So my friend just asked me to, "cheer [her] up. And not with nonsense words." This is my result:
Once upon a time there was a small yellow creature named P. P was ridiculed by all the other colourful creatures for his unfortunate name/colour combination.
P tried one day to change his colour. He found some mud and rolled around in it. But it started raining so P got washed off. He kinda smelt bad too.
He then tried to cover himself in green leaves. But they turned all brown, and started oozing on him. Then a strong wind blew them away. So he was sticky, smelly, and he was still yellow.
The last thing he tried was cutting himself to turn red, but that hurt too much and he thought about how stupid emo-kids looked, so he just used the razor to shave. He shaved back his yellow fur and realized he was all pink underneath!
So he went around shaving all the other creatures, until they were all shivering, pink, and naked.
The trembling pink mob took P and locked him in an insane asylum and after years of counseling, he realized that people didn't make fun of him because of his name/colour combination, that was just an excuse. They made fun of him because he was a manic who tried to change who he was and didn't accept his natural conditions.
But then he finally got the gas chamber for killing another inmate a week earlier, and the whole world was happier.
Yeah. Go figure.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Macbeth Rewrite
I'm gonna be rewriting the Shakespearean play, Macbeth. I've gotten the first few scenes written, but they're with my English teacher right now. Yeah, it was an assignment. A scene or two. I'm doing it all. Can you say extra credit? And it's for doing something I want to do! Prime.
I'll get what I have so far up once I finish Act one. And I think I'll just post by act from then on.
I'll get what I have so far up once I finish Act one. And I think I'll just post by act from then on.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
The Deed He Must Do
It was a dark and stormy night. Yeah, I know it's cliche. Who cares. I sure don't. That's just how it was that night. Let's just get back to the scene, alright?.
It was a dark and stormy night, and he was sitting alone sharpening his knife, thinking of the deed he must do. It wasn't all that nice, the thing he must do, but that's just it. He must do it. There's no other way. It's what he was programmed to do. His flesh and blood body carries genetic programming. Programming to kill.
If you talked to him on the street, he'd just be a normal guy, very large, and alarming when you notice him. But not many people notice him. It's something about him, that makes people's eyes shy away from his immense form.
He is unnaturally quiet when he walks and moves, and when he talks it is the measured tones of someone with a great responsibility, and the wisdom to be true to that responsibility. His voice is quite low and deep, yet he talks little. It's almost as if he is afraid of what might happen if he lets himself talk.
On this particular night, dark and stormy night, that is, he is not in the grips of whatever drives him to do his deeds. He is just maintaining his meager collection of lethal weapons. All small, easily concealable weapons, of course, but deadly nonetheless. Knives, daggers, garotting wire, ropes. All quiet, all lethal, all clean.
Now, in what we can safely call "the real world" this man is known for doing part-time work for farms outside the city in the harvesting and planting seasons, and there he is simply known as "Foe-Boes."
Although Phobos rarely talks as it is, he talks even less when he works. This makes the other workers, and his employers, think of him as less-than-intelligent. This is not the case. If you visited Phobos's small apartment that he rarely frequents, you would see shelves upon shelves of books. Everything from the modern day, to the classics. Elizabethan, Victorian, early American. Fiction, sci-fi, non-fiction, prose, poetry. Even collections of writings from such like Aristotle, Plato, Socrates.
It is late. Not as stormy as the other night. It's a dry heat, and lightning crackles far off in the distance. It might be getting a little stormy soon.
Tonight Phobos goes hunting, if it could be called that. Hunting implies some sort of chance, or risk involved. When Phobos is -- on the prowl we shall say, yes on the prowl fits. When Phobos is on the prowl there is no chance, no risk. His path is set in stone. You could say it is fated, but that would be too strong a word.
"Be quiet you vile creature, I'll have none of this." There is no other being nearby and no modern technology on his person, so we must assume that whoever he is talking to is in his own head. From his point of view we will be able to see and hear this ethereal creature.
He is speaking to me again. Telling me to commit these terrible atrocities. Why? Why must it be me who bears this terrible curse?
No matter. He is gone. For now. No. Wait. It is him.
"Awww, Phobee! Were you thinking off meee?" the thing cackles, "that's ssso cute!"
My head is filled with It's maniacal laughter. It seems to continue for eternity, though I know it is but for a few seconds.
"Now, my little minion," It's voice grates, "This is what you are to do..."
The evil beast tells me the details of another grisly murder scene I am required to lay out. I do not know what purpose this one will serve, but that does not matter. I have no choice about it.
In the high-class apartment in the center of business in this city, at the door of the esteemed person of note, I silently open the front door. The creature's whispers are gone to me now. All that is left is the deed that I must do.
His bedroom door opens, the hinges well oiled. This man can take care of himself. But the house is sparse. There is no feminine touch here. The man is single. I did not know this.
Usually these types of people have trophy-wives. Or at least someone to cheat on to create more scandal and attention. But no. He lives alone. Although this makes my job tonight easier (As if there was any risk.), it also makes it harder. This man has not felt the purity of real love. At least it will satisfy the ends of the vile creature that even now is whispering more and more terrible suggestions to me.
I slip in the bedroom door. Think, what could make the impact more powerful? I want to be good. I wish I was good. But they made me this way.
Walking across to the bed fluidly and soundlessly as a departing spirit, I pull out a simple blade. Small but dangerously sharp.
It is over before I realize. It is never actually me that commits the final act. I begin, and just as I reach the point of no return, where I can still turn back, something seizes me and it is over.
This poor man didn't stand a chance. The simple cut across his throat will not alone baffle police, but that combined with the fact that nothing was taken, and that nothing else was done to desecrate his body.
Outside the apartment I fade into the shadows between two hulking concrete and steel structures. The beast has left me for now. I have created enough fear, enough horror in the world for one day. That is my deed. I wasn't always named Phobos. In Greek mythology, Phobos was the personification of fear and horror.
It was a dark and stormy night, and he was sitting alone sharpening his knife, thinking of the deed he must do. It wasn't all that nice, the thing he must do, but that's just it. He must do it. There's no other way. It's what he was programmed to do. His flesh and blood body carries genetic programming. Programming to kill.
If you talked to him on the street, he'd just be a normal guy, very large, and alarming when you notice him. But not many people notice him. It's something about him, that makes people's eyes shy away from his immense form.
He is unnaturally quiet when he walks and moves, and when he talks it is the measured tones of someone with a great responsibility, and the wisdom to be true to that responsibility. His voice is quite low and deep, yet he talks little. It's almost as if he is afraid of what might happen if he lets himself talk.
On this particular night, dark and stormy night, that is, he is not in the grips of whatever drives him to do his deeds. He is just maintaining his meager collection of lethal weapons. All small, easily concealable weapons, of course, but deadly nonetheless. Knives, daggers, garotting wire, ropes. All quiet, all lethal, all clean.
Now, in what we can safely call "the real world" this man is known for doing part-time work for farms outside the city in the harvesting and planting seasons, and there he is simply known as "Foe-Boes."
Although Phobos rarely talks as it is, he talks even less when he works. This makes the other workers, and his employers, think of him as less-than-intelligent. This is not the case. If you visited Phobos's small apartment that he rarely frequents, you would see shelves upon shelves of books. Everything from the modern day, to the classics. Elizabethan, Victorian, early American. Fiction, sci-fi, non-fiction, prose, poetry. Even collections of writings from such like Aristotle, Plato, Socrates.
It is late. Not as stormy as the other night. It's a dry heat, and lightning crackles far off in the distance. It might be getting a little stormy soon.
Tonight Phobos goes hunting, if it could be called that. Hunting implies some sort of chance, or risk involved. When Phobos is -- on the prowl we shall say, yes on the prowl fits. When Phobos is on the prowl there is no chance, no risk. His path is set in stone. You could say it is fated, but that would be too strong a word.
"Be quiet you vile creature, I'll have none of this." There is no other being nearby and no modern technology on his person, so we must assume that whoever he is talking to is in his own head. From his point of view we will be able to see and hear this ethereal creature.
He is speaking to me again. Telling me to commit these terrible atrocities. Why? Why must it be me who bears this terrible curse?
No matter. He is gone. For now. No. Wait. It is him.
"Awww, Phobee! Were you thinking off meee?" the thing cackles, "that's ssso cute!"
My head is filled with It's maniacal laughter. It seems to continue for eternity, though I know it is but for a few seconds.
"Now, my little minion," It's voice grates, "This is what you are to do..."
The evil beast tells me the details of another grisly murder scene I am required to lay out. I do not know what purpose this one will serve, but that does not matter. I have no choice about it.
In the high-class apartment in the center of business in this city, at the door of the esteemed person of note, I silently open the front door. The creature's whispers are gone to me now. All that is left is the deed that I must do.
His bedroom door opens, the hinges well oiled. This man can take care of himself. But the house is sparse. There is no feminine touch here. The man is single. I did not know this.
Usually these types of people have trophy-wives. Or at least someone to cheat on to create more scandal and attention. But no. He lives alone. Although this makes my job tonight easier (As if there was any risk.), it also makes it harder. This man has not felt the purity of real love. At least it will satisfy the ends of the vile creature that even now is whispering more and more terrible suggestions to me.
I slip in the bedroom door. Think, what could make the impact more powerful? I want to be good. I wish I was good. But they made me this way.
Walking across to the bed fluidly and soundlessly as a departing spirit, I pull out a simple blade. Small but dangerously sharp.
It is over before I realize. It is never actually me that commits the final act. I begin, and just as I reach the point of no return, where I can still turn back, something seizes me and it is over.
This poor man didn't stand a chance. The simple cut across his throat will not alone baffle police, but that combined with the fact that nothing was taken, and that nothing else was done to desecrate his body.
Outside the apartment I fade into the shadows between two hulking concrete and steel structures. The beast has left me for now. I have created enough fear, enough horror in the world for one day. That is my deed. I wasn't always named Phobos. In Greek mythology, Phobos was the personification of fear and horror.
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