Projects

Stepping Stone (Poetry)

2010-01-27T17:58:00.001-08:00

A foot crunches down
upon my stony head
and stays for maybe a moment.

It is a woman's;
the boot is delicate.

I treasure the weight
like I would gold,
even as it forces me down.
Down into the quick,
quick running river,
which spits and scrapes
and slides and gnaws
and growls and claws
against my stony head.

And that is all.
I'll resurface soon.

Pill (Poetry)

2010-01-15T15:51:00.000-08:00

I'm nothing:
a man
made of child;
a sage
made of whispers;
a pill
too bitter.

The Devil in the Glass (Poetry)

2010-01-15T15:44:00.000-08:00

Demons never eat -
they only drink,
and always deeply.

Poem Problems (Poerty)

2010-01-15T15:35:00.000-08:00

When did poet
become prophet?

When did poem
become stone?

Why should I
have to cry?

When did we become exorcists?

An Apathetic Ode (Poetry)

2010-01-04T17:54:00.000-08:00

Your appearance,
personality, and problems
are average. Completely.

I have no interest
in any single aspect
of anything about you.

Alcohol is the only way
that I will ever
get an erection.

But it'll do:
I love you
more than the sofa.

And We'll Call It a Bad Day (Poetry)

2009-12-31T21:19:00.000-08:00

No food;
no water;
no air;
no light.
Not alive.

Styx at Winter (Poetry)

2009-12-29T12:46:00.001-08:00

[Removed]

Walking in the Snow (Poetry)

2009-12-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

The sky poured
Down ice that day.
Let little drops
Of magic fall
On a moment -
So fragile; so pointless;
So far from reality:
As if to ask
Why we wept.

Like a Fish (Poetry)

2009-12-15T15:14:00.000-08:00

[Removed]

Addressee to Whatever (Poetry)

2009-11-30T14:19:00.000-08:00

Walking through dead
Autumn sunlight
With heads bowed
And suits forever on:
In mourning for the great
Season. And all the while
Taking up time
To ignore ourselves.

Then keeping only fragments
Of what could've been
(the park bench, a rose,
a kiss that never happened)
To remind whatever
That we won't move on
When it will.

Feathered (Poetry)

2009-11-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

A cold day
In winter's birth:
We shiver
With twisted
Downey feathers
Wrapped around us.
Maybe doves.

Mountains (Poetry)

2009-11-07T17:45:00.000-08:00

Three tramps lay down
With their faces pressed up
Against the pavement, backs
Jutting up into the rain
Like mountains covered
In seagull shit. "Why?"
Muttered the first,
His lips barely moving
Against a thin vial of liquor;
No-one answered. No-one
At all. A thin man - dressed
In an expensive three piece
Suit - strode past the
Mountains and sniggered.

Dope Me (Poetry)

2009-11-06T16:56:00.001-08:00

It's all too much,
Like when the children
Scream up at you,
With tears around
Their eyes, ashes
In their fists, and
Poison upon their lips.
So dope me,
Dope me hard on
Kind words, kinder
Lies, and the
Kindest knife -
I'm cattle anyway,
Fit only for a
Fucking executioner.

Head-case (Poetry)

2009-10-29T19:33:00.001-07:00

[Removed]

Generic Poem (Poetry)

2009-10-29T14:38:00.001-07:00

It's all fucked:
Every line of
Every verse I
Ever wrote.
And what was
The point?

Black Hole (Poetry)

2009-10-23T16:19:00.000-07:00

You are my black hole,
Like a heart inverted
And tossed in the stormy sea.

My Mistress Ocean (Poetry)

2009-10-17T16:43:00.000-07:00

The bittersweet taste
Of cold ocean air
Is a tragedy.
It stirs even old tasters
With false freshness;
Then drowns love with salt.

Walls (Poetry)

2009-10-17T16:38:00.001-07:00

There are too many fucking walls,
When, really, one was enough.
Why pretend that things are easy
When you can make them tough?

Stars (Poetry)

2009-10-10T03:37:00.000-07:00

I would love to stare at stars;
Beautiful little pinpricks of light
Forever out of my reach,
And mind, and sight.

Train (Poetry)

2009-10-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

Three men sat abreast
And the wheels screamed
To the ferns;
To nothing but the ferns.
Three men:
One young, one old, one older,
And nothing shared between them.
The wheels went on screaming,
Through the silence,
But only to the ferns.

Dream (Poetry)

2009-09-27T05:29:00.001-07:00

I had a dream;
A vision of our lives
Entwined around each other,
Like a sick knot.
The paths taken are gone,
Tied with other serpents
And etched into a corpse-stone.
What follows is difficult,
As impossible as sunrise at night,
Or moonrise at day.
I had a dream;
I forgot about you.

Scarred Shit-face (Poetry)

2009-09-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

So far so good little gem:
Your back ain't broken,
Legs are alive, and reason remains.
But, watch what happens
With the slip of a tongue,
When no-body realises that
Bad-words have been spoken.
So, little gem, open your wound,
Pour the blood into her mouth,
And get left alone with a relic:
Your scarred shit-face.

There Are No More Anthems (Poetry)

2009-09-13T18:06:00.001-07:00

I walk a divided plane,
A small, insignificant singularity
Split between east and west
By a bastard and his brain,
Where efforts for love, hate, and reason,
Are all but drowned in the bleakest rain.
The children used to sing anthems,
Hymns, and songs of life.
But innocence is now broken along the divide,
Scatterd down with the death sticks,
And the only sound is an assurance
That there will be no more singing
And no more anthems.

Twitch, Twitch, Bang! (Poetry)

2009-09-06T17:01:00.000-07:00

Twitch, twitch, bang!
Fuck falling, I'm on the deck,
Writhing and spitting,
Like a diseased worm.

Twitch, twitch, bang!
Sugar the sweat,
It tastes too much like acid.
As if it were venom.

Twitch, twitch, bang!
Sugary sickness is swirling,
It goes round, and round,
And round. I'm in a whirlpool.

Twitch, twitch, bang!
Current control please!
Twitch, twitch, twitch,
Twitch, twitch, BANG!

Fuck America! (Essay)

2009-09-04T07:57:00.000-07:00

I've uploaded this as a word file because the formatting is quite difficult to get onto Blogger. This is a three part critique of the United States of America. I hope you enjoy it.

Download link: http://www.filefactory.com/file/ah588d9/n/Fuck_America_doc

Blood Boiled Bastard (Poetry)

2009-09-04T07:54:00.001-07:00

I'm a blood boiled bastard,
Broken and beaten by ambition.
Rotten to my fucking core.
The night monster is in me,
Writhing for want of a curse
To spit with venomous poise
At an enemy that he will never touch.
For what? To live a life
Which is not worth living
Then drown in the venomous bile
Knowing full well that it is mine,
And mine alone.

Investment Ark (Short Story)

2009-08-29T11:43:00.001-07:00

This short story is probably the best representation of my current writing style (2009).

---

It was official. The posters had been put up in every shop window, the flyers had been posted in every doorway, and an advert had been placed in every newspaper.

Noah needed help building his ark.

At first terrified whispers went around the village. It wasn’t that the money Noah offered was bad; indeed, it was enough to settle down on after the job was finished. Nor was it that the hours were hard or the company disconcerting. It was a perfect job, for a perfect, if pious, man.

The terror came from folk-lore, and superstition. Some said that Noah was touched by the almighty, and that his quest was divine. Others lamented that he had fallen to the temptations of Satan.

Most said that he was simply insane.

It was the oldest of the Blare boys who first applied for work. His family’s land was poor, and desolate. It hadn’t grown a sellable crop in over two years. With the youngest daughter’s wedding on the way, and little money to pay for it: the family were starving.

So, young Till Blare set up the hill for Noah’s house.

There were many accounts of his return that night, and only one of them was true. He had come home well after midnight with a massive smile on his face. His mother had started to shout as soon as he opened the door, as is the way of worried and aged people. She stopped as soon as she saw what he was carrying in his arms.

He had been given a pig for a single day’s work.

Not only that, there had been a promise of more to come, and he had been fed! From then on the arrangement was this: Till and his brother, Jed, would work for Noah. They were paid in good meals, and livestock, which they gave to their parents. By the end of the week, the Blares had a fully functioning farm.

This went on for over two weeks, and the ark was making very little progress. The two boys were full of nothing but praise for their employer. As their mother told Mrs. Mortimer, the neighbour,

“That Noah sure treats his staff right.”

Eventually, on the day of the young Blare girl’s wedding, the word was out: Noah was a good employer. There was no other way that the Blares could have paid for such an extravagant wedding. Everyone in the village made merrier than was expected of them that night.

They would never be poor again!

The next day, everyone’s sons set up the hill. And, sure enough, they all returned well fed, with some fatted animal or other resting in their arms. Gradually, the ark began to build up. Everyone in the village had enough money to last them the rest of their lives, and enough food to feed everyone in the land. They still kept going back for more.

And all anyone could hear for miles around was, “That Noah sure treats his staff right.”

All too quickly, the ark was finished. Everyone in the village had invested a little bit into its creation, and got a lot more than a fair share out of it. They all went home happy and stayed that way for a good long while.

Then the rain started.

It was incessant. The raindrops were the largest that anyone in the village had ever seen. Even old Mr. Smith couldn’t remember seeing a rain as bad, he was eighty three.

On the first day, the villagers simply dismissed the storm as a freak occurrence, and went to bed as normal. A few took their newly acquired livestock into newly built barns for safety. However, when the Smiths (who lived at the very bottom of the hill) woke up with water running throughout the entire lower floor of their house and all their livestock drowned, it was decided that something must be done.

The Smiths were rescued from the top of their house by Mr. Steel, a fisherman who lived nearby, and a town meeting was called. The villagers talked long into the night, and it was widely thought that the only satisfactory conclusion would be to take shelter in Noah’s ark. After all, they all helped to build it: it was partially theirs. Livestock and valuables were loaded into carts, and everyone in the village set up the hill amidst hearty cries of,

“That Noah will surely treat us right!”

When the villagers finally reached the top of the hill, after an hour of climbing up (and falling down) the slippery slope of the hill, they found the ark locked. Till Blare went and searched Noah’s house, it was empty.

It was old Mr. Smith who first knocked on the door. He used his cane to make sure that anyone inside would be able to hear him. The villagers waited for ten minutes in silence for a reply, none came. Then, they all started scrambling against the door at once. Some tried to knock on the door, a few tried to break it down, the youngest tried climb up on to the ark. It was no use; the ark was built far too well.

When night hit again, the villagers were swimming to stay alive. Old Mr. Smith died first, a combination of exhaustion, hypothermia, and starvation finished him off. The rest of his family used his body as a raft. Till Blare died last, he died facing heaven, and crying.

When, at last, all the villagers were dead, the ark began to move forward. The precious investment sailed clean away over the corpses of its investors.

That Noah sure does know how to treat his staff.

Birthing a Corpse (Poetry)

2009-08-29T11:30:00.000-07:00

To birth a corpse is simple:
The children are the dead,
All that mummy has to do,
Is push out your fucking head.
Then, they come with a coffin,
It's made of cheap plastic,
So that everyone can see,
Exactly what kind of corpse,
The new-born baby will be.

How Long? (Poetry)

2009-08-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

It's the shiver which fucks me up.
The tiny, insignificant quiver,
That sends me jerking, reeling,
And screaming through the night.
It begs a question, stira a niggle:
How long until I explode?

In Memoriam (Poetry)

2009-08-22T05:50:00.001-07:00

World's colour is all grey;
Its uses are spent.
So, rest sweet child,
Sing your way to heaven,
And dream of apples.
We will clean your fucking razor.

Twitter Music Reviews

2009-08-20T12:40:00.000-07:00

A quick way of producing reviews, on a subject I'm not that well versed, started in August of 2009. Five reviews are released a week on my Twitter account, and then later transcribed to this blog post at the end of the week.

Reviews:

#1 (Brokencyde - Freaxxx)
#2 (For Emma, Forever Ago - Bon Iver)
#3 (American Idiot - Green Day)
#4 (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah)
#5 (Poker Face - Lady Gaga)
#6 (Pints of Guiness Make You Strong - Against Me)
#7 (You're Wondering Now - The Specials)
#8 (Wouldn't it be Nice? - Rebbeca Pidgeon)
#9 (Hard Candy - Counting Crows)
#10 (This Momentary - Delphic)
#11 (Approaching Normal - Blue October)
#12 (Sandwich - Psychostick)
#13 (In Silico - Pendulum)
#14 (Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division)
#15 (Working Class Hero - Green Day)

Gamertag Revised: Series 3 (Webcomic)

2009-08-16T17:31:00.000-07:00

Following the abject failure of Series 1 and Series 2 of this webcomic I tried a final time to create a succesful webcomic. Again, it was taken offline a long time ago so I've had to re-upload the comics to this blog.

Issue 1:Issue 2:Issue 3:Issue 4:
Issue 5:

Gamertag Revised: Series 2 (Webcomic)

2009-08-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

After the fiasco that was Series 1 of this webcomic I did what any good artist should: start again! What followed was a slightly better realised version of the same thing (hand-drawn). I was fourteen this time. Again, the archives were taken off the internet along time ago so the comics have been re-uploaded here. Each of the issues is vaguely linked this time around, providing me with a small grounding in coherent storytelling. I know that the scan quality is terrible.

Issue 1:Issue 2:

Issue 3:Issue 4:Issue 5:
Issue 6:Issue 7:Issue 8:Issue 9:Issue 10:Issue 11:Issue 12:Issue 13:
Issue 14:Issue 15:
Issue 16:

Gamertag Revised: Series 1 (Webcomic)

2009-08-16T16:03:00.001-07:00

Written when I was thirteen and drawn in Microsoft Paint. This was more an endorsment of my ego than anything else. It only lasted a year and was mostly shit. Nevertheless, this gave me a grounding in satire, character creation and development, and social commentary. Credit must also be given to my friend Tim for "editing" this (which more means "put up with my incessant blathering"). As I took the archives down a couple of years ago I have been forced to re-upload every issue to this blog.

Issue 1:Issue 2:Issue 3:
Issue 4 (Part one of two):

Issue 5 (Part two of two):Issue 6:Issue 7:Issue 8 (Part one of three):Issue 9 (Part two of three):Issue 10 (Part three of three):Issue 11:Issue 12:

I was originally going to post a comment explaining exactly why each strip was shit. Thankfully, Tim did that for me a long time a go with this blog and satire. If any of his commentary is off, it's because some issues are missing, not because he messed up.

Reviews

2009-08-16T15:45:00.000-07:00

Reviews are posted weekly whenever possible. If I am unable to post a review for any reason I will make a post on my main blog (also available on the fron page of the website). Archives can be found either here, or under the reviews tab on my website.

BytesMedia.net (Website)

2009-08-16T15:37:00.000-07:00

Coded in good ol' notepad using HTML, and with functionality in mind. There are no plans to improve the site at any time in the forseeable future. Website.

Sometimes alive (Poetry)

2009-08-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

The breath of a cold morning hits me,
Counter-point to my exsistence, I rise.
The dawn is fleeting, like a ray of light,
Or the cutting stab of ice on flesh,
It bites under the skin, chills the blood,
Freezes the spirit, and maims the soul.
I am temporary as time. Conceptual,
Birth gives conceptual life, conceptual life,
Ends.

ALBATROSS (Short Story)

2009-08-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

Note: Originally written as coursework. This is an adaptation of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rhime of the Ancient Mariner" told from the perspective of a crew memeber. I was forced to add in a twist in order to meet the coursework guidelines which I don't really care for. Nevertheless, enjoy. (It got an A)
---

Part I

The ship creaked under the weight of its departure. It lurched forward, moving slowly like an enraged creature, the small splashes of water forming an awkward and angry snarl. Minutes passed as the vessel began to pick up speed, carving a violent v-shaped path of destruction through the water until in it burst forth from the harbour in a final violent spray of force. It was swiftly followed by cheers.

The ship itself was monolithic. Heavy wood had been used to comprise an invincible hull of magnificent proportions. The various holds and compartments which littered the inside of the ship were flawlessly crafted, each aspect of their construction perfect in both its beauty and it’s practicality. Gigantic sails billowed outwards with a heavy magnificence and the mast they were attached to seemed to scrape the heavens with an elegance of movement that seemed to be ethereal.

By contrast, the crew were earth-bound. A motley assortment of weathered and beaten sailors, urchins barely old enough to be called men and freelancers found in slums comprised the potent mixture of ragged professionalism, inexperience and desperation which was tasked with the protection of the ship. Smith belonged to this mixture.

By all accounts he was a lanky man, his spindly and starved complexion brought to light by the torn and watered shirt that clung to his chest. His face was a tired and ghastly affair. Although technically comprised of the same muscle tissue and warm blood that makes up any human face due to his bone structure it seemed to be set in a permanent frown and his starved complexion had drawn away any warmth which could be found in his cheeks.

Aged 19, he had very little experience of life and even less of sailing. His frail structure appeared barely able to support his own weight for the length of a day, let alone hoist a sail or carry a weight. He moved around the ship awkwardly, often appearing unsure of what he was being ordered to do. Ropes felt awkward in his hands, falling either painfully taut or ashamedly limp, weights fell beyond his grasp, crushing or bruising his hands in the process and sails became ragged knots under even his most careful supervision.

Despite his potent inadequacy as a sailor Smith calmly held his poise as the ship pulled away from the calm and amiable waters which surrounded the harbour and drifted outwards onto an almost picturesque horizon. He had no idea where the ship was headed, nor had he any desire to know and as a cool breeze ran through his hair, caressing his pores and delighting his skin, he felt as he imagined a gallant hero of myth might.

The first few days of the voyage passed in a haze. Each day Smith would rise with the wind, perform the tasks he was commanded to by his superiors as they desperately attempted to tame the, admittedly favourable, gusts of air which buffeted the ship, and then slump to the deck in a flourish of satisfied exhaustion.

Through careful observation and patient application he began to learn how to perform some of the menial tasks that plagued his existence on the ship. He quickly learnt how to hold a rope correctly, balance weights and perform a variety of manoeuvres with the heavy sail cloth.

In the few moments he had free to eat Smith would observe the crew. By and large they were thoroughly unremarkable and exactly what one would expect: mutually assured in their unshaven and motley arrangement. However, there were two who caught Smith's eye.

The first was the captain. A giant of a man he stood high above the rest of the crew, his muscle bound body casting a fierce shadow of intimidation over the deck with a reach that far exceeded the captain's own. His face was a medley of scars, each radiating with a tale of lost passion or despair which culminated in and burst forth from the captain's eyes in a heavy set green. He was a man of power and alluring mystery. Each part of his body, every sinew of his face told one thousand stories, each more staggeringly impossible than the last.

The second was a mariner. To look at he was thin, tall and thoroughly unremarkable, as unshaven and unkempt in his normality as the rest of the crew. To observe he was fascinating. Unlike the rest of the crew he seemed to provide no purpose, simply wandering from one end of the deck to the other, occasionally stopping to whisper something in the captain's ear. Smith seldom saw him eat or drink and never saw him sleep.

On occasion the mariner would stop walking, carefully draw a thin vile of powder from the inside pocket of his jacket and snort loudly sending a ripple of murmurs throughout the crew before walking to the prow of the ship and staring at the ocean silently for hours on end.

It happened suddenly and without warning. The waters surrounding the ship fell still and silent, the wind picked up and the rope in Smith’s hands went taut. Then the STORM-BLAST hit.

The world quickly became a chaotic whirlpool of destruction. It started with the rain, which beat down on his face cutting through his skin with an almost deadly poise. The wind followed, battering the ship and knocking it astray with a violent explosion of force. Finally the sea, once an amiable and pleasant force, now spat, growled and snarled at the crew. Control of the ship had been lost. It was all Smith could do to hang limply from his rope.

He spun, clinging to the rope with his cold, clammy and fear-ridden hands for what seemed to be an eternity. His head shook from side to side, caught in the momentum of the storm and Smith’s vision became blurred, the whirlwind surrounding him was an obscure haze of blue, brown and black. He couldn’t hear anything save the inharmonious screeching of the wind as it tore rainwater down from the sky and slammed it to deck. Smith began to lose his grip on the rope, which was now laden with rainwater and turgid. He slammed to the deck and knew nothing more.

Smith woke up with a jolt, a thin layer of ice covering his face.

Smith began to pull himself upright. At first he carefully moved with a skilful elegance, all the while acutely aware of the deterioration that had occurred in his muscles. He used the splintered remains of the ship’s decking to hoist himself upright and pushed the heels of his boots in between the, now cracked, wooden planks which comprised the floor to prevent himself from falling.

Once he was upright Smith began to look around what remained of the ship. The invincible hull was starting to crack, a thin seam running from the tip right down to the curved fixture which seemed to resemble a floor on the outside of the heavy wood which built up this structure, the once flawless holds and compartments were now a brutally un-organised mess of cracked wood and scattered cargo, and the sails which had once blown in the winds with the magnificence of the Gods were now soaked and torn far beyond their former glory.

The crew had fared no better. The pithy mixture of experience and inadequacy which had been tasked with the protection of the ship was now united in its failure. They lay strewn about the ship in varying states of consciousness, as wretched and helpless as corpses. Besides Smith, only the mariner stood upright.

The man was stood with his back to the rest of the crew as if he could not bear to look upon them. He appeared not to have suffered from the storm at all, his posture holding the same hunched and angry disposition as it always did. The vial that had previously held a thin white powder lay cracked and empty at his side.

Smith now turned his attention to the terrain surrounding the ship. He recoiled in shock almost immediately.

He could see nothing but ice.

The horizon to which he had become accustomed was gone and had been replaced with a maze constructed out of broken blocks of ice which stretched out far beyond what the naked eye could comprehend. The birds which often glided above the ship in favourable weather had vanished and were replaced with an eerie stillness which could drown even the noblest man's heart in a current of despair

A windless chill swept over the ship and caressed each pore of Smith's body with a sudden shiver of fear, forcing him to expel the words,

“What happened?” in a meek, almost muted voice.

The question seemed to stir the mariner from whatever state of mind he had been residing as he began to slowly turn his head to face Smith. His beard flitted slightly back and forth as he moved his mouth to parrot the motion of speaking.

His voice was cracked and dirty. A monotonous and vague sound devoid of emotion, his words seemed to seep out of his mouth and into the air with the poise and authority of a demon.

“We got hit by a storm, it blew us south. Far south.” With this the man was done and he quickly returned to ignoring the ship and its crew. As there was no wind to catch, Smith lay back down upon the cold hard decking and fell asleep.

Days passed and one by one the crew pulled themselves upright and asked the mariner the same question that Smith had. He always replied with the same answer, in exactly the same cold, cracked and emotionless voice he had used when addressing Smith, then the crew member would lie back down and sleep until he needed to eat.

Even the captain was at a loss and as he tried to rally his crew out of the slumbers of apathy and uncaring the mariner would simply stare at him. His gaze saying more about the frivolity of action without reason than his words ever could. Then the captain lay down and that was that.

Occasionally the ice would creak or roar like an animal and the crew would feel fear for a few seconds. Then the ice would stop and return to silence as if it had never even spoken at all and the crew would forget about it until it happened again.

This was all there was.

Smith would never recall what time it was when the ALBATROSS brought the ship some wind to catch. He would never be able to know if the sun was rising or setting or even how time suddenly snapped back into place and emotions re-aligned themselves to represent the situation. Most importantly, Smith would not remember the mariner's grimace, not until it was far too late. He would only remember seeing the giant bird fly in, dragging the wind with it, all the while silhouetted against the burning liquid fire of redemption and the loud barked orders issued by the captain.

The urgency and immediacy of sailing returned to the crew and the ship was quickly made sea-worthy once more. A week passed in this way and things seemed to return to normal. Often the ALBATROSS would land upon the ship and nestle with the crew, on occasion attempting to steal their foods. It didn't matter, the bird had brought the wind which was keeping the crew alive; no-one seemed to care about a few pieces of food. Except the mariner.

It was on one of the few occasions that the bird landed on the ship that the mariner's crossbow would be loaded, carefully aimed at the ALBATROSS and fired. In response, the ALBATROSS would simply slump to the ground. Dead. The wind kept blowing.

Part II

The mariner never offered any apology. The bird was dead and the wind still blew, to him he had done nothing wrong. To the crew he had committed an act of heresy. Over the next few days and weeks Smith and his fellow ship mates became increasingly violent towards the mariner. They all knew that his life depended upon the wind holding.

The bird's corpse was kept on board the ship; no-one could bear to part with it.

Days still progressed in the same manner. The crew still rose with the wind and did their utmost to keep the ship on track, the mariner still paced back and forth along the deck, only pausing to whisper in the captain's ear and Smith was once more a potently inadequate sailor, whatever knowledge he had gained lost during his time in the south.

Day's got hotter, supplies began to run low and the crew, including Smith, grew more and more irritable. Smith began the resent the mariner along with his fellow crew-members, never fully understanding why the man never engaged in any physical labour or what purpose he served. Then it happened.

The wind stopped.

Part III

The molten sun burnt down upon Smith's back, burning his skin and bringing his mind ever closer to cracking. His throat was parched and he was helpless to do anything about it, the last of the water had gone. For a fleeting moment he considered it odd that he could not drink when surrounded by water. Then he fell temporarily unconscious. Three days had passed since the wind stopped.

The first day had passed in a collection of heated and angry cluster of debates between the mariner and the rest of the crew. The crew cursed his name, lamenting him to the Gods themselves, some of them even attempting to physically harm him. No conclusion about the mariner's fate had been reached on this day.

The second day passed in much the same way the first. Again the mariner was cursed and condemned and again no conclusion was reached regarding the mariner's fate. The only difference posed upon on the second day was the use of most of the water to quench the cracked throats of those arguing.

The third day was by far the most memorable. One of the crew had noticed the dead and rotting ALBATROSS lying in the corner of one of the ship's holds and a decision was made. The mariner would not be put to death; he would however bare his sin for the rest of his life. The ALBATROSS was hung around his neck.

Smith woke up again. Not much had changed since he had last been conscious. The crew still lay strewn about the boat, either unconscious and dying, or conscious and dying, there was still no water and the mariner still hung limply to the mast, the mangled, rotting and putrid corpse of the ALBATROSS slung around his neck like a cross. Occasionally he would curse and scream, gibbering about spirits cloaked in black and spectral ships.

Smith tried to pull himself upright using every sinew of his body in the same way as he had in the south. It was no use, he just collapsed of exhaustion. Then the mist came.

Smith lost track of everything. The mist seeped over every pore of his being, clouding his mind and antagonising his senses. With the last of his will he tried to scream, nothing but a low croak passed his lips. Then he heard him.

The low broken thud of the mariner’s boot next to his head.

Smith pulled his eyes open and stared upwards at the man. The mariner’s eyes were a blaze, as if all the fury of hell was spilling forth from them, his hair was matted and seemed to form horns around his scalp and the ALBATROSS was nothing but a skeleton, an inverse rib-cage to the mariner’s own frail, starved complexion.

He muttered,

“I’ve won! I’ve won!” and Smith tried to move away from him but it was already too late. The knife in the mariner’s hands had already plunged deep into Smith’s neck.

As Smith flitted past the mariner’s head and into the unknown, he looked down and saw the accumulated blood of the crew spill onto the deck as the mariner walked his patrol, this time whispering in everyone’s ear.

Lord of the Rings Spoof (Radio Script)

2009-08-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

Note: Written a long time ago as coursework. I'm actually interested in producing this a radio play. Until then here's the script.
---

[The Lord of the Rings Shire theme plays. A man can be heard clearing his throat, the music stops.]

1. Narrator: The Shire is the most boring place in Middle – Earth and as a consequence of this it has been left alone by those who have any sense. Indeed there is only one race in Middle-Earth stupid enough to live in the Shire; they are called Hobbits. Hobbits are an incredibly small and dull species, who enjoy nothing more than recording who gave birth to who in obsessive, and often scary, detail, and unfortunately this tale is almost entirely about Hobbits, and how some of them actually did something other than eat; once. The Hobbit with whom we are concerned is a Mr. Frodo Baggins, nephew of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, now I’m doing it, who had an adventure in which he found the ring that Frodo is now tasked with destroying, ironic isn’t it? [Pause] We find our hero and his companions, Mr. Samwise Gamgee, Mr. Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Mr. Perrigrin Took, being perused by some thugs in black hoodies almost immediately after the most dim-witted wizard in existence, Gandalf the Grey, has let them leave the Shire.

[Galloping can heard getting louder and louder, it is accompanied by the drunken cries of the Thugs.]

2. Frodo: [Shouting] Keep running there’s a forest up ahead we can hide in!

3. Sam: I don’t know Mr. Frodo, son of –

4. Frodo: [Interrupts Sam] Get to the point Sam!

5. Sam: Well, Mr. Frodo my old Gaffer told me that the forest is haunted by the spirit of a singing idiot.

6. Frodo: Yes Sam, but your old Gaffer also says that the potatoes are to out to get him.

7. Sam: That's true.

[The Galloping stops and the addled cries of the Thugs turn into angry, although illegible, shouting. The rustling of bushes and the thud of Hobbit feet can now be heard.]

8. Tom Bombadil: [Quietly, as if in the distance] Old Tom, Tom Bombadil was cut from the film.

9. Merry: What was that?

10. Pippin: I don't know Merry, maybe Sam's old Gaffer was right.

11. Frodo: Don't be stupid, I'm not even sure I heard anyth-

12. Tom Bombadil: [Very Loudly, as if next to the Hobbits] Old Tom, Tom Bombadil, is very angry about being cut from the film!

[All the Hobbits scream, and frantic rustling can be heard, it slowly fades out and the Narrators voice is the only sound that can be heard.]

13. Narrator: For you see the Hobbits had stumbled upon the lair of Tom Bombadil, a character so strange and scary that he was deemed to weird for a mainstream audience and was cut from the film. To cut a long story short Tom kidnapped the childlike Hobbits and kept them in his house for the next three days. Eventually he let them free, and they braved dangers such as, moving trees, and barrow whites, creatures so pathetic that they live in hills and kill their prey through the use of music, a lifestyle in many ways similar to that of the Hobbit. Before long the Hobbits found themselves in the Prancing Pony, a quaint little bar in the middle of the town of Bree.

[Drunken singing and shouting can be heard in the background. The sound of a door creaking open resonates above all other sounds, the shouting and singing stops and silence prevails over the Inn.]

14. Innkeeper: [In a Yorkshire accent] Bloody 'ell; new customers! If you don't mind me saying so young sirs your very short, are you by any chance 'obbits?

15. Frodo: Yes we are Hobbits, and I'm older than you I'll bet you; I'm 50 years old in Hobbit terms.

16. Innkeeper: I meant no offense Master 'obbit, we just don't get that many 'obbits around 'ere is all. We 'ave several 'obbit sized rooms if your interested, I'll just need to take your name.

17. Frodo: Gandalf told me to use the name of Underhill.

18. Innkeeper: Right then, Mr. Under'ill, let me show you to your accommodation.

[Loud footsteps thunder loudly, whilst the drunken cries resume.]

19. Innkeeper: Here we are then Master 'obbits.

20. Frodo: [Shouting] It's a cupboard, you idiot!

21. Innkeeper: Well of course Master 'obbits, it's 'obbit sized. 'Ow about a song then?

22. Frodo: [Shouting] No, sod off!

[The door slams, and the background noise of drunken shouting and singing fades out.]

23. Merry: It's a bit cramped in here.

24. Aragorn : I would say so.

25. Sam: Who are you?

26. Aragorn: I'm Aragorn, or Strider if it pleases you, they keep me in here.

27. Narrator: So it happened that the Hobbits came across Aragorn, which was good thing because he helped them avoid the hoodies that pursued them almost relentlessly, stopping only at the many bars on the way. Eventually the hoodies caught up with the Hobbits at Weathertop, a hill in the middle on nowhere, and in a drunken rage knifed poor Frodo. After fighting the rest of the hoodies off with a piece of wood that he found in an alley, Aragorn took the Hobbits to the city of Rivendell. They arrived just in time for the last council of Elrond.

[ The sound of birds can be heard in the background, Frodo groans.]

28. Frodo: How long was I out for?

29. Gandalf: Long enough.

30. Frodo: [Happily] Gandalf! Why weren't you at the Prancing Pony, like we agreed.

31. Gandalf: [Solemnly] I am sorry Frodo, but I was delayed. It appears my mentor Saruman the White has sided with the evil of Mordor. You see -

32. Frodo: [Interrupting Gandalf] I'm sorry, how long was I out for?

33. Gandalf: Long enough.

34. Frodo: Long enough for what?

35. Gandalf: Long enough for us to decide that you're going to take the ring to Mordor and cast it into the fires of Mt. Doom, the one place it's magic can be undone.

36. Frodo: [Angrily] Wait I didn't agree to that!

37. Gandalf: That's why we tied you to a horse and set off for the mines of Moria.

[The background sound changes from the sound of bird song to the sound of a harsh wind whistling through a valley.]

38. Frodo: [Sarcastically] Brilliant.

39. Gandalf: Isn't it just? If only I could figure out how to get this bloody door open. I've been trying for ages, nothing works, I've tried every spell in the book.

40. Frodo: “Speak friend and enter.” It's a riddle you moron! What's the elvish word for friend?

41. Gandalf: “Belong.”

[The sound of a door creaking open plays over the background sound.]

42. Frodo: You're an awful wizard you know.

43. Gandalf: [Snapping] Shut up.

44. Frodo: Funny, I was expecting something else to happen.

45. Gandalf: Like what?

46. Frodo: I don't know, a giant squid attacking us or something.

47. Gandalf: Don't be stupid.

48. Narrator: Upon hearing this conversation the giant squid in the lake next to Moria decided that now all the surprise was gone, there wasn't very much point in attacking the fellowship at all, and swam away to re-think it's life. So it came to pass that fellowship of the ring, consisting of, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas the Elf, Gimli the Dwarf, and Boromir the man; passed through Moria mostly uninterrupted. That is until they chanced upon an infestation of Goblins. Goblins are a wholly unpleasant species who enjoy killing any other race for fun, they are generally regarded as the worst dinner guests in Middle-Earth.

[Manic cackling can be heard, it is quiet as if it is in the background, footsteps can be heard getting louder, The Lord of the Rings heroic music can be heard playing lightly in the background]

49. Boromir: [Shouting] Gandalf, we can hold them here!

50. Gandalf: [Shouting] You guys can if you want, but I'm getting out of here.

51. Narrator: But there are older and fouler things than Goblins in the depths of the world, and with all the racket that the chase had been making, one of them had just woken up. The creature that had just woken up was The Balrog, and was pretty set on killing the fellowship. Gandalf being the only wizard decided it was only fair that he faced the music; for once.

52. Gandalf: [Speaking in a booming voice that isn't quite his own] You cannot pass! I am a servant of a fire thingie, wielder of a big stick. The big swirly black stuff shan't help you, big bad guy! Go away! You shall not pass!

53. Narrator: Gandalf's spell brought down the bridge and the Balrog fell into the gaping hole below. He swung his flaming whip at Gandalf and caught him by the leg, pulling him into the pit below.

54. Gandalf: Bugger!

55. Narrator: And so it came to pass that Gandalf the Grey fell into shadow, after this the fellowship had no idea what to do except run. They ran and they ran until they reached the forest of Lothlorien, another elven habitat. As it happens elves really aren't of much importance from now on, and really don't do much now in truth. Many tears were shed for Gandalf that night. After staying in Lothlorien for the night the fellowship made their way along a river, and were ambushed. Frodo and Sam escaped in a boat, and we shall deal with their predicament after we have dealt with that of the rest of the fellowship. Boromir was struck by an arrow in the fight and died.

56. Boromir: No I didn't!

57. Narrator: Boromir was struck by two arrows and died.

58. Boromir: Not quite!

59. Narrator: Boromir, was hit by a canon-ball and died.

60. Boromir: [Weakly] Fair play.

61. Narrator: Merry and Pippin were kidnapped by the Uruk-Hai an Orc horde bread for war, and Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas began to track these Orcs with the hope of rescuing their friends.

[Lord of the Rings landscape music plays in the background.]

62. Narrator: As for Frodo and Sam they continued their quest to destroy the ring. This where we must leave our heroes for now, standing upon the brink of oblivion, the fate of the world resting upon their shoulders. Wait a minute -

[The music comes to an abrupt halt]

63. Narrator: That isn't the end?

64. Man : No, there are two more.

65. Narrator: Really?

66. Man: Yup.

67. Narrator: I quit then.

THE END

Batman: Comedy and Tragedy (Fan Script) [Unfinished]

2009-08-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

Note: Written about a year ago, will never be finished on the basis that I don't have an artist. If anyone would like to pick this up, drop me a line.
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I have not included in-depth descriptions of the character's physical appearances, as they are all modelled after the character's seen in Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight, and should appear exactly the same.

[Page One]

Page One, Panel One:

We open on a close up of the bat signal shining brightly. It is raining heavily and some of the rain drops that have fallen on the bat signal can been seen shining (forming a shining border for the bat symbol – the significance of this will become apparent soon). It is night (obviously).

Page One, Panel Two:

We now see Commissioner Gordon standing in front of the bat signal wielding an axe. His back is hunched and his entire posture gives the impression of a man in great stress. Behind him stand various policemen and women, they are all standing in similarly depressed stances (Shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, looking at the ground, improvise a little).

Page One, Panel Three:

Close up of Gordon's axe hitting the bat signal, which smashes. The light behind the bat signal, alongside the light rim of water on the bat symbol should remain visible in this shot. (This shows the good within Batman's nature.)

Page One, Panel Four:

Close up of the remains of the bat signal. The image should be dark and haunting, like a desecrated artefact, there should be no remaining light behind the bat symbol however the rim of water around the symbol should still shimmer a little to show that there is still hope.

(Note: In effect the first four panels of the comic should accurately some of the closing shots from the closing scenes of The Dark Knight . However any symbolism expressed here is important for the rest of the comic.)

Page One, Panel Five:

We now see Batman standing atop of a skyscraper from the side. Behind him we can see Gotham city sprawling into the distance. Batman's posture is that of a broken and brooding man. His head is held in his hands and he is hunched over.

Even though Batman's posture should resemble that of a broken hero, he should still have some vaguely heroic features about him. His cape should billow out behind him and his posture should help to show his muscles.

Below Batman the text THE DARK KNIGHT: THE COMEDY AND THE TRAGEDY PART ONE: “CURE” should be written in bold text.

[End of Page]

[Page Two]

Page Two, Panel One:

Batman (Caption Narration): Gotham has gone insane...

We see Batman collapse to his knees, his head still in his hands. The viewpoint should now be behind him, and we should see Gotham stretching out in front of him. The clouds in the sky should form an obvious smile (similar to that of the Joker's scar).

Page Two, Panel Two:

Batman (Caption Narration): I started this. Either my success, or my insanity drew him here.

We see a dead man with a Glasgow smile carved into his face (It's the same thing as a Joker smile,look it up) a hunched figure is standing over him. The figure is wearing a purple long coat, and holding a knife encrusted in blood.

Figure: [Laughs softly to himself]

Page Two, Panel Three:

Batman (Caption Narration): But either way, he came here, I stopped him, and now people copy us.

The figure turns and looks towards the reader, he is wearing one of the clown masks (a smiling one) often worn by the Joker's henchmen, however it is quite obviously not the Joker. (This is foreshadowing for the Joker's reveal)

Page Two, Panel Three:

The figure's head is shot open by something coming from the side of the panel. The image should be gruesome and brutal, yet fascinating. Try to bring out the fact that the mask is smiling in by using extremely bright contrasting colours.

Page Two, Panel Four:

We now see a Batman imitator (It should be obvious that he isn't Batman from his clothing. He should be wearing a hockey vest and other miss-matched pieces of clothing) step out of the shadows. He is cradling a smoking shotgun in his arms, and should be smirking slightly.

Page Two, Panel Five:

Batman (Caption Narration): Gotham is an asylum...

Other than the text the panel is completely black.

Page Two, Panel Six:

Batman (Caption Narration): My asylum.

We can now see an extreme close up of Batman's open eye. It is blood shot and very red. This image should show the stark reality of Batman's mental health, which is that of a hunted, exhausted and alone madman.

[End of Page]

[Page Three]

Page Three:

The entire page should be covered by the image of Batman gliding over a rain drenched Gotham at night. The image should be inspirational and terrifying at the same time. Gotham city itself should have less of a physical presence on the page than Batman, most of it should merely provide a backdrop for Batman, however the occasional skyscraper should dwarf Batman in both terms of size (I know this seems obvious, but I mean size as it appears from a distance) and grandeur.

[End of Page]

[Page Four]

Page Four:

The entire page should be covered in an image of the outside of Arkham Asylum (make it ` clear that this is Arkham with a sign). The building is massive, clean and slightly sinister due to it's imposing nature. The shadow cast by Arkham should cover all of the surrounding area. Directly outside of Arkham an armoured van is unloading it's cargo - - a man in a purple long coat. Several heavily armed soldiers are stood around him, and his hands are bound. It is the Joker and this should be made quite obvious.

[End of Page]

[Page Five]

Page Five, Panel One:

We can now see the complete length of a corridor in Arkham. The Joker is walking along it with the various guards etc. walking alongside him. The viewpoint of this panel should be behind the Joker so we can't see his face. From this viewpoint we should still be able to see some of the corridor which is very bright and clean (I know that this may be an odd way to present Arkham in a Gothic re-telling of Batman, however it is still a hospital, and hospital's are clean dammit. I'm sure that there was meant to be subtext here. Oh yeah, hope all that jazz, you know.) however it should still be entirely irrelevant when compared to the Joker's panel presence, the guards should also seem unimportant. Try to make the Joker's posture resemble that of the copycat mentioned on Page Two, Panel Three, however the Joker's hands are still bound so the stance cannot be exactly the same.

Joker: [Is laughing softly to himself]

Page Five, Panel Two:

Joker is led into a brightly lit room with white walls. The point of view in this shot should still be behind Joker so that we can't see his face. There is a single chair in the centre of the room. Joker's posture and panel presence should remain the same in this panel.

Joker: [Is still laughing softly to himself]

Page Five, Panel Three:

We now see a close up of the Joker's face. He is smirking slightly and looking directly at the reader. His scars should be far brighter than usual and the lighting in the room should accentuate his grotesque appearance. His hair should be plastered to his head by a mixture of rainwater and sweat. His make-up should be breaking apart, with black streaks falling down his face in a manner similar to how tears fall down someone's face (This is a foreshadowing for Harley-Quinn's first appearance).Other than the smirk upon his face Joker's expression should be a mixture of smugness, mild amusement, and boredom.

Page Five, Panel Four:

We zoom out to see that the image of Joker's face in the previous panel is now a photograph attached to a file, labelled “The Joker”, by a paper-clip. The file is exceptionally thick, and a woman's hand is gripping it. Her nails are painted blood red.

Page Five, Panel Five:

We now see the image of the woman's staff ID. The her name, Dr. H Quinzel, should be clearly visible on the badge, however the rest of the information, including the image of her face should be obscured somehow, either by the folds of her medical coat or shadows.

Page Five, Panel Six:

We now can see the full stretch of a corridor in Arkham. Dr. Quinzel is walking along the corridor, the POV of the panel should be the same as that from Page Five, Panel One (except with the camera behind Dr.Quinzel rather than Joker). Dr. Quinzel's posture should be upright, and give the impression of a well-ordered professional. She is wearing a medical coat and her hair should be held up in a bun. (This shot will be used several times throughout the comic, each time Dr. Quinzel's posture shall deteriorate until it is a mirror of that used by Joker in Page Five, Panel One. This is to show the decline in Dr. Quinzel's mental health.) There should also be a door at the end of the corridor which should be clearly visible. Written on the door in bold text should be the word Joker.

[End of Page]

[Page Six]

An image of the Joker sitting in his cell should cover this page. The cell itself should be quite a small room with white walls, on which Joker has written the word “HA” repeatedly at haphazard angles, in red anrchaic text, until the entire room has been covered with the word.

Joker himself is sat on a bench attached the back wall of the room. His hands are clasped together and his back is hunched. He is looking directly at the camera, a dark smirk plastered across his face. He is wearing his trademark green waistcoat, blue shirt, blue tie and pinstriped trousers, however his purple long-coat and gloves are missing. His hair forms a grungy mess, however it is plastered behind his head so that his face is clearly visible and his make up should be immaculate.

[End of Page]

[Page Seven]

Page Seven, Panel One:

This panel should be a side view of Joker and Dr. Quinzel staring at each other in Joker's cell. The distance between them should be quite vast to show the lack of closeness in the relationship (as the plot progresses this shot will be repeated with the distance decreasing each time, I know it's a cliché but I couldn't think of anything more appropriate).

Dr. Quinzel: Mr. - urm... Joker? (Possibly add more ellipses or dashes to accentuate stuttering.)

Page Seven, Panel Two:

This panel should be a reaction shot of Joker's face. His eyebrows should be raised slightly and his posture should give the air of someone who is profoundly unimpressed.

Joker: Yes.

Page Seven, Panel Three:

We cut back to the side shot of Joker and Dr. Quinzel standing in Joker's cell, the distance between them should remain the same however Dr.Quinzel's posture should show that she is about to take a step forward.

Dr. Quinzel: I'm Dr. Qu-

Joker: I know who you are.

Page Seven, Panel Four:

We cut back to Joker's face which still shows that he is completely dis-interested and unimpressed by Dr. Quinzel.

Joker: You're Dr. Harleen Quinzel, psychiatrist. You think you're good enough to diagnose me, probably with multiple personality disorder, that being the trend with diagnoses in Arkham. I wouldn't be a very well informed person if I didn't know who was treating me, especially if we take into consideration that she's a she, in a predominantly male profession. Everyone's heard of you. You work in Arkham. (Show this speech over three panel's [including this one] so that it remains legible and fits on the page. The images shown in these panels should be of Joker's face, which should remain permanently unimpressed, or the side shot of Joker and Dr. Quinzel standing in Joker's cell, Dr. Quinzel should be more withdrawn than before.)

[End of Page]

Alice (Short Film)

2009-08-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

Note: This film was made in concert with Connexions UK and the Keyfund programme. It has been shown in Tyneside Cinéma and will soon be free to view online. It originally started life as the script shown below before evolving into a short film. I acted as both writer and director for this project.

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Trailer: Scene 1

[The audience are presented with a black screen]

Rabbit (V.O): (Slowly, quietly, and exceptionally clearly) Do you want to go to wonderland?

SFX: [A bell chimes loudly after the Rabbit finishes speaking]

[We fade in to..]

Trailer: Scene 2

[...Alice staring directly at the camera, a look of bewilderment on her face, behind the Rabbit can be seen standing under an extremely bright lamppost. The lighting within the rest of the sequence is fairly dark, although we can still see Alice and the surroundings of the two characters. They are both standing next to a church. It is raining (edit: weather permitting). The shot should be taken in black and white.]

Rabbit: [The Rabbit takes out a bag of cannabis and...]

Alice: [...Alice quickly walks over and takes it leaving a crisp ten pound note in the Rabbit's hand.]

Rabbit: [The Rabbit smiles and...]

[...Both Exeunt. We fade out to...]

Trailer: Scene 3

[...A black screen]

SFX: [The bells chimes again]

[We fade in to]

Trailer: Scene 4

[A tent in the middle of a damp field, it is night and still raining (hopefully). There is a light inside the tent which allows the audience to see the silhouettes of Alice and her friends taking drugs. This shot should be taken in black and white and held for about five seconds. After five seconds we hear...]

Trailer: Alternate Scene 4

[Same principle as before but instead of a tent taken as a shot from behind the actors, who are lent against a tree, mimicking the action of smoking a joint.]

SFX: [The bell chimes again]

[The shot holds for another five seconds and we then cut to...]

Trailer: Scene 5

[Alice climbing out of the tent whilst calling...]

Alice: (Terrified) Hello?

[This shot should be almost garishly colourful and the area surrounding Alice should be grassy and clean. Once Alice has left the shot the camera should cut to be behind her. From this P.O.V the audience should be able to see Alice walking into a forest. The forest should look dark deep and mysterious.]

S.F.X: [The bell chimes one last time...]

[...and we fade in to see...]

Trailer: Alternate Scene 5

[Exactly the same, minus the tent.]

Trailer: Scene 6

[… A close up of the Cheshire Cat’s eye. This is accompanied by…]

Cheshire Cat (V.O): [Manic laughing]

[The camera slowly pans out to reveal the Cat is holding Alice at knifepoint although Alice seems blissfully unaware of this fact. This shot should be taken in colour and the lighting should be slightly surreal (edit: sunset). Both of the characters are in a forest. As the Cat begins to draw his knife across Alice’s neck we fade out to…]

Trailer: Scene 7

[A black screen]

SFX: [Music can be heard in the background, and the Cat’s laughter can still be heard, as his laughter subsides and the music begins to get louder, we fade into…]

Trailer: Scene 8

[…Alice wandering into a clearing in the forest, in the centre of this clearing we can see a picnic table laden with food, and covered in a tablecloth, this shot should be in colour and it should be sunset. Around the table are the “Mad” Hatter (who is both bound and gagged), the Mouse, and the Rabbit. Alice carefully approaches the “Mad” Hatter and pulls down his gag, then he says…]

“Mad” Hatter: (Frantically) Help!

[We then quickly cut to…]

Trailer: Scene 9

[The Queen’s court, the lighting is a red spot light which is directly focused on the Queen and a blue spotlight which is focused on Alice. This scene should be shot in colour and the rest of the set should be in complete darkness. Alice and the Queen pace around each other for a full 5-10 seconds until the Cat lunges at the Queen. The music comes to a climax and then drops to silence. We then cut to…]

Trailer: Alternate Scene 9

[The same, until the cat is supposed to leap on the Queen. Instead the Queen should move to attack Alice with maniacal laughter over the top as a voice over.]

Trailer: Scene 10

[A blank screen with the title of the film printed in white on the top]

Rabbit (V.O): (Same tone and pace as at start of film) I’m late.

[As he states these words the text” coming soon” flashes onto the screen.]

Rabbit (V.O): For a very important date.

[As he states this the text “…” flashes onto the screen. Cue credits]

END.

TEA PARTY SCENE ACTOR SCRIPT

[HATTER is bound and gagged. ALICE carefully moves to save him, skilfully avoiding the gaze of the MOUSE and the RABBIT whilst doing so. She pulls his gag down.]

HATTER: [Whispering] Help me! Loosen the ropes!

[ALICE attempts to loosen the ropes to let HATTER free. She finds that they are too tight and

fails to manage this task.]

ALICE: [Turning back to HATTER and whispering] I can’t do it, the rope is too tight.

HATTER: [Angrily, but still in a hushed voice] Then find something sharp and cut the bloody thing off!

[ALICE looks around and sees a knife lying on the table in the centre of the clearing. She moves carefully towards it and then grabs at it. Having successfully retrieved the knife she moves back towards the HATTER. She stumbles just as she reaches him.]

MOUSE: [Now looking directly at ALICE] What have we got here?

RABBIT: [Walking towards ALICE] Another guest for our tea-party. [As he finishes this line he grabs ALICE and pulls her towards a chair. We cut.]

QUEEN AND ALICE SCENE

[ALICE and the QUEEN are walking in the QUEEN’s grounds (I’ll figure it out exactly on the day…). ALICE looks unnerved and the QUEEN looks bored, as if they’ve already had this conversation.]

ALICE: [Concerned] So, you aren’t real.

QUEEN: [Sighs] For the last time no! I’m your imagination like everything else here.

ALICE: And you’re drug induced?

QUEEN: Yes.

ALICE: [Obviously confused] Right.

QUEEN: [Angrily, shout if you need] Look! It’s perfectly simple! I, and everything else in this place are metaphors for your problems. We look like your brain addled friends because they’re familiar images. The Alice in Wonderland setting is as big a mystery to me as it is to you.

ALICE: [ALICE thinks for a second. Then slowly.] Aren’t metaphors supposed to be… subtle?

QUEEN: [Flippantly] Tell that to whoever came up with this idea.

We cut.

Idle Crime (Short Story)

2009-08-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

Author's note: This is a very early piece of work which came about before I had developed my own writing style. In fact, I this may be the first short story I ever wrote.

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It is in moments of calm, when the body can rest and the mind is idle, that evil seeps into the world. For it is in these of tranquillity that the mind becomes restless, thought turns to plot, and needs turn to want of stimulation.

For the future murder Robert Blackstith and Albert Johnson, the man whom he would kill in precisely two minutes and twenty six seconds from our present time, by the manner of unloading a .45 calibur bullet into the skull, tranquillity was plentiful.

The bank robbery had gone well so far. Robert and Albert had entered and fired a single warning shot each, as planned. The shotgun stowed beneath the cashiers desk at the far right of the building had been “confiscated” and disarmed and the manager of the bank had obligingly opened the safe in which the money that our coveted so dearly lay. Robert and Albert currently stood behind the bank waiting patiently for a getaway car to come and collect them.

Before you judge the future murder and his victim too harshly, it is only just that you learn their backgrounds. Robert was an ordinary man, married with 2.5 children, who one day simply got sick of the hum-drum mediocrity of modern life and decided to lead an adrenaline fuelled life of crime. This would be his first criminal offence.

Albert was a psychopathic hired gun. He had led a troubled childhood often being beaten and sexually assaulted by his father (who, interestingly enough, had often been beaten and sexually assaulted by his father) until he decided he'd had enough and in a crime of passion he slaughtered his entire family. Since then Albert went on to kill seventeen people (two of which “deserved it” in Albert's own words), rob four banks and escape from three prisons.

Albert and Robert met one glorious winter evening. Robert had been taking a stroll with 1.5 members of his family (the other two members being quote-unquote “rebellious teens” and therefore horribly adverse to physical activity) when he stumbled across Albert face down in the snow, a bottle of whisky in-hand. Robert being a kind-hearted soul allowed point five of his children to poke the seemingly dead man with a stick before dialling 999 and requesting an emergency service vehicle.

Upon awakening in hospital Albert became determined to find the man whom had saved his life and reward him accordingly. Over the following months Albert used his various Mafia connections to track down his saviour, the pastry chef at a quaint British Café. When Albert finally found Robert he had but one question for him: “What can I do to repay you?”

Robert's reply was clear and concise, “An interesting day out.” which leads us rather nicely to Robert and Albert's current plight.

Deep in the urban jungle Robert could hear sirens, although they were often over-shadowed by the limp pitter-patter of rain or the coarse necrotic breathing coming from the man next to him . He now had time to reflect upon what he had done.

He had robbed a bank, yet felt no guilt. Maybe it was that he hadn't come down from his adrenaline high. Maybe it was that he was sick of being just another statistic, just an average. It did not matter why, all the mattered was that he wanted more. Another chance to prove that he was a sick, albeit interesting individual.

The pistol in Robert's hand felt heavy. It's cool grip offered an alluring complexity that Robert had only ever found in the realm of fiction and the trigger felt impeccably comfortable beneath his finger.

What difference would it make if he killed the man standing next to him? A simple criminal. A man who would be far better dead than alive. A man who had already had his chance. A thief. A murder.

Robert raised his gun.

Gripped it's cool grip.

Memorised the moment.

Pulled the trigger.

Robert's entire body jarred, stuck fast in the position of an executioner. A loud and clear bang issued from the pistol and proceeded to ring around the city, leaping from building to building, stuck in an eternal momentum. Albert simply slumped to the floor. Dead.

It was not the brutality of the act which shocked Robert, forcing him to empty the contents of his stomach into a nearby bin, it was that everything he had ever be told about death was wrong. Albert did not look the same and yet different, a large red and gooey hole had ensured that his face was lost to the confines of Robert's memory. His eyes did not loose their, they simply lost the ability to move and were stuck in a position of horrific shock and agony. After every cliché had been stripped bare, after all was said and done, Robert had to live with the fact that he had killed this man.

Robert's knees buckled under the weight of conscience and slammed down onto the cold, wet ground. He clasped the ground with both of his hands as if clinging for his very life. Tears and rainwater stained his face until it was impossible to tell which was which. He was lost to despair, and the world cried for him. Robert's head slammed to the floor. He could hear sirens getting closer. In his mind the sound of a gunshot rang with a continuous and deadly poise.

Everything went black.

The murderer Robert Blackstith and his victim Albert Johnson were discovered precisely six minutes and forty eight seconds after they robbed the London branch of Halifax. Robert was sent to prison for life for his crimes. Albert was sent to the morgue for his. The money was never found, however it is presumed that there is one very happy and very rich getaway driver living somewhere in London.

Robert always regretted what he had done. It haunted his every moment, both when he was awake and when he was asleep.

In fact he regretted it so much that on the twenty sixth of September, two thousand and eight, precisely two years, three months and fourteen days after the event had occurred, Robert was found dead, hanging from his own shoelaces. Robert's family descended into debt and depression, neither of which they could ever escape. The lives of 3.5 people were ruined by the carelessness of one.

Eden (Poetry)

2009-08-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

There is no Eden tonight.
The crack of it has burnt,
For kindling of heart,
And to bring the dawn's early light.

The Whole of IT (Poetry)

2009-08-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

There are four walls and a window;
That is existence, the whole of IT.
What the window says is a lie;
It speaks of sunlight and dawns,
And blackness, and noise, and silence.
It speaks in tonuges to trick the mind,
And crush the soul. As I know:
There are four walls and a window;
And that is existence, the whole of IT.

Apple (Poetry)

2009-08-14T11:58:00.001-07:00

The frigid night closes it's angry jaw,
My head like glass,
I scream for more.
When the cutting's done,
And sweet relief is run,
Brittle scarred corpse remains,
Not sure what it has done.
The Shepard says I'm crazy,
The Lamb says I'm drunk,
The Virgin says I'm lazy,
And the Serpent says I'm fun.
None can see the product:
A hate machine of fall.

The wind whistles,
The bough breaks,
And the glass Apple,
Swims down through the air,
Drowning in life,
Before breaking,
Like an early dawn.

HumanitySquared (Short Story) [Synopsis only]

2009-08-14T11:52:00.000-07:00

Buy now

A science-fiction short story about a world run by plastic surgery. Written in the form of advertising. Published in FAULT magazine's 2009 anthology: Imperfection.

The Third Revelaion (Short Story)

2009-08-14T11:40:00.001-07:00

This short story depicts the second coming of Christ. Which is a thoroughly mundane affair. Download link.

51st State (Short Story)

2009-08-14T11:35:00.001-07:00

A short story set in a distopian England. Told from the perspective of the last politician on earth, this story envisions a world where corporations rule. Download link.

Human rights? Rubbish! (Essay)

2009-08-14T11:29:00.001-07:00

There I am. At the end of a lazy Sunday, my sister and I are sat perfectly contentedly watching the absurdly brilliant science-fiction film Serenity. We enjoy the film, although at it’s conclusion we both agree that the source material, a cancelled programme named Firefly, was better.

We’re nerds, nothing wrong with that.

She leaves my room to go to bed. I lie there for a few minutes before walking over to my laptop. It’s about two years old and takes a while to turn on. Eventually, after my security software informs me that it needs to be updated, I can use it.

Windows Live Messenger pops-up out of no-where. A giant user-friendly button in the screen practically begs me to log in. I decide that I’m in no mood to talk to people and move my mouse to the close button in the top right hand corner of the screen. Now I have to decide what to do.

I pass a small amount of time posting on forums on the internet. I stick mostly to writing forums and dole out several hard-earned pearls of wisdom on the subject of writing. One person asks:

“How much should an author write a day?”

In a manner that I suppose is kind I inform them that professional writers try to hit about 2,000 words a day, but that I find this ridiculous. 1,000 good words are better than 2,000 dreadful ones. I look at the clock in the bottom of my computer screen. It is 11PM and I haven’t written a god-damn thing today.

I’m a hypocrite, shoot me.

In an attempt to distract myself from my obviously wasted day I go to a website named Facebook. It’s a free social networking website, the kind I should avoid when I’m in a bad mood. You might have heard of it.

Still not wanting to talk to anyone I set my chat status to “Offline” and continue to make use of the websites other features. I might be anti-social, doesn’t make me evil.

I have four notifications, which isn’t that many. I remember that I checked the website about an hour ago, when I began posting on forums. It doesn’t matter; notifications mean that there’s something new going on.

Two of them are comments from my friends. I read them quickly and don’t reply. The remaining notifications tell me two things: someone beat my score on “Tower Blocks”, an arcade game hosted on the website, and I have been invited to a group. A group on Facebook refers to a group of people with similar interests or beliefs.

They’re quite popular.

I click the invitation expecting to find something of genuine interest. I might be able to empathise and learn something new about one of my friends. The invite is to something called the “Justice & Criminality Association”, it was created by the friend who sent me the invitation.

I click to open the group’s page before I even consider accepting the invite. The handy “Basic Info” section at the top of the page tells me everything I need to know. The beliefs of the group are posted clearly in the “Description” sub-section. They are:

“Castrate the Rapist
Paralyze the Paedophile
Hang the Murderers
Cane the Thief

Proper Sentences, Let The Punishment Fit The Crime.”

My unashamedly Liberal mind balks at this. I examine the text for a full fifteen minutes completely mystified as to how anyone can think this way. The constant capitalisation on the last line makes me snigger. As does the alliteration on “paralyse the paedophile”.

I log off from Facebook with the invitation still neither accepted nor unaccepted. I forget about it for a while and listen to music. My favourite musicians are Green Day, Bon Iver, Nirvana and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!

I have an eclectic taste.

Then it starts to bother me. I know it shouldn’t; everyone has the right to believe whatever they want, no matter how stupid. No matter how wrong.

But it’s under my skin now, like an itch. I didn’t express an opposing view. Who was it that said: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”? A website called Wikipedia tells me it was a man named Edmund Burke.

Good for him.

So, narcissistic that I am, I suppose myself “good”, and log back on to Facebook. The group is still there. I examine it further.

Some text has been added, I assume to try and justify the previous statement. The first addition is a misquote from the Bible. It reads:

“Eye For An Eye”

I’m not religious but I’m pretty sure that the actual quote is: “An eye for an eye”. It’s a petty correction on my behalf but I’m in a bad mood now.

The Bible shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Jesus contradicted most of it.

The second addition makes bile rise up in my throat:

“Prison Time Does Not Do Justice, And These Politicians Do Nothing... Human Rights... Rubbish.”

I can’t imagine how anyone can think that prison does anything less than caning a thief, as previously suggested, does. The other punishments are hardly in line with justice either.

Let us take for example; “paralyzing” (sic) a paedophile. Granted, it stops the paedophile from harming children; but so does imprisoning them. After someone has been “paralyzed” (sic) they require constant medical care, or is that just stupid? Do we just let them starve to death? Does molestation paralyze people? Most importantly: What do we do with the person who “paralyzed” (sic) them?

“Paralyze” (sic) them of course!

I shouldn’t be writing this, the end of the sentence makes that abundantly clear. Freedom of speech is a human right. So is food, water, clothing, housing, education, warmth and personal safety.

Human rights: rubbish!

The final addition states the motive of the group:

“Who Wants This Group/Association To Make A Difference, As I Will Once It Gets to 100,000 Members, Directly To The Prime-minister, and Public Speeches and Parades That We Can Unify And Make A Change.”

At time of writing the group has only 17 members. I know them all, one exceptionally well. I hope she joined as a joke, though I doubt it. The page informs me that the group is a “Political Organisation”.

So is the Nazi party.

I “ignore” my invitation.

I learnt something about my friend today. He didn’t learn anything about me. I didn’t empathise. Should people ever empathise with me again?

Your humanity needs you! (Essay)

2009-08-14T11:17:00.000-07:00

At the time of writing I am seventeen years of age. In four days I shall be eighteen. When I am eighteen I will be old enough to sign my life away to the British armed forces. I will be old enough to fight, kill and die for whatever flimsy moral my country has chosen to hang its hat from.

I won’t though. Instead, I shall take a career in literary fiction. Everything I write will be liberal rubbish. Every volume shall contain an argument against war, persecution, and the misinterpretation of religion. These things will continue regardless. All the flowery words in the world are rendered useless against bullets, bombs, and gunpowder.

After tonight I shall never wonder what the point is again. Fiction is no place to admit that you are fighting for a lost cause. That is not to say fiction should not be miserable. It should merely puppet a purpose to an audience.

So they can keep killing each other safe in the knowledge that someone cares.

However, tonight I am going to allow my mind to wander. I was informed earlier today that two of my friends have joined the army. I shall spare their names. The bullets will get everything else.

Fred I have known for roughly five years now. He is an extremely short person, besides which he is unremarkable. I have never seen any feats of endurance from Fred, in fact, I have floored him in a punch. He is of average intelligence.

As far as I know, Fred has always wanted to join the army. He was always a strong contender in the cadets and a strong believer that scientists will continue to make better ways of killing people. I agree with him on the second point.

Although I was never extremely close to Fred I always secretly hoped that he would be refused entrance to the army due to his height. It would crush him, but it would have saved his life. Fred is currently in training. I have seen photos of him holding a gun and smiling.

Terry is a supporter of the British Nationalist Party. He hates all foreigners and once expressed an urge to kill a Jewish friend of mine. He was in a romantic relationship with her at the time. Despite his racist qualities, Terry was alright. He was introduced to drugs from a young age. That fucks up anyone.

He joined the army recently. His ex-girlfriend (my Jewish friend) informed me earlier today. I have no idea how far into the meat-grinder he is, or why he chose to pursue a career in killing. He lives at the end of my street.

I doubt I shall hear anything from either of them ever again.

All reasons for joining the army all summed up in the following statement. To join the army you must want to kill people, or die trying.

I knew both of these people. I cannot fathom why they want to harm another being. It pains me to think that they might die. Fred never realised that the enemy would shoot back at him. I have a suspicion that Terry might want to die.

As much as it pains me to think of these people dying, it pains me more to think of them killing. Soldiers killing soldiers is nothing new. There is no tragedy in it. There is tragedy in soldiers killing the innocent.

Most war is made on the innocent.

I am not here to debate war, or what drives people to war. There is a certain possibility that I shall be thrown into war should the big bombs start to fly. World wars give guns to the innocent. If you give a panda a rifle, he is still a panda.

Until the next world war the killing engine relies on vile people to do vile deeds. This essay has been written to tell you that there is no point in fighting against war. There will always be vile deeds to do and vile people to do them. Every word you write will be ignored. I am going to try anyway.

My words are just as useless as yours.

I’ll leave you with a thought. I can’t do much more than that. When the big bombs do start to fly and a world war is declared, where do you stand? Will you fire your gun to defend yourself, or run until there is nowhere to hide?

I am going to run.

Avarice, a novel. (Synopsis only)

2009-08-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

Avarice is a novel by James R. Bell. Brendath is bored with his meagre life. He has surpassed the point of merely loathing his life, and continued on to apathy. He supposes he will die alone. That is, until one day where he murders his boss, and steals a mysterious jewel.

Status: Being written, will be sent for publication.