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

[sneakyonfoota]

Preface



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

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

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

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

- s.

November 23, 2007

~

Advert

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

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

He grinned proudly and raised his brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sneakyonfoota]

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

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

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

~

Gassers - Briefing

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

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

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

It starts like this.

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

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

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

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

[sneakyonfoota]

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

~

First-Person Narrative #1


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

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

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

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

“Well, that’s that, then,” she said.

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

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

[sneakyonfoota]

Stand by for profanity.

~

It’s Getting Bigger


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

(Why am I writing this down?)


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


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


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


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


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


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

[sneakyonfoota]

Advert #2, Advertisement before a motion picture - Ivanhoe

INT. THRONE ROOM - DAY

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

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

The Prince watches with slight interest.

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

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

JOHN

Hold.

The two men obey.

JOHN
(with faux beneficence)

And what brings Wilfred of Ivanhoe to my humble chambers?

IVANHOE

Justice!

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

The two collapse in unison.

JOHN'S POV

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

BACK TO SCENE

He gapes.

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

JOHN
(begs)

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

IVANHOE

You'll do nothing but die, usurper!

He fires a round into John's chest.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

"Kindly remove yourself," he muttered.

[sneakyonfoota]

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

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

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

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

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

~

city of ash and steel

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

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

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

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

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

while the world around us dies

[sneakyonfoota]

Comic book script failure

Page One (splash)

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

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

Jab is grinning.

TITLE: The Fall of Icarus

CAP: My Lord…

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

CAP: Jack.

JAB: Good evening, Inspector!

JAB: Or should I say Director Crane?

Page Two (six panels)

Panel one

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

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

No dialogue.

Panel two

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

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

Panel three

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

Crane is still stymied.

No dialogue.

Panel four

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

No dialogue.

Panel five

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

No dialogue.

Panel six

This panel fills the rest of the page.

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

JAB: Oh, beg pardon.

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

Page 3 (five panels)

Panel one

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

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

Panel two

He removes the lid.

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

Panel three

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

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

Panel four

Crane hands Jab his glass.

JAB: Cheers.

Panel five

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

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

Page four

Panel one

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

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

Panel two

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

CRANE: To what do I owe this intrusion?

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



--incomplete

[sneakyonfoota]

An entry for a mediæval bestiary

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

[sneakyonfoota]

Emily & the Unexpected Guest

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

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

Emily shut the door behind him.

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

Emily followed.

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

At last, he spoke.

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

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

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

[sneakyonfoota]

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

~

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

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

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

[sneakyonfoota]

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

~

Mad Algie (1 of 3)

What a splendid hole in the ground we've stuck you in, Algi