Well, I'm bored, and as I was writing my Hairspray article earlier for Brown Paper, I figured I might as well start posting the articles that I write for the publication on this blog as well, seeing as they are technically 'creative writings' of mine. (Note that this is the original article, but for the actual publication, I had to cut it down by about a third, as I was only permitted one A5 page, and in its original format, it took up one and a half pages.)
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If you want film related articles, you will get film related articles. Be ready for them. There should be one every issue, and even if you're not a big fan of films, you might as well read them. You might learn something. Hell, you might even gain an interest in the subject. I hope nobody expects me to summarise or review these films for them, though. That’s not my job. There are plenty of magazines, newspapers or websites you could check out for that sort of information. My purpose is to talk about the films on a more personal level, and put them into context a little for you. Hopefully you’ll then find a good reason to watch them.
Waitress
Who it's for: people who like pie, Nathan Fillion, comedy, romance, southern accents, or just seeing the good guy/gal win without it being horribly cheesy and clichéd. Also for people who are bored or for those who just happen to like to watch lots and lots of films
Who it’s directed by: Adrienne Shelly
When it came out: 2007
There are a number of perfectly valid reasons as to why you should see this film at some point in the near future. Firstly, if you’ve got heart, you’ll be going out of sympathy. Adrienne Shelly - writer, director, and co-star of the film - was killed last November. Some 19 year old Ecuadorian kid got a bit upset when she complained to him about the noise he was making in the apartment below her; he punched her, and - believing her to be dead - hung her from her shower-curtain rail, which strangled her, all in an attempt to make her death look like a suicide. Obviously he got found out eventually, though. Shelly’s performance as Dawn is haunting to watch; knowing that the woman on the screen is not only dead, but murdered - and so recently, too - makes you feel slightly uncomfortable, even though the character is sweet and thoughtful and makes you laugh at her simplicity. You owe it to Shelly to watch this film, her last project.
Another thing: the film stars Nathan Fillion. His may not be a name you’re particularly familiar with; he’s no A-list celebrity, certainly, and he’s definitely not a household name (unless you mean specifically in my household, anyway), but the difference between he and many of those who are is that he deserves to be more well-known. In the words of Empire magazine, he is “a man who improves any movie by 27 percent with his charming befuddlement”. That’s rating him highly if you ask me. If you’re a fan of LOST, you should remember him as Kevin, the police officer Kate was married to, shown in flashbacks in the season 3 episode ‘I Do‘. Alternatively, if you love the Joss Whedon ‘verse, you may remember Caleb from season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. His most well-known role, however, is Captain Mal Reynolds in Whedon’s [sadly cancelled] TV show, Firefly (later, a film - Serenity - was released as a follow-on, in which Fillion reprised this role). It’s impossible to not love Mal; he’s bumbling, cheeky, funny, sweet, and essentially a bit of a rogue (read: Han Solo-ish). Nathan Fillion brings many of these qualities to Dr. Pomatter, the gynaecologist who has an affair with Waitress’s main character, Jenna (played by Keri Russell). If you’ve never seen Fillion in anything before, you might as well go see this. Even though Dr. Pomatter has zero valid reasons for having the affair, the whole point is that for Jenna, it’s acceptable; her life and dreams are crushed by her husband, who treats her like property, and who cries like an absolute baby whenever she does something to displease him. Jenna is made a free woman when she starts the affair, albeit intermittently, and because he’s so nice, and treats her so much better than her husband does, we love Fillion’s character (and, really, who can blame her for liking him?).
This film genuinely deserves a lot of credit. It was snapped up at the Sundance film festival earlier this year, where it received a standing ovation, and has been lauded by critics. Some are passing it off as this year’s Little Miss Sunshine; it’s original, funny, and - most importantly - real. It’s not a Hollywood movie; the main character’s life is not perfect by the end; and she does not become a princess, or marry a prince, and have lots of beautiful babies/Dalmatians/fine, exquisite clothing (there’s just one baby). Russell is the main focus; Jenna has a lot of problems in her life, and although the characters of the supporting cast have issues too, none of them equate to hers. But the fact that these people do have problems makes the story so much more believable: a weird, spontaneous poem-spouting blind date, who won’t give up on Dawn, despite being unwanted; a baby that - despite being unborn - is already unloved; Becky’s wonky boobs; and, of course, the gorgeous gynaecologist (that should be a book title, really). If any of the things on the who’s it for list apply to you, you’d do well to watch this film. Go on, go for it.
Written by The Duke
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Now playing: The Police - Walking In Your Footsteps
via FoxyTunes
No. 8, My Life, Planet Earth
Wednesday 14 November 2007
Saturday 10 November 2007
Acerba Sorte
There was once a time when Virginia applied the ancient adage of 'it's the small things that matter' to her life. She always insisted to her relatives and friends that it was no trouble at all to help them out, whether they required books to be collected from the local library on the way home, or needed someone to mow their lawn. Of course, they all loved her. When I think back on her memories, I can see how they looked at her; she wouldn't have noticed it – she was too modest – but they knew she was good. They envied her generosity and kindness. “She has a beautiful heart,” they used to say about her, clearly unaware of how sickening their display of affection was.
What a horrible shame it is, then, that her beautiful heart could not save her. She had been planning to visit her grandmother that evening, 'grandma' being a bug-eyed old woman with a crooked back, and had bought her some pork chops for her supper. Perhaps it was just a random attack; perhaps it was simply that her blood had a particularly attractive smell that night; perhaps her attacker had been stalking her for months. Regardless of the reason behind it, she was sired that night. For a week, I watched her family fall apart, revelling at their weakness and wasted tears. I did not kill them; that would have been too merciful. Instead, I let them worry. I could not enter their house, but I did not need to; from the balcony, I could hear her mother's awful sobs, muffled by pillows. I marvelled at how all these lives had been ruined by a single action, and aspired to achieve something similar. I drank from the boy next door one night, whose blood was particularly delicious – youthful and energetic - and abandoned his drained corpse on the doorstep of his parents' house, and then I left that street forever.
It was an immense temptation to reveal myself to everyone she had ever known. Utilising her memories, I could remember them all: the first boy she had ever kissed; her best friend from University; even her favourite teacher at primary school. Often I imagined the looks on their faces when they saw what they thought had been the young woman they loved suddenly transformed, stronger than they could imagine, faster, and – it cannot be denied – much better looking. I dreamed of meeting them all, and telling them of how Virginia was tragically no longer with us, and then gliding forward and sinking my teeth through their tense flesh with the sweet, red ecstasy gushing forth into my mouth, and I would wake from these dreams excited and anxious.
People would see Virginia's demise as a terrible thing, but in my eyes it is simply a release from the frailty of human life, and the path to something greater. Her soul is gone, and I am sent to replace her; it's the cruel things that matter.
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Now playing: Weezer - Crab
via FoxyTunes
What a horrible shame it is, then, that her beautiful heart could not save her. She had been planning to visit her grandmother that evening, 'grandma' being a bug-eyed old woman with a crooked back, and had bought her some pork chops for her supper. Perhaps it was just a random attack; perhaps it was simply that her blood had a particularly attractive smell that night; perhaps her attacker had been stalking her for months. Regardless of the reason behind it, she was sired that night. For a week, I watched her family fall apart, revelling at their weakness and wasted tears. I did not kill them; that would have been too merciful. Instead, I let them worry. I could not enter their house, but I did not need to; from the balcony, I could hear her mother's awful sobs, muffled by pillows. I marvelled at how all these lives had been ruined by a single action, and aspired to achieve something similar. I drank from the boy next door one night, whose blood was particularly delicious – youthful and energetic - and abandoned his drained corpse on the doorstep of his parents' house, and then I left that street forever.
It was an immense temptation to reveal myself to everyone she had ever known. Utilising her memories, I could remember them all: the first boy she had ever kissed; her best friend from University; even her favourite teacher at primary school. Often I imagined the looks on their faces when they saw what they thought had been the young woman they loved suddenly transformed, stronger than they could imagine, faster, and – it cannot be denied – much better looking. I dreamed of meeting them all, and telling them of how Virginia was tragically no longer with us, and then gliding forward and sinking my teeth through their tense flesh with the sweet, red ecstasy gushing forth into my mouth, and I would wake from these dreams excited and anxious.
People would see Virginia's demise as a terrible thing, but in my eyes it is simply a release from the frailty of human life, and the path to something greater. Her soul is gone, and I am sent to replace her; it's the cruel things that matter.
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Now playing: Weezer - Crab
via FoxyTunes
Thursday 18 October 2007
This was part of my Editorial Writing homework; don't think I've got my creativity back yet
In Cheddar Gorge; at Charterhouse; on camels
Until the 13th Century, much of the south-west pocket of England was covered in large bed sheets of water; it’s inhabitants lake dwellers. Then the land - funded by the powerful abbeys of places such as Glastonbury - began to be drained and built upon, and now it is recognised as the stunning scenery of the Somerset levels; the Mendips; the caves and gorges that are scattered throughout the country. No matter the season, and regardless of the weather, nothing will detract from Somerset’s sheer beauty, short of building hulking grey cities all over it. If you’ve stayed in that part of the country before, then no doubt you’d go back there in a second, and if you haven’t, then you should be packing your suitcase right now, and reading ahead to find out exactly where to visit.
Charterhouse, the Mendips
Perhaps one of the less well-known spots, but most certainly one of the loveliest, Charterhouse is rife with wildlife, views and ancient history. Located in the heart of the Mendip hills, the landscape there is of bountiful variety, parts of it limestone rocks, while other areas are layered with coarse grasses and shrubs. Charterhouse marks the area where the Romans used to have their lead mines, and upon closer inspection, some aspects of that archaic civilisation can still be seen. Bring the children here for some great time spent exercising in the fresh air, as they run about over and under the rocks, and for the ultimate experience, bring the dog too, so they can chase the odd rabbit.
Quantock Hills
Camel trekking is the sort of exotic activity you would usually associate with some such far-flung destination as Central Asia, or Northern Africa, so it is often a surprise to people that such a thing can easily be carried out in our own country. The Bridgewater Camel Company operates from a farm in the Quantock Hills, in western Somerset, and offers guided tours of varying lengths, ranging from an hour-long, to overnight, which is advised if you want the full experience. Almost anybody can ride a camel, including some people with certain disabilities, so you can go as a whole family, and make a full camping trip of it.
Cheddar Gorge
If you can’t afford to visit the Grand Canyon, then Cheddar Gorge is the next best thing. The limestone cliffs tower four-hundred-and-fifty feet above the road surface, which lasts for three miles, and you have the choice of driving through it - at the bottom - or walking along the cliff-tops, taking in the fantastic views that completely surround you, immersing yourself in the environment of old. In some ways, the latter option is more rewarding, as you don’t have to face the depressingly vast plethora of tourist establishments along the road. However, nothing will ever compare to the first time you drive through the gorge, staring up to watch the roaming goats nimbly leap about on the perilously steep cliff-faces, or see the odd rock-climber hammering his climbing hooks into the rock. As you drive into the town of Cheddar, you will be faced with a last rock, at the end of the gorge and high above, that looks almost like the face of a lion, surveying his grand kingdom, and shaking his fiery mane pityingly at the extent to which we humans try to make a profit out of it.
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Now playing: Mika - Relax (Take It Easy)
via FoxyTunes
Until the 13th Century, much of the south-west pocket of England was covered in large bed sheets of water; it’s inhabitants lake dwellers. Then the land - funded by the powerful abbeys of places such as Glastonbury - began to be drained and built upon, and now it is recognised as the stunning scenery of the Somerset levels; the Mendips; the caves and gorges that are scattered throughout the country. No matter the season, and regardless of the weather, nothing will detract from Somerset’s sheer beauty, short of building hulking grey cities all over it. If you’ve stayed in that part of the country before, then no doubt you’d go back there in a second, and if you haven’t, then you should be packing your suitcase right now, and reading ahead to find out exactly where to visit.
Charterhouse, the Mendips
Perhaps one of the less well-known spots, but most certainly one of the loveliest, Charterhouse is rife with wildlife, views and ancient history. Located in the heart of the Mendip hills, the landscape there is of bountiful variety, parts of it limestone rocks, while other areas are layered with coarse grasses and shrubs. Charterhouse marks the area where the Romans used to have their lead mines, and upon closer inspection, some aspects of that archaic civilisation can still be seen. Bring the children here for some great time spent exercising in the fresh air, as they run about over and under the rocks, and for the ultimate experience, bring the dog too, so they can chase the odd rabbit.
Quantock Hills
Camel trekking is the sort of exotic activity you would usually associate with some such far-flung destination as Central Asia, or Northern Africa, so it is often a surprise to people that such a thing can easily be carried out in our own country. The Bridgewater Camel Company operates from a farm in the Quantock Hills, in western Somerset, and offers guided tours of varying lengths, ranging from an hour-long, to overnight, which is advised if you want the full experience. Almost anybody can ride a camel, including some people with certain disabilities, so you can go as a whole family, and make a full camping trip of it.
Cheddar Gorge
If you can’t afford to visit the Grand Canyon, then Cheddar Gorge is the next best thing. The limestone cliffs tower four-hundred-and-fifty feet above the road surface, which lasts for three miles, and you have the choice of driving through it - at the bottom - or walking along the cliff-tops, taking in the fantastic views that completely surround you, immersing yourself in the environment of old. In some ways, the latter option is more rewarding, as you don’t have to face the depressingly vast plethora of tourist establishments along the road. However, nothing will ever compare to the first time you drive through the gorge, staring up to watch the roaming goats nimbly leap about on the perilously steep cliff-faces, or see the odd rock-climber hammering his climbing hooks into the rock. As you drive into the town of Cheddar, you will be faced with a last rock, at the end of the gorge and high above, that looks almost like the face of a lion, surveying his grand kingdom, and shaking his fiery mane pityingly at the extent to which we humans try to make a profit out of it.
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Now playing: Mika - Relax (Take It Easy)
via FoxyTunes
Friday 5 October 2007
"You'll be so high, you'll be flying"
End of the world?
Tsunamis. Tornadoes. Earthquakes. We've got a whole lot of disasters heading towards us. Half of them have already hit us before. Us Brits might be safe for now. Soon, though, more immigrants will be rushing in. They'll continue to take over our country as theirs are raped and robbed by freak weather.
People always moan and groan about global warming killing animals and destroying homes. But we shouldn't be caring about that. We should be bothered by the effect it has on us and our nation.
Millions of foreigners will want our land when theirs is gone. We've already got too many people in this country who don't belong here. And if there are more floods and tornadoes around the world, there will be more immigrants coming to take over.
Before you go bashing me in on the head, I'll let you know now that this was an exercise I had to do in Editorial Writing today. I had to pick an issue (such as global warming) and write about it as though I were writing a focus article in a tabloid newspaper such as The Sun. I went for the whole 'sensationalising' shebang, considering what aspects of global warming might worry Sun readers most. It's only natural that they'd be able to link it to immigration somehow. So, yeh, I'm not racist. Or stupid.
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Now playing: Electric Light Orchestra - Don't Bring Me Down
via FoxyTunes
Tsunamis. Tornadoes. Earthquakes. We've got a whole lot of disasters heading towards us. Half of them have already hit us before. Us Brits might be safe for now. Soon, though, more immigrants will be rushing in. They'll continue to take over our country as theirs are raped and robbed by freak weather.
People always moan and groan about global warming killing animals and destroying homes. But we shouldn't be caring about that. We should be bothered by the effect it has on us and our nation.
Millions of foreigners will want our land when theirs is gone. We've already got too many people in this country who don't belong here. And if there are more floods and tornadoes around the world, there will be more immigrants coming to take over.
Before you go bashing me in on the head, I'll let you know now that this was an exercise I had to do in Editorial Writing today. I had to pick an issue (such as global warming) and write about it as though I were writing a focus article in a tabloid newspaper such as The Sun. I went for the whole 'sensationalising' shebang, considering what aspects of global warming might worry Sun readers most. It's only natural that they'd be able to link it to immigration somehow. So, yeh, I'm not racist. Or stupid.
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Now playing: Electric Light Orchestra - Don't Bring Me Down
via FoxyTunes
Thursday 20 September 2007
Come Unto These Yellow Sands
I feel really tired. I got home about an hour earlier than usual today, because Mrs. Smith, my Editorial Writing teacher, wasn't in. Even so, the time has passed very quickly, and I feel tired and cold. I think I may go downstairs to make a cup of tea in a moment.
Today's Wake Up Writing exercise was to set a timer for 20 minutes and write anything with the title 'The Sleeper' until the alarm went. I was bored enough to attempt this. Now that I read over my text, however, I can see how patronising it sounds. I tried to go for a little twist ending, but I honestly don't know how effective it was. I don't really care, though. I just need to keep writing until I'm ready to go back to my stories. Today, I thought of a few more characterisation aspects for Elayne and Dorcas that sort of just appeared, and I was moving some papers in my room this morning when I came across a sheet of information about Doreen, which I vaguely recall writing a few weeks back. Apparently she hates her handwriting, and has an older half-brother who is half-American. I didn't remember any of this, so I'm glad I found the sheet.
Wait, damnit! Doreen is supposed to be an only child. Does it really matter? Goodness, now I have to think all of this through again.
The Sleeper
The library was old and grand, and quite remarkable in an architectural sense. It was dusty too, though; not because it was unused, but because nobody could be bothered to clean it. Row upon row, bookcases were covered in thick, grey fluff that fell to the floor whenever books were pulled off shelves, and muffled the footsteps of those who walked down the aisles. Some parts of the library were visited regularly, others were utterly abandoned. For example, nobody knew what books were kept at the back, for nobody had visited there. Because of the area's seclusion, it was easy for strange things to manifest there without ever being noticed. All sorts of fanciful creatures rested in the dark, safe from the outside world where predators of all sorts lurked, before leaving to make a new home elsewhere. The Sleeper, however, had been there for a very long time, since before the library had ever been built, centuries ago. The Sleeper had crawled into a space and fallen asleep there, and when the humans had decided to build in that area, they unwittingly built around The Sleeper, unaware of its presence. The Sleeper was unique, unlike any other creature, and it had one marvellous ability; it created Dreams. The Sleeper was constant, unwavering, and always had been, and thus the world has never been without Dreams. Even when awake, The Sleeper transmits images to all sleeping creatures, showing us what has happened in the past, what will happen in the future, even what is currently happening in other worlds. The Sleeper has a sad story, though. Thousands of years ago, it started to lose a grip on its power. Some people had started to investigate the Dreamworld, analysing it, trying to pick it to pieces and discover how it worked. The more that was uncovered, the less mystery The Sleeper had, and thus the less power it had. It grew tired and weak, travelling at a slow pace for several centuries, unable to carry out its job as effectively as it once did. And so, eventually its only option soon became clear to it; The Sleeper would have to fall into a deep slumber so that it could feed off the Dreams of other creatures. It stopped moving, and fell asleep where it was, unconcerned by the changing world around it. And now, thanks to The Sleeper's great sacrifice, the World of Dreams is self-perpetuating, and each and every one of us is under the watchful eye of The Sleeper, guardian against Nightmares.
That is an example of how not to write a History essay.
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Now playing: Apocalyptica - Enter Sandman
via FoxyTunes
Today's Wake Up Writing exercise was to set a timer for 20 minutes and write anything with the title 'The Sleeper' until the alarm went. I was bored enough to attempt this. Now that I read over my text, however, I can see how patronising it sounds. I tried to go for a little twist ending, but I honestly don't know how effective it was. I don't really care, though. I just need to keep writing until I'm ready to go back to my stories. Today, I thought of a few more characterisation aspects for Elayne and Dorcas that sort of just appeared, and I was moving some papers in my room this morning when I came across a sheet of information about Doreen, which I vaguely recall writing a few weeks back. Apparently she hates her handwriting, and has an older half-brother who is half-American. I didn't remember any of this, so I'm glad I found the sheet.
Wait, damnit! Doreen is supposed to be an only child. Does it really matter? Goodness, now I have to think all of this through again.
The Sleeper
The library was old and grand, and quite remarkable in an architectural sense. It was dusty too, though; not because it was unused, but because nobody could be bothered to clean it. Row upon row, bookcases were covered in thick, grey fluff that fell to the floor whenever books were pulled off shelves, and muffled the footsteps of those who walked down the aisles. Some parts of the library were visited regularly, others were utterly abandoned. For example, nobody knew what books were kept at the back, for nobody had visited there. Because of the area's seclusion, it was easy for strange things to manifest there without ever being noticed. All sorts of fanciful creatures rested in the dark, safe from the outside world where predators of all sorts lurked, before leaving to make a new home elsewhere. The Sleeper, however, had been there for a very long time, since before the library had ever been built, centuries ago. The Sleeper had crawled into a space and fallen asleep there, and when the humans had decided to build in that area, they unwittingly built around The Sleeper, unaware of its presence. The Sleeper was unique, unlike any other creature, and it had one marvellous ability; it created Dreams. The Sleeper was constant, unwavering, and always had been, and thus the world has never been without Dreams. Even when awake, The Sleeper transmits images to all sleeping creatures, showing us what has happened in the past, what will happen in the future, even what is currently happening in other worlds. The Sleeper has a sad story, though. Thousands of years ago, it started to lose a grip on its power. Some people had started to investigate the Dreamworld, analysing it, trying to pick it to pieces and discover how it worked. The more that was uncovered, the less mystery The Sleeper had, and thus the less power it had. It grew tired and weak, travelling at a slow pace for several centuries, unable to carry out its job as effectively as it once did. And so, eventually its only option soon became clear to it; The Sleeper would have to fall into a deep slumber so that it could feed off the Dreams of other creatures. It stopped moving, and fell asleep where it was, unconcerned by the changing world around it. And now, thanks to The Sleeper's great sacrifice, the World of Dreams is self-perpetuating, and each and every one of us is under the watchful eye of The Sleeper, guardian against Nightmares.
That is an example of how not to write a History essay.
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Now playing: Apocalyptica - Enter Sandman
via FoxyTunes
Tuesday 18 September 2007
Wake Up Writing
Because I really need to get back to writing (I haven't done anything for about a week, and I have all this stuff in my head, and I just can't put it down on paper in words) I figured I might as well carry out some of these exercises. I've only done one so far. I just wrote non-stop for about five minutes, without going back to edit anything, and I'm pretty pleased with what I came up with. This was the exercise I had to do:
Use any of the following to start a piece of fiction or non-fiction. If you’re feeling like a challenge, rather than just choosing the one that appeals most to you, see if you can actually complete a 500 word piece of writing on all of them (they don’t have to be connected - but of course if you can do that ….go you!)
1. It was humid the last time I saw ………
2. Despite the clinical cleanliness of the rest of the room, there was a dark stain spreading out across ………
3. Putting her hands on her hips, Mildred sighed deeply. “Count to 10″ she told herself as she looked at the ………
Here's what I wrote in response to the first prompt:
It was humid the last time I saw my brother decline the offer of pudding. We were in Troyes, France, in early August and the weather had been particularly hot that day. All four of us had beads of sweat forming on our foreheads for the most part of the day, and in the early evening, when we left the cool, air-conditioned safety of the hotel, we stepped out into the street only to be buffeted by the heat wave. We walked down the road to a church, and within minutes, my feet started to burn up. I took off my supermarket-bought pumps and walked along the pavement barefoot. The church cast brilliant shadows; it’s walls were dirty and grotty, but the general shape and composition of the building was magnificent, ancient-looking. It was at least four centuries old. As soon as I stepped out of it’s shadow, however, my feet started to burn on the hot concrete of the pavement. I hopped around, alternating between shadow and bright, red-hot ground surfaces.
We spent at least an hour walking around the town that evening, and it took us a while to settle upon a restaurant at which we would have our evening meal. The road we eventually decided to eat along was busy; many places had tables and chairs outside, so that we all ate in cramped conditions. Even once sitting down, a cool pineapple juice in hand, I felt extremely hot. Shorts and a tank top was all that I was wearing, and yet I could not have felt any different had I been wearing jeans and a ski jacket.
The meal was delicious, I know that much, although I do not recall specifically what it was. My parents got talking to two elderly British women at the table next to ours, and they mentioned Vimy Ridge and Arras, where they had stayed at the start of their own trip; I had been to Vimy Ridge before on a school trip, and at the mention of the place, I felt a sudden urge to visit there again. Once we had all finished our main course, the waiters came around again, and proffered dessert menus. My mum decided upon a chocolate ice-cream of sorts, but when it came to my brother’s turn to choose an item on the menu, he merely let out a groan and shook his head.
“It’s too hot to eat anything else,” he explained.
“Have you gone mad?” I asked him, surprised by his reaction. “When was the last time you turned down food?”
He did not answer. He ran a hand through his hair irritably and looked at my dad. “I just wanna go,” he muttered. “It’s too hot.”
He’ll probably never refuse pudding again. It must have been the weather.
Now that I read over it again, however, I realise that it's really not the most interesting of pieces. I'm pleased with how easy I found it to write, though; it pretty much just poured out, and - heck - at least it'll serve as a diary entry.
I have an idea for the second scenario, too, and that one is less anecdotal; it'll be a more fictional piece, inspired by a particular location in LOST (The Staff, the medical station that originally belonged to the Dharma Institute).
Seriously, though, I've been looking over the entries in this journal and although - admittedly - there really aren't that many, this place does still need a bit of humour injected into it. It's all dull and ... glum like Hull (I've honestly never been there, but I've heard bad things). Of course, the London attacks aren't really the sort of thing you should joke about, so I'm not saying that entry needs improving on, but currently this blog isn't really a reflection of my personality now, is it? It's hard, though, when I don't have an audience. Perhaps I should force some of my friends to join so that they can comment.
Or not.
They'd probably get a bit fed up of me making them creating loads of new online journals all the time.
Fine then.
Whatever.
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Now playing: Apocalyptica - South Of Heaven Mandatory Suicide (Slayer cover)
via FoxyTunes
Use any of the following to start a piece of fiction or non-fiction. If you’re feeling like a challenge, rather than just choosing the one that appeals most to you, see if you can actually complete a 500 word piece of writing on all of them (they don’t have to be connected - but of course if you can do that ….go you!)
1. It was humid the last time I saw ………
2. Despite the clinical cleanliness of the rest of the room, there was a dark stain spreading out across ………
3. Putting her hands on her hips, Mildred sighed deeply. “Count to 10″ she told herself as she looked at the ………
Here's what I wrote in response to the first prompt:
It was humid the last time I saw my brother decline the offer of pudding. We were in Troyes, France, in early August and the weather had been particularly hot that day. All four of us had beads of sweat forming on our foreheads for the most part of the day, and in the early evening, when we left the cool, air-conditioned safety of the hotel, we stepped out into the street only to be buffeted by the heat wave. We walked down the road to a church, and within minutes, my feet started to burn up. I took off my supermarket-bought pumps and walked along the pavement barefoot. The church cast brilliant shadows; it’s walls were dirty and grotty, but the general shape and composition of the building was magnificent, ancient-looking. It was at least four centuries old. As soon as I stepped out of it’s shadow, however, my feet started to burn on the hot concrete of the pavement. I hopped around, alternating between shadow and bright, red-hot ground surfaces.
We spent at least an hour walking around the town that evening, and it took us a while to settle upon a restaurant at which we would have our evening meal. The road we eventually decided to eat along was busy; many places had tables and chairs outside, so that we all ate in cramped conditions. Even once sitting down, a cool pineapple juice in hand, I felt extremely hot. Shorts and a tank top was all that I was wearing, and yet I could not have felt any different had I been wearing jeans and a ski jacket.
The meal was delicious, I know that much, although I do not recall specifically what it was. My parents got talking to two elderly British women at the table next to ours, and they mentioned Vimy Ridge and Arras, where they had stayed at the start of their own trip; I had been to Vimy Ridge before on a school trip, and at the mention of the place, I felt a sudden urge to visit there again. Once we had all finished our main course, the waiters came around again, and proffered dessert menus. My mum decided upon a chocolate ice-cream of sorts, but when it came to my brother’s turn to choose an item on the menu, he merely let out a groan and shook his head.
“It’s too hot to eat anything else,” he explained.
“Have you gone mad?” I asked him, surprised by his reaction. “When was the last time you turned down food?”
He did not answer. He ran a hand through his hair irritably and looked at my dad. “I just wanna go,” he muttered. “It’s too hot.”
He’ll probably never refuse pudding again. It must have been the weather.
Now that I read over it again, however, I realise that it's really not the most interesting of pieces. I'm pleased with how easy I found it to write, though; it pretty much just poured out, and - heck - at least it'll serve as a diary entry.
I have an idea for the second scenario, too, and that one is less anecdotal; it'll be a more fictional piece, inspired by a particular location in LOST (The Staff, the medical station that originally belonged to the Dharma Institute).
Seriously, though, I've been looking over the entries in this journal and although - admittedly - there really aren't that many, this place does still need a bit of humour injected into it. It's all dull and ... glum like Hull (I've honestly never been there, but I've heard bad things). Of course, the London attacks aren't really the sort of thing you should joke about, so I'm not saying that entry needs improving on, but currently this blog isn't really a reflection of my personality now, is it? It's hard, though, when I don't have an audience. Perhaps I should force some of my friends to join so that they can comment.
Or not.
They'd probably get a bit fed up of me making them creating loads of new online journals all the time.
Fine then.
Whatever.
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Now playing: Apocalyptica - South Of Heaven Mandatory Suicide (Slayer cover)
via FoxyTunes
Sunday 16 September 2007
Returned from the dead (how cool would that be?)
Obviously I haven't updated this blog in over two years. The main reason for that is because I kept forgetting about it, but also I was generally just too lazy to bother, even when I did remember about it.
Too much has happened between July 2005 and now, and I'm not going to bother trying to fill in the blanks, because that would take far too long. Besides, I have a few accounts of what I've been doing since then in several hand-written diaries that I keep, but also on my greatestjournal, which gets updated the most often; see the link to the side if you're mad enough to want to read it. Of course, you do have to be added as a friend to read my blog over at that site; I don't want weirdos advertising dating sites and giving me numbers to call for getting college degrees in less than two weeks, which is what I discovered when I came back here. Do people really have that much time on their hands?
Seeing as this is a sort of 'breaking the ice' entry, I'll leave it as it is, for now. I'll post more personal entries afterwards, although I'm honestly not sure if anyone is even reading this. Ah well, I like the layout and the design, so that's a good enough reason for me to continue using this blog.
Byesabye.
Too much has happened between July 2005 and now, and I'm not going to bother trying to fill in the blanks, because that would take far too long. Besides, I have a few accounts of what I've been doing since then in several hand-written diaries that I keep, but also on my greatestjournal, which gets updated the most often; see the link to the side if you're mad enough to want to read it. Of course, you do have to be added as a friend to read my blog over at that site; I don't want weirdos advertising dating sites and giving me numbers to call for getting college degrees in less than two weeks, which is what I discovered when I came back here. Do people really have that much time on their hands?
Seeing as this is a sort of 'breaking the ice' entry, I'll leave it as it is, for now. I'll post more personal entries afterwards, although I'm honestly not sure if anyone is even reading this. Ah well, I like the layout and the design, so that's a good enough reason for me to continue using this blog.
Byesabye.
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