my pet,’ she said. ‘Now dump the body and I’ll arrange the time for us to meet.’
I give an empty laugh and disconnect the call. Stupid girl whose name I couldn’t remember, stupid Tony for challenging to me to last three months in a stupid relation. I dump the body in the bushes and step outside. At least I could be content on a full stomach. It’s hard to stay angry when full, and it would take a lot to make me stay furious. I step into the night, under the moon’s gaze, which has suddenly turned disapproving. I stare back and slowly extend a middle finger at it. It knows what I am. Does it disapprove of the lion when it brings down the zebra? Does it disapprove when the wolf brings down the sheep? No, so why should it disapprove of me?
I am a vampire.
I am mother fucking, bloodthirsty killing machine who relies on deceptions and lies to feed.
I am a creature of the night, a supernatural being of your worst nightmares.
I am Kester, the Bloodied Angel of Death.
I had to kill many people for that. No, seriously, you wouldn’t believe how many people I have had to kill for that last title.
I step away from the girl, her face an already fading memory, and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do for the rest of my night.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I whistled a little tune and walked into the night feeling like a complete badass.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Start To A New Decade
Even though its now halfway through January, I would like to wish everyone a happy new year!
Now, it's been a while since my last post and there is a very good reason on why that is.
It's because I've been lazy.
Well, not lazy lazy, but lazy nonetheless. While I've been sitting away, wittling the hours on my ass either by reading/watching t.v/playing video games, my mind on the other hand has been creating dozens of new stories for me to write in the future. In fact the small notebook I keep by my bedside table has been slowly filling up with new ideas. I don't know why, but for some reason my brain has been going overdrive creating new worlds, characters, stories and plots. It's getting to the stage where I can't sleep as my brain is humming away.
It's like a creative high. If you play sport or exercise, the best way I can explain it is when after your session of physical work, you feel generally good, even though your body is on the verge of collapse. My mind is like at the moment, even though I'm mentally tired, the rush of creative energy is amazing.
But enough of that. Besides creating new worlds, I've been reflecting on the last ten years. The 00's, the naughties, or whatever the human race decides to call them. In those ten years I've been through highschool, two Tafe's, three jobs, finished writing a book, and have had an amazing amount of stupid and fun misadventures. I've met some great people, some of them I now consider family.
Now that I'm entering the ten's...or whatever we shall call them, I've been thinking about the future. Not serious, because lets face it I'm not that kind of guy, but enough to snap my brain out of its creative groove. Hopefully I can make a living doing what I like the most, which is writing. Hopefully I can find a nice girl and settle down, maybe have a kid or two if I'm feeling sentimental.
Whatever the case may be, I just hope I'll be happy and be having a good time. And that's all I can ask. Plans fall apart, people change, but good memories, they stay with you.
Now bring on the next decade.
Now, it's been a while since my last post and there is a very good reason on why that is.
It's because I've been lazy.
Well, not lazy lazy, but lazy nonetheless. While I've been sitting away, wittling the hours on my ass either by reading/watching t.v/playing video games, my mind on the other hand has been creating dozens of new stories for me to write in the future. In fact the small notebook I keep by my bedside table has been slowly filling up with new ideas. I don't know why, but for some reason my brain has been going overdrive creating new worlds, characters, stories and plots. It's getting to the stage where I can't sleep as my brain is humming away.
It's like a creative high. If you play sport or exercise, the best way I can explain it is when after your session of physical work, you feel generally good, even though your body is on the verge of collapse. My mind is like at the moment, even though I'm mentally tired, the rush of creative energy is amazing.
But enough of that. Besides creating new worlds, I've been reflecting on the last ten years. The 00's, the naughties, or whatever the human race decides to call them. In those ten years I've been through highschool, two Tafe's, three jobs, finished writing a book, and have had an amazing amount of stupid and fun misadventures. I've met some great people, some of them I now consider family.
Now that I'm entering the ten's...or whatever we shall call them, I've been thinking about the future. Not serious, because lets face it I'm not that kind of guy, but enough to snap my brain out of its creative groove. Hopefully I can make a living doing what I like the most, which is writing. Hopefully I can find a nice girl and settle down, maybe have a kid or two if I'm feeling sentimental.
Whatever the case may be, I just hope I'll be happy and be having a good time. And that's all I can ask. Plans fall apart, people change, but good memories, they stay with you.
Now bring on the next decade.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Frog's Carol
This close to Christmas, I wish to celebrate with this little poem I made up. But before I do, I'd like to thank everyone I've met who has made this year quite a spectacular one. Hope you all have a Merry Christmas and a happy new year.
Now, about the poem. There's one thing you should know. Every time something goes wrong with Me and my friend William, we blame it on the Space Orcs. That's right, Space Orcs. Orcs in space.
So, to celebrate the oddity of my friend and I, and the festive cheer, I present you this.
*WARNING: CONTAINS SOME OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE, A BAD CASE OF RHYMES, AND MAY POSSIBLE RUIN A CHILDHOOD STORY FOR YOU!*
:D
‘Twas the night before Christmas, all was quiet in the house,
Nothing made a noise, besides the constantly clicking of my computer mouse.
As I surfed past porn and the occasional pop-up ad,
I realised how much I consider Christmas a fad.
Gone were the days of love and goodwill to your fellow men,
peace on Earth? I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a pen.
Fading memories of waiting as a child for santa and his sack,
For nowadays I would reward myself with a barely legal girl and her naked rack.
When all of a sudden, up on the roof,
I heard something, and my internet connection went 'poof'.
Upset at this event, I went to reset my router,
That's when I ran into the Space Orc with his gun and scouter.
I went to complain, but before I could say a word,
He shot me with his tazer and flipped me the bird.
He took me to his space ship, a prisoner of war,
I knew this was why I consider Christmas poor.
When I awoke, I was in a cell,
my stomach queasy, and my head hurting like hell.
I mumbled to myself how I was going to kill them,
when I realised I wasn't alone, they had my friend William.
'Well this is another fine mess,' he said with groan,
I tired to ignore him and his condesceding tone.
The doors slid open, and the Space Orc Commander approached with a sneer,
and told us how he planned to steal all of the Earth's Christmas cheer.
I won't tell you what he said, quite frankly the plan was retarted,
I just instead sat there and quietly farted.
'Ruin Christmas?' I said to him, 'have your wish,'
'don't you know,' I lied, 'I'm actually Jewish?'
The Space Orc Commander saw through my lies,
kicked me so hard in the groin I had watery eyes.
Turning on his heels, he went away,
promising to ruin Christmas day.
'Why,' my friend William said, 'he certainly has some gall,'
'Don't complain ,Will,' I wheezed, 'I think he burst a ball.'
And so we sat in silence, me holding my manhood,
my stomach rumbled,desperate needing food.
'We can't sit here all night,' William said, 'we need to escape.'
'I need to go home and finish my marathon of Farscape.'
'Well,' I coughed, 'if its skills you seek,'
'I'm loud and obnoxious, just like any other Greek'.
I knocked on the door, yelling my friend was sick,
told the guard he needed to see a doctor quite quick.
And when the guard when to check on my companion,
I use Greek-fu; bitch slapping like an epilectic Italian.
We escaped from our cell, and ran down the halls,
me still limping, because of my balls.
With some luck, and the use of a steel chair,
we found the self destruct button to the Space Orc's lair.
I pressed the button with demonic glee,
and found myself seeing the Commander on a 50" t.v.
He told me I was a madman, and yelled out a curse,
and that's when I repeated this little verse.
I pointed to my crotch, 'this is what you can suck,'
'Your mother and daughter I will fuck.'
'Go to hell you pretentious prick,'
'you ugly face makes me sick.'
We escaped to the ships with the Space Orcs on our tail,
while shit all around us started to fail.
We jumped into the first ship that caught our sight,
William took control and began our flight.
The ship stirred with a moan,
as the bay doors started to close with a groan.
'Hang on,' William yelled, 'we might not fit,'
he hit the accelerator, while I yelled 'shit, shit shit!'
We escaped, seconds before the blast,
the Space Orcs where history, a thing of the past.
We celebrated with song, our own version of 'Deck the halls,'
me on harmonics, due to the crushed balls.
We landed our ship near the city, only a stone's throw away,
with two hours to spare before Christmas Day.
We celebrated, the only way I know,
with strippers and lapdancers at Spearmint Rhino.
Merry Christmas!!!
-George
Now, about the poem. There's one thing you should know. Every time something goes wrong with Me and my friend William, we blame it on the Space Orcs. That's right, Space Orcs. Orcs in space.
So, to celebrate the oddity of my friend and I, and the festive cheer, I present you this.
*WARNING: CONTAINS SOME OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE, A BAD CASE OF RHYMES, AND MAY POSSIBLE RUIN A CHILDHOOD STORY FOR YOU!*
:D
‘Twas the night before Christmas, all was quiet in the house,
Nothing made a noise, besides the constantly clicking of my computer mouse.
As I surfed past porn and the occasional pop-up ad,
I realised how much I consider Christmas a fad.
Gone were the days of love and goodwill to your fellow men,
peace on Earth? I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a pen.
Fading memories of waiting as a child for santa and his sack,
For nowadays I would reward myself with a barely legal girl and her naked rack.
When all of a sudden, up on the roof,
I heard something, and my internet connection went 'poof'.
Upset at this event, I went to reset my router,
That's when I ran into the Space Orc with his gun and scouter.
I went to complain, but before I could say a word,
He shot me with his tazer and flipped me the bird.
He took me to his space ship, a prisoner of war,
I knew this was why I consider Christmas poor.
When I awoke, I was in a cell,
my stomach queasy, and my head hurting like hell.
I mumbled to myself how I was going to kill them,
when I realised I wasn't alone, they had my friend William.
'Well this is another fine mess,' he said with groan,
I tired to ignore him and his condesceding tone.
The doors slid open, and the Space Orc Commander approached with a sneer,
and told us how he planned to steal all of the Earth's Christmas cheer.
I won't tell you what he said, quite frankly the plan was retarted,
I just instead sat there and quietly farted.
'Ruin Christmas?' I said to him, 'have your wish,'
'don't you know,' I lied, 'I'm actually Jewish?'
The Space Orc Commander saw through my lies,
kicked me so hard in the groin I had watery eyes.
Turning on his heels, he went away,
promising to ruin Christmas day.
'Why,' my friend William said, 'he certainly has some gall,'
'Don't complain ,Will,' I wheezed, 'I think he burst a ball.'
And so we sat in silence, me holding my manhood,
my stomach rumbled,desperate needing food.
'We can't sit here all night,' William said, 'we need to escape.'
'I need to go home and finish my marathon of Farscape.'
'Well,' I coughed, 'if its skills you seek,'
'I'm loud and obnoxious, just like any other Greek'.
I knocked on the door, yelling my friend was sick,
told the guard he needed to see a doctor quite quick.
And when the guard when to check on my companion,
I use Greek-fu; bitch slapping like an epilectic Italian.
We escaped from our cell, and ran down the halls,
me still limping, because of my balls.
With some luck, and the use of a steel chair,
we found the self destruct button to the Space Orc's lair.
I pressed the button with demonic glee,
and found myself seeing the Commander on a 50" t.v.
He told me I was a madman, and yelled out a curse,
and that's when I repeated this little verse.
I pointed to my crotch, 'this is what you can suck,'
'Your mother and daughter I will fuck.'
'Go to hell you pretentious prick,'
'you ugly face makes me sick.'
We escaped to the ships with the Space Orcs on our tail,
while shit all around us started to fail.
We jumped into the first ship that caught our sight,
William took control and began our flight.
The ship stirred with a moan,
as the bay doors started to close with a groan.
'Hang on,' William yelled, 'we might not fit,'
he hit the accelerator, while I yelled 'shit, shit shit!'
We escaped, seconds before the blast,
the Space Orcs where history, a thing of the past.
We celebrated with song, our own version of 'Deck the halls,'
me on harmonics, due to the crushed balls.
We landed our ship near the city, only a stone's throw away,
with two hours to spare before Christmas Day.
We celebrated, the only way I know,
with strippers and lapdancers at Spearmint Rhino.
Merry Christmas!!!
-George
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Older? Yes. Wiser? Not so much....
Seven days from now it will mark the anniversary of my twenty third rotation around a big ball of fire floating in space; or, for those not accustomed to my theatrical/crazy form of speech, it will be my twenty third birthday.
Yay....
Birthdays used to mean something when I was young. When you were young a birthday meant a number of things. For me, they boiled down to three main points:
1) Pressies
2) Centre of attention for the day
3) Cake
Lately my birthdays haven't had the same amount of joy they once brought. I wake up, grunt, realise I'm another year older, and roll back to sleep. So, what makes this coming milestone a little bit better than the last ones? Well, let's look at the timespan between 21 -> 22:
-Lost my job
-From there spent 15 months unemployed, then I swallowed my pride somewhere between the second and third month, and applied for the Dole
- Felt like life and the universe was kicking me in the balls.
That pretty much summed up the year. But this year? The year from 22nd to 23rd? Well, this year has been an improvement. Let's have look:
- Six months ago I got a job. I'll admit it's not the job I saw myself doing, and it's not the job I'll want to do for the rest of my life, but it's a job. I have an income and can slowly begin to become self reliant once more.
-I finished a novel....Well, a draft of a novel that now needs some heavy editing. But the most important thing for me is that, after all these years when I kept saying I was going to write one, I did. I have actually accomplished something I set myself to do in the last five years.
-New People. Going to Holmesglen Tafe and meeting some of the greatest teachers, people, writers, and most importantly, friends. You guys (and gals) have made this year awesome. In fact my friend, Rhiannon, was the catalyst from my transition to sitting alone in my room feeling like a loser -> feeling that things are getting better.
15 months ago the conversation went along the lines like this (from what I remember):
R: Hey, George, you've always wanted to write a book. You should do this course I'm doing.
G: (feeling sorry for myself and can't be bothered arguing) What is it?
R: (Hands pamphelt) Professional Writing and Editing. You should apply
G: When is the date to apply?
R: (pause) Today's the last day.
G: (contemplates and figures he has nothing to lose) Meh, why not. Let me put on some shoes...
And from there things started to get better.
....Right, I think there's suppose to be a moral in there somewhere
*plays some thinking music*
Meh, you have your good years, you have your bad years. What matters is you forget the previous year and focus on the new year.
So, goals for turning 24.
Hmm....
1) Get a book published, or on the way of getting it published
2) Get a tattoo...or at least an idea for a tattoo
3) Travel somewhere, interstate or overseas
4) Meet more kick-ass people who can put up with my crazyness
Yeah...that'll do.
To another year!
Yay....
Birthdays used to mean something when I was young. When you were young a birthday meant a number of things. For me, they boiled down to three main points:
1) Pressies
2) Centre of attention for the day
3) Cake
Lately my birthdays haven't had the same amount of joy they once brought. I wake up, grunt, realise I'm another year older, and roll back to sleep. So, what makes this coming milestone a little bit better than the last ones? Well, let's look at the timespan between 21 -> 22:
-Lost my job
-From there spent 15 months unemployed, then I swallowed my pride somewhere between the second and third month, and applied for the Dole
- Felt like life and the universe was kicking me in the balls.
That pretty much summed up the year. But this year? The year from 22nd to 23rd? Well, this year has been an improvement. Let's have look:
- Six months ago I got a job. I'll admit it's not the job I saw myself doing, and it's not the job I'll want to do for the rest of my life, but it's a job. I have an income and can slowly begin to become self reliant once more.
-I finished a novel....Well, a draft of a novel that now needs some heavy editing. But the most important thing for me is that, after all these years when I kept saying I was going to write one, I did. I have actually accomplished something I set myself to do in the last five years.
-New People. Going to Holmesglen Tafe and meeting some of the greatest teachers, people, writers, and most importantly, friends. You guys (and gals) have made this year awesome. In fact my friend, Rhiannon, was the catalyst from my transition to sitting alone in my room feeling like a loser -> feeling that things are getting better.
15 months ago the conversation went along the lines like this (from what I remember):
R: Hey, George, you've always wanted to write a book. You should do this course I'm doing.
G: (feeling sorry for myself and can't be bothered arguing) What is it?
R: (Hands pamphelt) Professional Writing and Editing. You should apply
G: When is the date to apply?
R: (pause) Today's the last day.
G: (contemplates and figures he has nothing to lose) Meh, why not. Let me put on some shoes...
And from there things started to get better.
....Right, I think there's suppose to be a moral in there somewhere
*plays some thinking music*
Meh, you have your good years, you have your bad years. What matters is you forget the previous year and focus on the new year.
So, goals for turning 24.
Hmm....
1) Get a book published, or on the way of getting it published
2) Get a tattoo...or at least an idea for a tattoo
3) Travel somewhere, interstate or overseas
4) Meet more kick-ass people who can put up with my crazyness
Yeah...that'll do.
To another year!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Life and Death
I miss my cat.
Its been about a week now since she passed, and now I'm starting to come to terms with it. We all deal with death at some point of our lives; my grandfathers, rest their souls, are long buried. But a pet, why is it that a pet can make me miss it more than I miss my own flesh and blood?
Well, I've always been close to my cat, Tigger, than I was with my grandparents. While I had trouble communicating to my grandfathers due to the language barrier, my cat and I seemed to have no difficulty in relating our feelings to one another. She listened tentaviley to my thoughts, my dreams and my problems, and all she asked in return was a rub. I would understand when she was hungry, scared, or just wanted to play.
Yet death is expected. As children we eventually clue on to this horrible fact, our first experience usually coming by a pet's death. Yet I seemed to bypass this stage, and only now do I have this childlike sadness over her death. Sure, I have pets die on me. Our first pet, a dog named Sheba, was put down when I was three; though I was too young to even remember her. Then there was our pet canary my grandfather gave us, which, ironically enough, was eaten by said cat.
Tigger wasn't, by all example, the most perfect pet; in fact she wasn't really mine to begin with in the first place. She was a neighbourhood stray who took shelter at our house one day and found my father's pity. But like any other pet we have, she had a personality. She was tough in her young age, a warrior soul who wouldn't back down from a fight. I remember the old battle wounds; the time she was hit by a car, yet still limped on, the time a possum clawed off her nose, bone clearly to be seen, and a few months ago, her latest battle leaving her temporarily blind in one eye. She was lazy on a good day, energetic at night, and cared mostly about food.
I'm going to miss coming home late from school, work, or a big night out and finding her waiting by the back door.
I'm going to miss scratching her ears in greeting when I entered inside.
I'm going to miss waking up in the middle of the night for a drink of water and finding her on the kitchen sill window.
I'm going to miss her infernal meows when she was hungry, and the purrs she gave when I caved in and fed her something on the side.
I'm going to miss summer days when I would wake up in the morning, go to the toilet and nearly trip over the blasted thing.
It's like the lyric to the 'Big Yellow Taxi' Song 'Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got till it's gone.'
I'm going to miss that cat.
Its been about a week now since she passed, and now I'm starting to come to terms with it. We all deal with death at some point of our lives; my grandfathers, rest their souls, are long buried. But a pet, why is it that a pet can make me miss it more than I miss my own flesh and blood?
Well, I've always been close to my cat, Tigger, than I was with my grandparents. While I had trouble communicating to my grandfathers due to the language barrier, my cat and I seemed to have no difficulty in relating our feelings to one another. She listened tentaviley to my thoughts, my dreams and my problems, and all she asked in return was a rub. I would understand when she was hungry, scared, or just wanted to play.
Yet death is expected. As children we eventually clue on to this horrible fact, our first experience usually coming by a pet's death. Yet I seemed to bypass this stage, and only now do I have this childlike sadness over her death. Sure, I have pets die on me. Our first pet, a dog named Sheba, was put down when I was three; though I was too young to even remember her. Then there was our pet canary my grandfather gave us, which, ironically enough, was eaten by said cat.
Tigger wasn't, by all example, the most perfect pet; in fact she wasn't really mine to begin with in the first place. She was a neighbourhood stray who took shelter at our house one day and found my father's pity. But like any other pet we have, she had a personality. She was tough in her young age, a warrior soul who wouldn't back down from a fight. I remember the old battle wounds; the time she was hit by a car, yet still limped on, the time a possum clawed off her nose, bone clearly to be seen, and a few months ago, her latest battle leaving her temporarily blind in one eye. She was lazy on a good day, energetic at night, and cared mostly about food.
I'm going to miss coming home late from school, work, or a big night out and finding her waiting by the back door.
I'm going to miss scratching her ears in greeting when I entered inside.
I'm going to miss waking up in the middle of the night for a drink of water and finding her on the kitchen sill window.
I'm going to miss her infernal meows when she was hungry, and the purrs she gave when I caved in and fed her something on the side.
I'm going to miss summer days when I would wake up in the morning, go to the toilet and nearly trip over the blasted thing.
It's like the lyric to the 'Big Yellow Taxi' Song 'Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got till it's gone.'
I'm going to miss that cat.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Short Story #2: The Ferryman; and other thoughts
Okay, ten - twenty minute writing exercise based on an idea I've been having.
The premise of today goes a little like this:
1) 10 - 20 mins writing (duh!)
2) No going back once its written down. Once I'm done, I'm done. (lets hope its good!)
3)Let's see if I haven't burnt myself up with all the writing I've been doing the last few weeks.
------------------
The Ancient Greeks once believed that to cross into the next life you have to pay the ferryman, Chiron, to carry you across the river Styx. I always found this thought to ring true. Let's face it, we're born into this world kicking and screaming; we have to pay to survive, to have the basic essentials like water, a roof over our head and food, to get an education, to fit in, even need money so you look good when they bury you in the ground. So why should death be any different? If we have to pay all our lives to live, in only make sense we have to pay to get an afterlife.
Closing the man's eyes, I placed two credits on top and say a quick prayer. It was the least I could do, considering I just killed him. His mouth is still open, his tongue poking out like a fat, distorted worm. Poor guy, the shock of seeing me behind the barrel of a gun having to be the last image burnt into his mind is a cruel, unfair thing. But, he was part of the job.
I can't exactly remember the details in the contract; exactly why he had to die. Maybe it had to do with his own little piece of turf in Lower Middletown was expanding, that he rubbed a rival ganglord the wrong way. Maybe he was pimping out the Clockworks, or selling Green to the Rads. Maybe he did a thousand other things to warrant a contract on him. Sometimes people want other people dead just because they look funny.
But, business is business. I do what I can to survive, even if it means I'm ankle deep in blood and brain matter. Cleaning up scum like him is what I consider a bonus in this grim job. Maybe I've made Middletown a better place, maybe I've opened the door to something a lot worse. Who knows, who cares. If the credits are good, I'll do nearly anything. Because let's face it, money makes the world go around.
And you know what? Those Greeks were on to something.
------------------
Okay, that was about ten minutes. Not exactly what I had in mind, but have to stick with my own forced rules. It's funny how a story does that to you. You start off with what you had in mind, a grand scene painted in the dark corners in your mind. Somehow during the writer process, as thoughts become words, the image changes. Soon you forget who is in control, you, or the story.
I say this because, as of Wednesday, I have finished a draft of my novel. A novel five years in the making in the dark recesses of my mind. I still have the original draft all those years ago and I am amazed how it had grown in all those years. Now that I've typed the last word, I feel weird. A little lighter, a little bit humble and a little bit sad. No longer is my story a part of me. If the gods are kind, it will be published and read by other people. It will grow, entertain people, and hopefully make the world a little bit brighter.
Now I have a slight inkling to what it means to be a parent.
Interesting, huh?
Untill next time
-Kickingfrog
The premise of today goes a little like this:
1) 10 - 20 mins writing (duh!)
2) No going back once its written down. Once I'm done, I'm done. (lets hope its good!)
3)Let's see if I haven't burnt myself up with all the writing I've been doing the last few weeks.
------------------
The Ancient Greeks once believed that to cross into the next life you have to pay the ferryman, Chiron, to carry you across the river Styx. I always found this thought to ring true. Let's face it, we're born into this world kicking and screaming; we have to pay to survive, to have the basic essentials like water, a roof over our head and food, to get an education, to fit in, even need money so you look good when they bury you in the ground. So why should death be any different? If we have to pay all our lives to live, in only make sense we have to pay to get an afterlife.
Closing the man's eyes, I placed two credits on top and say a quick prayer. It was the least I could do, considering I just killed him. His mouth is still open, his tongue poking out like a fat, distorted worm. Poor guy, the shock of seeing me behind the barrel of a gun having to be the last image burnt into his mind is a cruel, unfair thing. But, he was part of the job.
I can't exactly remember the details in the contract; exactly why he had to die. Maybe it had to do with his own little piece of turf in Lower Middletown was expanding, that he rubbed a rival ganglord the wrong way. Maybe he was pimping out the Clockworks, or selling Green to the Rads. Maybe he did a thousand other things to warrant a contract on him. Sometimes people want other people dead just because they look funny.
But, business is business. I do what I can to survive, even if it means I'm ankle deep in blood and brain matter. Cleaning up scum like him is what I consider a bonus in this grim job. Maybe I've made Middletown a better place, maybe I've opened the door to something a lot worse. Who knows, who cares. If the credits are good, I'll do nearly anything. Because let's face it, money makes the world go around.
And you know what? Those Greeks were on to something.
------------------
Okay, that was about ten minutes. Not exactly what I had in mind, but have to stick with my own forced rules. It's funny how a story does that to you. You start off with what you had in mind, a grand scene painted in the dark corners in your mind. Somehow during the writer process, as thoughts become words, the image changes. Soon you forget who is in control, you, or the story.
I say this because, as of Wednesday, I have finished a draft of my novel. A novel five years in the making in the dark recesses of my mind. I still have the original draft all those years ago and I am amazed how it had grown in all those years. Now that I've typed the last word, I feel weird. A little lighter, a little bit humble and a little bit sad. No longer is my story a part of me. If the gods are kind, it will be published and read by other people. It will grow, entertain people, and hopefully make the world a little bit brighter.
Now I have a slight inkling to what it means to be a parent.
Interesting, huh?
Untill next time
-Kickingfrog
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