Creative Writing – Page 10

I did not invent it…

Yes, it’s Harry Potter doggerel. I can only apologise. To everyone.

…I wrote it down in order to get it out of my brain.

When you’re walking home from work and an appalling piece of doggerel appears fully formed in your brain like an apparition of a rhinestone studded, cheeseburger scoffing Elvis, what can you do except write it down somewhere to get it out of your head? So here we go (brace yourself – this is a bad one).

Mouldy Voldy, afraid of death,
Terrified by his final breath,
Show him a boggart and he will behold,
His very own body, lying there cold,
Riddle, oh Riddle, oh Riddle named Tom,
His father a muggle, his mother long gone,
Hater of half-bloods because he’s ashamed,
That the blood of a muggle runs strong in his veins,

I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.

The Octopus!

Medical Cephalopods. What?!

Once again there’s a remake/remodel thread over at Whitechapel, which I’d take part in if…

a) I wasn’t an anti-social weirdo with an aversion to message boards
b) I could draw

As neither of these conditions apply I shall instead dabble in the black arts of pen-portraiture to inflict my idea upon the world.

The brief from Warren, such as it is, is as follows… (as it is is as?)

One of the more outré of the pulp characters—and given the genre, that’s quite saying something, believe me—the Octopus was actually the villain of the piece in his single issue, The Octopus v1 #4, 1939, written by…well, it’s not exactly clear. It might be Norvel Page, or it might be Ejler and Edith Jacobsen. A rather over-the-top mad scientist, the Octopus worked from a big city hospital and plotted world conquest. His appearance might explain his desire to dominate the world; he’s sea-green, with four “suction-cupped weaving tentacles” set above “hideously malformed” legs. He wears a small mask, and behind it can be seen two enormous, luminous, purple eyes. He was the leader of the Purple Eyes, a cult bent on world domination and mass destruction. The Octopus’ chosen method was an “ultra-violet ray” which devolved men and women and turned them into deformed, life-hating monsters hungry for human flesh and glowing with “ultraviolet purple.” Against the Octopus was set Jeffrey Fairchild, a young millionaire philanthropist (he eventually stopped the Octopus, of course). He had three identities. The first was Jeffrey Fairchild, hospital administrator. The second was was kindly Dr. Skull, the old man who made a practice of helping the poor in the slums. (His good works didn’t help him when everyone thought that he was the Octopus, however) In his other identity he was the “Skull Killer,” who fought crime and left a skull-imprint, ala the Spider, on his enemies. Fairchild was assisted by Carol Endicott, Dr. Skull’s nurse.

My idea is to turn this all on its head…

Observe if you will St Brendan’s Hospital, a run down and poorly funded medical facility on the waterfront close to where the river rolls it’s tribute of chemicals, fertilisers, PET bottles and dead dogs into the open sea. Twenty-five years ago a young octopus polyp was inadvertently sucked into the hospital’s cooling system. Against the odds it survived, feeding on biological waste, cafeteria remnants and bathing in the drug-residue soaked waters of the hospital drains – a lifestyle that caused it to change, developing super-human intelligence and a photographic memory…

Today the Octopus lurks in the hospital’s walls, pipes and air conditioning system. After a quarter century of observation (not to mention late night study in the medical library) it is a better diagnostician and surgeon than most of the hospital’s poorly paid staff. In the early hours it sneaks unseen from it’s bolt holes and performs life saving procedures on misdiagnosed patients, earning the hospital an increasing reputation for ‘miracle’ cures.

Posed against the Octopus is the dastardly Chief of Medicine, Doctor Jeffrey Fairchild. More than happy to pose for the press with the latest miracle recovery, he desperately searches the Hospital for the phantom that cures the patients he would rather let die. For Doctor Fairchild is embezzling the Hospital’s funding into his own personal accounts and every cure draws more attention, endangering his nefarious schemes…

So yeah, that’s my crazy idea. A medical octopus and an embezzling doctor. Surely that’d sell comics! 😀

A Poor Attempt at Mimicry

An attempt at channelling the style and spirit of Warren Ellis

In reference to this monstrosity…

Fabes: I am surprised they could afford the materials for this project, after getting ripped off $15/month for playing WoW to begin with….

Me: Well it looks like they’re university students so their government is probably paying them all sorts of grants to get up late, play Warcraft into the early hours of the morning then occasionally stumble into class where their lecturer asks “What are you doing for your big design project?” and they mutter out “… uh.. design… project… raid… caverns of num-yabisc… Warcraft….” and they then have no choice but to build some crappy hut with $12.50 worth of plywood claiming that the shitty design and finishing is so it resembles structures in the game and isn’t because they had zero time to work on it between carrying out mass raids and shovelling microwaved mac and cheese into their drooping maws while ogling at 3D models of elf maidens in armour so skimpy that it wouldn’t stop a mosquito let alone the axe of an orc on wolfback who probably carries mosquitoes with him anyway as a consequence of bad hygiene and all the blood he wears as war paint the bastard.

(This is an attempt at sounding like Warren Ellis. If he ever finds out about it he may well hunt me down and kill me 🙂

(Oh, and the guys who built the thing obviously put a great deal of thought and effort into it – I’m just being evil for humourous effect)

Sensory Impressions of Six Perth Rail Lines…

Your weekly dose of art nonsense

Midland Line: The muttering of commuters, the smell of stale beer and the soft snoring of drunks.

Clarkson Line: The whoosh of automatic doors and the yells of people trying to be heard over the traffic.

Fremantle Line: The clinking of wine-glasses, the smell of sea air and the tangled dreadlocks of surfers.

Mandurah Line: The whoosh of automatic doors, that new car smell and cries of “We have to take a bus the rest of the way?!”

Thornlie Line: The muttering of commuters and the grey hopelessness of the pre-dawn.

Armadale Line: Jungle drums and muffled screaming.

Reminisces

Don’t talk to me about the Kings of Leon!

The Kings of Leon. The Kings of Leon were a pack of bastards. Obsessed with reconquering Iberia from the Moors. “Hey” I’d say to them “The Moors aren’t that bad. They’re people just like you”. “But they’re evil!” they’d say “The Pope says so!” and how can you really argue against the Pope?

The Kings of Aragon were just as bad, with the added complication of an appalling amount of inbreeding. Knock-kneed, hump-backed dwarves the lot of them. And the lisps! A five minute conversation with one of them and you’d need a shower and change of clothes. And believe me, showering facilities in 12th century Zaragoza weren’t exactly up to scratch.

The food was great though – Aragon had the best cooks in the whole of Iberia. A meal at the royal court was almost worth all the spit. Some people will tell you the palace of Cordova was the place for fine cuisine, but the Umayyads had nothing on the cooks of Aragon. The things they could do with a duck, some cloves and some oranges would make you weep.

Charlemagne, he was a decent sort. Great company – the stories he could tell! I remember one time he had the whole Synod of Frankfurt in hysterics with a story about a gluttonous donkey. His one big regret was never learning to write properly. “Charlie” I’d say “You’ve got scribes to handle that for you”, but he was always embarrassed about it. “Even Abul can write better than I!” he’d exclaim and throw his quill (or when drunk – as he often was – his flagon) across the room, and his wife would have to talk him down and remind him that Abul was an elephant and hence couldn’t write at all. But apart from that he was a great bloke.

Can’t say the same about Pippin, but that’s another story.

The Ghost Who Lurks

Wheelchair bound freaks!

I am by nature a lurker. Rather than being involved with things I prefer to stand on the fringes looking in. If I won the lottery (not likely since I never buy a ticket) and decided to hire a nightclub to throw a big party for all my friends (well what would you do if you won the lottery then?), I’d spend most of it sitting in the office keeping half an eye on things through the security cameras. Like I said, a lurker.

The reason I mention this is because it explains my attitude to forums. I keep an eye on quite a few forums, but I am not a member of any of them. I just drop in and check the threads, often on a daily basis. And 90% of the time that’s fine. I feel no social impulse to jump in and take part and feel in no way deprived, isolated or left out.

Occasionally however I come across a thread where I’d actually have something to contribute. An idea, or a comment, or some experience relevant to the subject being discussed. It’s times like this that I wish I was a member of the board – not enough to actually sign up – but enough to be mildly irritated at my inability to contribute.

So, what better to do than ‘contribute’ through my blog? Sure, the people on the boards may never see it, and probably wouldn’t care if they did (apart from wondering who this anti-social weirdo is) but at least it gets the ideas out of my head.

So that’s what I’m going to do here.

The board in question is Whitechapel, one of the domains of Warren Ellis (King of the Internet), and the thread is the latest “Remake/Remodel” challenge. Rather than go to the trouble of explaining what this is, I’ll be lazy and let Warren explain it…

So, every week or two, I set all the artists at my message board a challenge called REMAKE/REMODEL. I pick a character — usually some ancient pulp character from the claggy depths of the public domain — and tell the artists to reinterpret said character from a modern perspective.

This week he selected a certain Ivan Brodsky (Note: At least one of the remodels is seriously not safe for work, or anyone of a sensitive disposition. You have been warned).

Now, I’m no artist. I can – if I try very hard – draw something that probably wouldn’t be laughed out of town, but it certainly wouldn’t be applauded either. But I have a very good idea of what I’d try to draw if I could draw, and if I was a member of Whitechapel, and will describe it here in a ‘pen portrait’.

(Yes, I realise Warren specifically outlaws pen portraits and hence would be likely to set his eels on me if I tried this kind of crap in his thread. But this isn’t his thread, it’s a blog post aimed in the general direction of his thread, so I think I can claim a certain amount of immunity. I hope. Get the iron trousers Marion! 🙂

So imagine if you will, a wizened figure in an electric wheelchair. His withered body is strapped in and his oversize head is held up with braces. The left side of his body and face are scarred and burnt, and his left arm hangs limply. His right arm grasps the joystick that drives his mechanical conveyance. Hung around his neck are the sacred insignia of a multiple faiths. A crucifix, a hand of Fatima, a seal of David, a Khanda and a dozen others.

Various metal rods and wires stick out of the left side of his bald head which is heavily scarred. His left eye is clearly artificial, a bulging, oversize globe painted with a spiraling, hypnotic pattern. His remaining eye has a piercing, penetrating quality with more than a suggestion of madness…

Dr Ivan Brodsky was a brilliant, if amoral brain surgeon who was the only survivor of an operating theatre explosion. Flying surgical instruments severed his spine and were driven deep into his brain, altering his neural pathways to let him perceive things men were not meant to see! His patented hypno-eye(tm) was a later innovation to enhance his hypnotic abilities.

Eat your heart out Stan Lee! 😀

So yeah. The pine nut curse has dissipated (for now), I’m busy cataloging and sorting the photos of my UK trip back in 2004 and uploading them to Flickr and I saw Watchmen yesterday which I quite enjoyed despite leaving my glasses at home and hence having to watch the entire film through my sunglasses. Apart from that it’s business as usual at the Wyrmcave. Boring, awful normal ;D

That is all.

A Crown of Marble

Various updates and the passing of the Modern Major General

It’s Canada Day today, and as a consequence JJJ Breakfast kept playing O Canada (the Canadian national anthem for those who require such enlightenment). I couldn’t help but notice that it (or at least the arrangement they were playing) bears quite a resemblance to part of Handel’s Water Music. This is not of any significance at all, just something I noticed 🙂

Similarly the guitar riff on the Grates new single Burning Bridges I believe it’s called, is taken directly from Pachelbel’s Canon. Again this does not signify.

On the subject of Canadians (which we were) everyone is probably waiting with bated breath (OK, maybe not) to hear how our expedition to the Supanova event on Sunday went. Well it really requires a full write up rather than the short summary I could fit in here, but suffice to say it was a fun day, despite my making a total fool of myself in front of Jewel Staite (which, lets face it, was likely to happen no matter what ensued).

(Jewel is Canadian, hence the segue – you knew that right?)

On a sadder sci-fi note I have to pause to mark the passing of Don S. Davis – perhaps most familiar as General Hammond in the Stargate franchise who passed away on Saturday at the age of 65. He will be missed.

As a rather inadequate tribute I here reprint the sonnet dedicated to General Hammond’s head I wrote many many years ago for a fanfic challenge…

I sing to all of Hammond, George by name,
The modern Major Gen’ral, it is said,
That many sing of valour, and of fame,
But person’ly I sing about his head,

A crown of marble it was once described,
By Hathor (she is evil, also old),
Her hair was artificial, you decide,
Perhaps beneath that wig she too is bald?,

But back to Hammond’s head, it well could scorch,
The eyes, reflecting any source of light,
By flouro-tube or halogen or torch,
By sun or moon a beacon shining bright,

The thing to note the most of Hammond’s hair,
Is just the fact it simply isn’t there,

Enough said.

The Tale of Hamish

Odd weather we’ve been having lately…

Early one morning Hamish woke up and looked out his window. He saw rainbows, moonbows, virga, waterspouts, tornadoes, St Elmo’s fire, a partial lunar eclipse, thunderheads, meteors, sundogs, arcs, haloes, lightning, firebolts, a parade of clouds in the shape of serpents, tigers and galleons, arorae, coronae, fata morganae, glories, an array of planets and asteroids, a swarm of comets shaped like swords and dragons, the heiligenschein, the Brocken Spectre, a rain of stars, a rain of fire and the Zodiacal Light.

“Bah!” said Hamish, and went back to bed.

Take heed – ’cause I’m a Taurine Poet

Check out the bull while the DJ revolves it

I got into work today (it was meant to be my day off but we’ve got so much to do before the Christmas break that I went in) and discovered – much to my annoyance – that someone had stolen my Red Bull!

(I keep a sugar free Red Bull in the office fridge, each morning I drink it and replace it with another one.)

Now some people might stick a note on their new can of Red Bull – something along the lines of “Hands off you thieving Micromine bastards!”. But why be crude when you can interesting? So my new can of Red Bull is now adorned with the following epigram…

Extra hours each week I pull,
So cursed be he who takes my Bull,

(OK it’s not a very good epigram, but it should get the message across 🙂

Lies! All Lies!

Barnes Wallis vs The Clash

Her Majesty’s Artillery Barrage, Brixton – more commonly referred to as the Guns of Brixton – is a military installation in southern London. Constructed under the direct supervision of Barnes Wallis in 1940 it was paired with a similar installation in the north London suburb of Leyton (known as ‘the Guns of Leyton’ – demolished in 1962).

The installation consists of eight ‘Boadicea’ class artillery pieces each standing 8.3 metres high with a barrel length of 30.5 metres and capable of firing once a minute. In full operation the facility consumes 40 tonnes of coal an hour (supplied by a branch line from Herne Hill railway station), projecting a ‘fire screen’ of burning coal fragments to an altitude of 1400 metres, protecting most of southern London from bombing attacks.

Barnes Wallis built the guns ‘out of his head’ with very few designs and under intense pressure. As such none of the guns are exactly alike, and many of the technical innovations he devised are poorly understood. This – combined with the fire screen’s tendancy to intefere with radar sensing and inability to defend against nuclear attack – prevented similar facilities being constructed after the war.

Several attempts to build smaller versions of the guns – mostly as an aid to figuring out how they work – have been made, but all have met with failure. Many prominant engineers have informally stated that the guns should not function at all. They remain fully operational however and are sometimes fired during times of special celebration – lighting up the entire south London sky. This practise is limited however by the need to ground all aircraft several hours before, and shut down Heathrow, Gatwick and London City Airports. The most recent firing was during the Queen’s 80th birthday celebrations in 2006.

The Guns of Brixton Experience is a tourist attraction based around the guns and operated by the National Trust. It opened in 1998 and operates guided tours several times a day.

The Guns of Brixton are counted as one of the Seven Wonders of the Second World War, along with the HMS Habakkuk making up the total British contribution to the list.