Archive for the ‘Fiction/Stories’ Category

Helpful Thoughts

Posted: September 7, 2013 in Fiction/Stories
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Writing on a piece of paper is like scratching your leg. It’s exactly like scratching your leg. The difference between different kinds of writing, is how you do it, and how your leg is feeling.

Sometimes my leg is very itchy somewhere, so I reach down my trousers and find the itchy spot and scratch it with my nails so that it goes away. Sometimes it goes away for a while. Sometimes it reappears at a spot near where you last scratched and you have to go and scratch more and more! Sometimes you feel it far away from the last spot, like you’ve just scared some unknowable, immaterial sensation to the other side of your body.

There’s a little man in your clothes running around and tickling you in places. He runs over to one of your body’s hairs and tugs and kicks it. But he’s very small so it doesn’t hurt. Then you come by and scratch. A huge great big scrape down from the sky, or a massive lunging mountain worm whooshing through your clothes.  And he hides.

Sometimes when I scratch, the itch just jumps a bit left or right, and back again. And I scratch and scratch but it never reaches the itch. Never gets it.

Now you can see, writing is exactly like scratching your leg. They are almost identical in every possible way.

One other thing I have realised:

Making fruit salad is exactly like setting a fruit salad on fire. The decisions made of ingredients, of juices, of bowls, are practically indistinguishable from the decisions of timing, fuel, location and who’s salad.

Let us think of the practical similarities.

When I make a fruit salad, I want it to make someone, usually myself, happy. The same is true of when I set a fruit salad on fire.

When I make a fruit salad, it makes me happy because it tastes delicious and makes other people happy.

When I set one on fire, it makes me happy because it is a funny joke and makes other people happy.

Occasionally however, it is not a joke. Occasionally, you must set the fruit salad on fire. You must. Because the fruit salad is covered in poison arrow frog’s, and if you do not set it on fire this instant, the children at the party will eat it all and eat all the poison arrow frogs too. There are no bin bags or plastic bags available, and the little children are uncontrollably tempted. The salad bowl is too heavy to lift, and you are in a location where there are no tall ledges or tables. The salad bowl is also very wide, and brimming with poison arrow frogs. The frogs are all knocked out, and will not be going anywhere. All of the other adults and people at the party are enjoying themselves and will not help because they believe the frogs are just gummy frogs. But you saw them leap in. You are in a clearing in the Amazon rainforest anyway. Next to the bowl is a lighter and a can of gasoline. The children, all the children, are running now to try the fruit salad and the gummy frogs, from 360 degrees round they are running. You have ten seconds.

For example, in this situation, if you are a sensible person, you will set the frogs on fire. No doubt you will have had to make a decision not dissimilar to this at some point prior to now.

Now you can see, making a fruit salad is almost a duplicate of setting one on fire.

I hope this has challenged your perspective and provided and alternative way of thinking about fruit salads and writing.

Have a wonderful day 🙂

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Also, laziness= not putting capital letters in the title of a blog entry. BWAHAR! Thats right! Its me who didn’t put capitals in this blog entry! Infallible logic=I am lazy.

I thought I’d post another short story I’ve written, to touch your senses in a special way 😉

is that a wink? yes it is. Let me know if you like the story. Its for kids, but lets face it, you’re a kid really.

The Shambly Gambler (Part One)

The shambly gambler wambled his woggly bottom togs across the soggy jogging bog of Bango. When all of a sudden! Bango himself flew down from his high window and stamped his bronze feet in front of the man who gambly shambles.

‘Why?’said he ‘Why stamp so bronzely in my path? I shamble all day in the soggy jogging bog, even the humble logs clog my morning jog’.

‘Silence! For many years I and my wealthy cohort of car salesmen and foreign media moguls have allowed you and your twin brother the usage of our fine training facilities for no cost other than the usual billion pounds a day, however! As you probably don’t know, times are changing my old exploited-minority-friend, the government has put a huge air tax on car salesman. Probably because salesman talk so much, far more than the average person, so we’ve got to pay that little bit extra for the oxygen we use up. And so, from now on, whoever uses our facilities, will need to pay 50p extra per ten years. Also, I am a nasty person, and I don’t like you’.

‘No! Please no!! No I cannot! It is quite possibly impossible for me to afford the extra fare of 50 pence per decade for your air! I rarely am hardly, barely able to pay the daily billion pounds per day!?’

‘Shutup minority!’ shouted the angry Bango as he slapped the quivering old man on his forehead with a stamp that read in capitals ‘bumface’.

Bango flew off into the sky followed by his rich cohort of car salesman and foreign media moguls, the majority of which wore lab coats, flapped their arms and made lots of incoherent noises, like seagulls.

The clouds filled with sadness, the grass steamed with badness, the vast hills loomed madness. These things are not good.

The Chinese ambassador, submerged in the sand of the beach, could feel this change! He leapt atop a cloud to see wherefore the badness had emerged.

‘You below! Whatfore how is this badness appearancing?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Aah! Pardon myself, I have the bad grammar many times due to my poor trainings in the English. Allow me rephrase to you a separate meaning, Howlo upon this badness cometh yow?’

After a great deal of negotiation and extremely poor grammar the Chinese Ambassador gave the brothers three hundred sheets of blue A4 paper and sixteen boxes of Skittles.

‘Um. Thank you Mr ambassador’

‘Bonjorno!!’ he shouted as he disappeared in a cloud of red smoke.

Meanwhile, back in the soggy jogging bog, Bango was sitting with his cohorts planning more ways to sneakily take peoples money.

‘What about..if we tell people there is a million pounds in a bag somewhere..but we don’t put any money in it!!’

‘Haha! Yes that will make us a fortune! Everyone will think there is money in the bag but there is not any!! Haha! You rich cohorts were worth every penny!’

Many years ago Bango was not so concerned with money. He was a poor potato farmer from Poortown but as soon as he discovered that money grew in his potatoes, he stopped farming them for food, and instead farmed for loot. He became consumed with greed and appeared on many television shows pretending to be a nice man, but he was really cheerily taking people’s money secretly.

Back in the bog, Bango received a telephone call.

A ploy! A foul plot! A deception of the deceptive! A trap set out on the trapper by his fellows! The phone call was from King Business himself. Months earlier Bango had signed a contract for the firing of a poor employee because he was too poor to buy clothes. But the contract was not for the employee…the rich cohorts had switched the name to Bango.

Bango was thrown down from his high tower! He fell with a thud only metres from where The Shambly Gambler and his brother, The Stumbly Grumbler were trying to build a house from boxes of skittles and blue paper.

Then there was red lightning flashing in the sky, the smell of stale milk filled the air and the sun turned black! The gaggle of wealthy media moguls and car salesmen flew from every direction up into the sky with their bright white labcoats, squawking and screeching.

They clambered atop each other to form a rich flying giant labcoat-wearing monster, insanely aware of worldwide economy and marketing techniques!

‘Gentlemen! From this day forth the price of every item that can be bought will be increased by 20 million pounds!’ the huge figure laughed monstrously ‘And all hourly wages to every employee everywhere will be reduced! By 200% percent!’

‘Thankfully you and I don’t have jobs, so we wont lose any money from gaining wages like all those other poor shmucks!’ said the Stumbly Grumbler and then once more the Chinese Ambassador exploded from the sand of the beach up into the sky!

‘You cannot let the monster roam free! Only you can defeat it! Even if just for my sake! I work as an electrician part-time you see, and now that my wages are reduced by 200% I’m going to be losing a lot of money even if I go on sick leave’

‘Your English seems a lot better now?’

‘Oh err yes I’ve been at night school…anyway, bye!’ and with that he disappeared

(End of Part One)

anyway, let me know if you like it. and definitely let me know if you dont like it. Negative feedback is much more useful than positive. But don’t just lie!

Have a good day yee poor shmuck whoever yee are 😀

Whats this? the title of this blog entry has nothing to do with the entry? Hahar, you caught me.You win twenty smackaroos

My friends, here is another story I have written, I think I wrote it last year, it is far better if I read it out. I’ll try and do a voice recording and post it on here. Let me know what you think about it 🙂

The Carpenter of Juice

The carpenter of juice was a rich, dancing man who once pounced on a pouch of pounds. So many pounds that he lost count and fell inside, to be lost forever in their innumerable number. However, thanks to his knowledge of chess and edam cheese, he was able to grasp an exceptionally large pound and pull himself back out. But many years had passed by now, his children had become butterflies and his wife, Roger, had gone looking for him in the pouch of pounds, but due to her lack of knowledge of edam cheese and chess, was unable to locate the particularly large pound and instead grabbed the smallest, hence falling right to the bottom of the pouch.

After escaping the pouch of pounds the carpenter of juice was able to spend the pounds from this pouch on the most extraordinary mixture of extracurriculur extraterrestrials who aided him in his carpenting, as the business had undergone huge changes in his absence, with the introduction of laser technology, steroids and lego. But with the help of these aliens, business soon returned to normal, he regularly dropped food into the pouch for his wife, and all his old customers returned for the fine and frivolous fruit which he carpeted daily. However, little did the carpenter know, but his old arch enemy, the dastardly blacksmith of volvo, had been very busy whilst our hero was out of action. She had birthed more than a million children, each with a desire to do cruel and unnecessary things to Lord Carpet (the creator of carpentry).

What you may not know, as most of you are not blacksmiths or carpenters, is that Lord Carpet bears the very spirit of carpentry, and every ill deed done to him, is a severe blow to carpenters worldwide. They’re hands can become small and feeble, they sometimes grow knives and forks in strange places and they can also develop jaspy raccatoons (which I’m sure you know is very inappropriate for a carpenter) all of these things can be a result of causing offence to the friendly Lord Carpet. The dastardly blacksmith knew these things.

And so, one day, in the brown greasy fields of Lord Carpets afternoon lounge, the blacksmith of Volvo sprang rudely into the room! She strutted arrogantly up to Lord Carpet’s table and uttered a smuttering of spiteful spittery directly into his lordship’s bacon sandwich.

‘Oh the horror!’ Cried out lord carpet. Immediately he fled into his porch to alert the town guards, Alas! All the guards had been eaten by the blacksmith of volvo’s many many children!

Could this be the end for our heroes trade as we know it??

The evil blacksmith strutted again, even more struttily and noisily than before, strutting right over to Lord Carpet’s astounded face. And just as she was about to deliver another terribly insulting blow a huge gong sounded in the distance!

‘SHABONG’

And in flew the carpenter of juice on his magic nonsensical pouch of pounds!

‘Stop right there you bulging bag of bad blacksmithery! I’m here to stop you!’

‘You fool! Now that you have left your blessed carpentry workshop in the clouds you are defenceless! Eat him my darlings!’

And thus ensued a gianormous battle with pounds pouring out all over the porch and little poorly behaved blacksmith babies biting and running around screaming, swearing and smoking cigarettes. It seemed like it was all over, afterall there were a million of these monsters, and it would take ages to carpet them all up. When all of a sudden! Out burst the carpenter of juices wife from the strange magic pouch of pounds! The children had made the mistake of eating too many of the pounds, hence allowing the elderly Roger room enough to pull herself out! She let out a thunderous roar and the sky turned into an assortment of rainbow colours dancing across the horizon, the ground began to tremble and from the clouds themselves burst forth a legion of mutated butterflies, (presumably the grown offspring of Roger and the carpenter of fruit), they sprang into battle, devouring screaming children, swearing babies and mother blacksmith alike. Before long she and her children were all digested and then pooped out, destined to live the rest of their lives as poop, constantly ate up and pooped out forever, by things like grass and bugs and bacteria.

The blacksmith of fruit, Roger and their many revolting mutated butterfly offspring celebrated their great victory and her escape with an extra long game of Laser Tag at the local bowling alley.

However, feeling sorry for the dastardly blacksmith of Volvo and her horrible children, the carpenter of fruit turned them from poo into clouds by fermenting them in a biogas plant to form hydrogen, methane and carbon dioxide. And so they lived happily ever after, forever and ever.

I hope you liked it!

For the last two or three months I’ve been reading a book by Tom Wolfe called ‘The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test’, it’s pretty hard to say what the book is about as such, but I thought I’d write a little bit about it. Also, just so I can have them at hand, I thought I’d post a few of my favourite passages from the book. These passages might give you a hint of ‘what its about’:

Kesey starts talking in the old soft Oregon drawl and everybody is quiet. ‘Here’s what I hope will happen on this trip,’ he says. ‘What I hope will continue to happen, because it’s already starting to happen. All of us are beginning to do our thing, and we’re going to keep doing it, right out front, and none of us are going to deny what other people are doing.’

‘Bullshit,’ says Jane Burton.

This brings Kesey up short for a moment, but he just rolls with it.

‘That’s Jane,’ he says. ‘And she’s doing her thing. Bullshit. That’s her thing and she’s doing it.’

‘None of us are going to deny what other people are doing. If saying Bullshit is somebody’s thing, then he says bullshit. If somebody is an ass-kicker, then that’s what he’s going to do on this trip, kick asses. He’s going to do it right out front and nobody is going to have anything to get pissed off about. He can just say, “I’m sorry I kicked you in the ass, but I’m not sorry I’m an ass-kicker. That’s what I do, I kick people in the ass.” Everybody is going to be what they are, and whatever they are, there’s not going to be anything to apologize about. What we are , we’re going to wail with on this whole trip.’ (p.70)

Outside, some character, some local, has come over to the bus, but the trouble is, he is not at all impressed with the bus, he just has to do the American Man thing of when somebody’s car is broken down you got to come over and make your diagnosis.

And he is saying to Kesey and Cassady, ‘You know I’d say you need? I’d say you need a good mechanic, but I – ‘ And naturally he proceeds to give his diagnosis, while Paula wails, making spook-house effects, and the Beauty Witch keens and goons – and –

‘Like I say, what you need is a good mechanic, and I’m not a good mechanic, but – ‘

And – of course! – the Non-people. The whole freaking world was full of people who were bound to tell you they weren’t qualified to do this or that but they were determined to go ahead and do just that thing anyway. Kesey decided he was the Non-navigator. Babbs was the Non-doctor. The bus trip was already becoming an allegory of life.

(Also read p.322 and p.360, I can’t remember many others)

The book is a glistening example of what might be classified as New Journalism. I’m trying to write some articles of my own in this style and consequently in a similar period as well. Although the focus is completely different. If you’re unfamiliar with New Journalism or Tom Wolfe I’m gonna keep this basic. The book. The book. In fact, because the book spends most of its time creating an atmosphere and a feeling, its difficult for me to analyse it without getting psychedelic. This article is already far beyond the standard of short and exciting. The book has no structure of time really, it jumps whereever it pleases to describe characters’ previous lives and events long passed in extended zonked-out prose. But the book has a strong backbone in fact. Tom Wolfe spent a long time researching all the events and lives of the people described in the book. It roughly covers a period of around four years in the life of Ken Kesey and his compadres, or The Merry Pranksters as they were known. A group who experimented heavily in LSD and every kind of drug that was around in the 60’s. He became a cult figure after holding large scale ‘Acid-Tests’, his encounters with the law, and through his novels/plays. Its pretty hard to describe exactly what goes on in this book. Lets just say its about the Psychedelic Movement.

The title is my lasting impression of the book, its a phrase commonly used by one of The Merry Pranksters in most if not all situations.

I suggest you read it. If you want to be on the bus.

This is a story I wrote last year, it is supposed to be read out…by me. But I dont know where your house is so you’ll just have to make do:

‘A willy bing bong?!’ Said Gordon in awe. Gordon the bony cordon of Jordan was indeed surprised to find that a willy bing bong had landed in his fine vegetable patch.
‘What are you doing there??’ asked Gordon.
The willy bing bong remained silent.
‘How did you get there??’
Still no answer.
For many years Gordon the bony cordon of Jordan had been building a palace of carrots for his future wife in his fine vegetable patch. The very same patch which the willy bing bong had landed in. In Gdugamonga land all the male animals were invisible to all the female animals. And vice versa. And so, naturally, the only way a female could choose a suitable male, and also find out where each other are, is by seeing and judging the male’s carrot palace.
Gordon could only assume that the bing bong had been sent by his evil twin, the Stinking Fiddly Tinkler, who was always trying to ruin everything between Gordon and his future wife. The first time Gordon noticed that his brother was evil was at a party in Hankypanky.
Don’t get me wrong, ofcourse Gordon knew that many frivovolous monkey businesses went on in Hankypanky. But what The Stinking Fiddly Tinkler did was far beyond the usual level of frivovolivity.
In short, I cannot possibly describe it to you.
And so, Gordon sat in his house pondering the evil nature of his twin brother, could it be that he acted bitter towards Gordon because their parents named him the stinking fiddly tinkler?? Before he had time to consider the answer, Gordon heard a terrible squawking!!
He looked down through his eyes and saw a terrible sight!
Huge honkey birds of gangly proportions amidst irreproachable pangs were bursting forth from the womb of the willy bing bong!
They began tearing up the half finished carrot palace, and with it, the relationship between Gordon and his future wife, who had yet to see it.
Gordon fled in tears into the maze of maize to hide amongst the right angles.
‘What do I do??’ sobbed Gordon ‘the horrible-faced faece birds are destroying my yet-to-exist marriage and I am helpless against such a foe!’
All hope was lost. Gordon plodded with his head rolling back and forth into the abyss of the maize maze. His footsteps became slow pitter patters lost in the ensuing flood of rain and hail.
All of a sudden!!! A great light emerged in the dark sky! Gordon lifted his head as the light shone down on his face!
‘Who is shining that light on my face?’ he said mildly annoyed.
‘Can’t you see I’m being miserable and dramatic??’
‘Stop your whining. You’ve only been walking for ten minutes. Take these weapons! You must battle the willy bing bong, not only for the sake of your yet-to-exist marriage, but for all the imaginary and non-existent marriages in the world! The willy bing bong will not stop til every carrot palace is torn to shreds!’
after the light disappeared a bazooka landed from the sky in front of Gordon.
‘With this I shall smote their pouty isotopes til they float no more!’
Gordon walked back to his house where the willy bing bong was still spewing forth bizarre variations of flightless birdies with pecky beaks and slicing talons.
‘Have at you!!’ he yelled.

Gordon began firing his magical bazooka into the willy bing bong, the willy bing bong let out a scream of fury and his legion of flailing devil flamingos raced with fastidious ferocity towards the bony cordon of Jordan.
Volley after volley of magic rocket launcher missiles plowed into the swathe of crazy screaming feathers. Blood and brains and bird guts and giblets and stinking fluid splattered all over but the birds kept coming!!
They slashed for his nipple, But Gordon dodged with his lip, They ripped for his face, but he blocked with his knee, they hacked at his noodles, but he flung with his fist!!
And down they fell!
The willy bing bong turned purple with disgust. An army of spiked limbs and razor sharp claws sprang from the ground and snicker snacked Gordons noodles.
Gordon licked the bird guts from his lips ‘You eat my noodles!’he screamed, and with that he blasted a devastating death missile straight into the brain of the wily old willy bing bong. The willy bing bong exploded into a cloud of flowers and blew away.
It was done. The battle for middle earth was over.
Gordon the bony cordon of Jordan was thanked by all his friends and family and the American government, who had all been standing idly by.
They celebrated with a great feast of gizzards, chops and dead bits.
And yet, a certain fiddling, tinklery stinker of an eye watched from a distance, cursing and waiting for the next perfect moment to strike.