May 31st

Finding spirituality

By Padma

You seek refuge in words

That other people drop

I say there is no shame in that

Words are nobody’s country

You seek relief in novel concepts

Or old concepts in brand new forms

I say there is no harm in that

Old beds, new sheets, new sleep

 

To be cynical about cynicism

To be violently against violence

To noisily eulogize silence

Is refreshing on a fresh new day

You see wings unfurl

From behind the guru’s back

There’s nothing wrong with seeing angels

One feather, new faith, new flight


May 30th

Pilots - Chapter 1 XXX WARNING SUBJECT MATTER VERY SEXUALLY EXPLICIT MAY OFFEND XXX

By Inzie
WARNING, THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS SCENES (? - ok, sentences) OF A VERY EXPLICIT NATURE RIGHT FROM THE BEGINNING. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE LIKELY TO BE OFFENDED. STRICTLY FOR ADULTS ONLY.

It's my aim in this chapter, not just to begin the story, but to also take the piss out of men (of which I'm one) and the porn industry. Anyway, coments gratefully received - please nothing along the lines of, "I've written my complaint to the wordcloud and we want you to leave"  - so, no pitchforks and torches please.

Cheers

Inzie








Pilots


Chapter 1

“What the fuck are you doing?”

To be fair, I was finding it a little difficult to hear what she was saying due to the somewhat uncompromising situation I now found myself in.

“Do you know what a clitoris is?” her tone was definitely a little tetchy.

Of course I knew what a fucking clitoris was. My mind meandered back to GCSE Human Biology where I had come top in the class for naming the bits of the, er, fanny. Not a massive claim to fame – but a claim to fame nonetheless. The thing that had always troubled me whilst gazing at the artistic impressions of all the male and female giblets – both internal and external – was that they never looked the way they were supposed to. 

Which kind of brings me to the matter in hand – so to speak. Well, more the matter sort of sitting on my face and wriggling about in a frustrated manner that I’d only previously seen in my cat, Jake, when he’d had worms – so to speak.

My problem was that I found it very difficult, at this very close range, to discern the difference between one part of the female frippery from another. As such, I was, I felt, more than making up for my lack of technical know-how with an enthusiastic, albeit orally cramping, random and far reaching tongue waggle and thrust combo.

Previous conquests had been more than happy with my input. Previous conquests probably felt sorry for me, faked their orgasm and rolled over cursing the day when the batteries ran out on their vibrator leading me to be the ‘any port’ in this particular storm. The thing was with these fine women is that they didn’t complain. They clearly saw that I was doing my best, chose not to say anything about it at the time, and refused any offers of hanky and indeed panky in the future.

Jen, much to my dismay, was not one of these women. Was she doing a service to all those women that lay before me, or was she was just hedonistically wanting me to get it right for her? At this moment? Right now!

I suspect it was the latter.

“Just up a bit…” her demands were slightly muffled by her thighs.

“Not that far…” she stopped short of calling me names, but I knew what was on her mind.

“There! Fucking there! Now just do that and don’t fucking move!”

 Suddenly it felt like I was in a bank raid. Do that – but don’t move. What was I supposed to do? My tongue was really aching after all it’s earlier exaggerated movements. I prayed that I’d be able to keep going for just a little longer…

This was our first date. Jen was a nurse on one of the wards where I’d been social workering. She’d caught my eye and, hey, you know the rest… Well, in reality, she’d obviously seen me as some kind of interesting specimen upon which to experiment and had asked me out.

“D’you fancy going out for a drink?” she’d smiled whilst holding my gaze just long enough for me to engage the fight or flight response.

“Sure,” I began kind of nonchalantly, any thoughts of Mr. Galbraith, the elderly client who I’d come to visit just dribbled away – in a very similar manner to the rest of my response which kind of went, “weeaaargghh…” a sort of gentle, drooling sound that didn’t really mean terribly much.

Ignoring my obvious mental seizure, Jen carried on, “What about tonight? I finish up about 6, I could meet you in the Black Bull around 7?”

Given my earlier failure to produce any coherent noises, I nodded meaningfully and manfully, turned quickly and clattered into a drip stand that was attached to some unfortunate individual who was talking to his relatives on the hospital payphone. He screamed, a little ostentatiously if you ask me, as the needle that attached him to his drip was torn out of his arm. I smiled meekly at Jen and then scurried off down the corridor before I could wreak any more havoc.

****


‘Disinterested’ is probably the best word to describe Jen’s demeanour as she sat nursing her gin and tonic in the bar of the Black Bull. I had been terribly excited and had led the conversation on everything from Mr. Galbraith’s massive hernia to the distressing news that West Brom had just been knocked out of the cup by Burnley.
I knew it wasn’t going well when she looked up at me with a bored expression. That caused me to babble more and faster.

“Listen John, I’ve had a hard day at work and I’m really tired…”

Fuck, I thought, and it had all looked so promising…

“I’m not up to all this small talk – so can we just go back to my place and fuck?”

So that’s what we did. Well, that was partly what we did. The rest of it was a kind of journey through every pornographic fantasy I’d ever had – and several pornographic fantasies I hadn’t.

What is the social etiquette when a woman you’ve only recently met manages to take the whole of your erect penis in her mouth? Thankfully I managed to stifle my first urge, which was to clap, replacing it with an equally embarrassing response which was to say, “Well done!” slightly more enthusiastically than I’d have liked.

I was genuinely amazed. Sure, I’m not endowed with the biggest cobblers in town, but I couldn’t help but think about the sword swallowers who’d appeared on a variety of shit magic shows in my youth. I wasn’t terribly sure if I found this erotic. It was definitely a neat trick and, if much of the internet porn I’d waded through in my time was anything to go by, it was what guys really loved. For me though – well, I could have done with just a little more kissing.

She came on, er in my mouth with celebratory cries and yells that were only slightly less ambivalent than her demeanour had been in the pub. She looked at me scornfully with a look that implied, “Thank fuck for that…”

I wasn’t done yet. Oh no, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

“Do you want to fuck me up the arse?” she still sounded slightly aggressive and almost businesslike. I wondered where we might go with the next suggestion if I refused. Again, shagging someone – ideally female – up the arse was something I felt I really should be terribly enthusiastic about. I’d never done that kind of thing before – and had never been in a position where I felt safe enough or even interested enough to suggest it.

“I, er…” I rubbed the short hairs on the back of my neck as I looked down at the floor – avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Go on,” she enthused, playfully tweaking my hard nipples that acted like mini loudspeakers, declaring, “This poor, inexperienced and naïve fool is willing to try anything you come up with…”

She rifled through several drawers in the Ikea cabinet next to her bed. With a satisfied sigh she pulled out a plastic bottle with the word “JOY” emblazoned on the side of it in jagged yellow letters.

Then she assumed the position. You know, the ‘anal sex’ position - well, the doggie-style position with which I had some level of familiarity.  She used the handy pump dispenser on the bottle to squirt the viscous gel-like substance over her arse-hole. Her, erm, chocolate starfish. It glistened as she fingered the lubricant in.

My heart was pounding. Not out of rampant male arousal – more out of anxiety and fear. Fear of losing my anal-sex virginity during an unexpected liaison with a nurse that I didn’t know terribly well. Fear of doing something that I wasn’t terribly sure that I wanted to do. Fear of all these thoughts getting in the way of my performance and my cock going all flobbery under the psychological pressure.

I could hide nothing from my penis.

   Usually I think of Russian tractors to ensure the longevity of my performance. If I really focused I could see the hairy faces and warts on the faces of the peasant women collecting the harvested potatoes – this could keep my coming to fruition at bay for ages.

Inexplicably and somewhat excruciatingly, I found myself not only struggling with the rights and wrongs of sticking my willie up someone’s bum, I was also doing this under the impassive gaze of the horny handed mothers of toil. My brain had engaged a kind of Pavlovian response – we’re in bed with a woman of the opposite sex, so to prolong the pleasure/ agony/ suspense, call it what you will, we have to think about these gnarled lovelies.

Flaccido Domingo springs to mind.

My internal dialogue suggested that if I were to do the deed, then we might have to mentally introduce some more attractive guests to the forefront of my mind. I flicked through the readily available images I’d prepared earlier. Suddenly I could see a couple of women with whom I’d had the pleasure in the past doing all the lovely kissy, sucky, licky things that I’d particularly enjoyed. Their hair cascading over my cock as they gave it their full, undivided attention.

That did the job. I knew that this psychological tussle would continue for a while yet and that this would have a profound effect on my knob. As such, I seized the moment and stuck my cock straight up Jens’ arse.

She made a strange pain/ pleasure kind of sound as I began to thrust and er, unthrust in the statutory shagging motion.

It felt odd. Whereas the front bottom of your average lady friend is lined with a mucusy tube of tissue and muscle that welcomes the sword of love in a similar way to peristalsis welcoming a sausage, for example, at the other end. The arse, conversely, has none of these accoutrements. It has a tight elastic sphincter that provides limited friction and rubbage to one’s ning nong. I felt that I’d pushed my cock into a tight hole only to find a large underground cavern on the other side. Had I been a pot-holer, I’d have been delighted.

However…

After a minute or two of thrust and counter thrust I decided that this really wasn’t my cup of tea and withdrew. I hoped that Jen would have further plans for my journey.

Unsurprisingly, she did. Wahay! She decided that enthusiastic oral attention would be what I required. I was carried away in a wonderful fugue state of ecstasy as I watched her blonde bob going up and down on me. This was going to be quick.

I could feel the point of no return come and go. I was just about to…

Suddenly, she stopped sucking and clenched her hand hard around my cock in what could only be described as a vice-like grip.

‘Preventative’ is a word that applies well here. She held me like that for 30 seconds, a minute, a week, four years… who knows? Her grip yielded and she wanked and sucked me until I ejaculated in her mouth.

I’ve always had a bit of a problem with the word, ‘ejaculate’. I feel that, if the word hadn’t been made up by a man, then it was surely a man who had first applied it in this sort of situation.

Ejaculation to me implies an explosion of stuff, of fluid, of passion – similar to the water gushing out of a fire hydrant after being knocked over by an out of control police car. The disappointing grunt and subsequent or, indeed co-ordinated, grunt and squirt that at the very most produces a teaspoon of sperm and semen, does not, to my mind, constitute an ejaculation.

Now, I’ve got to say that I’m with my male counterparts that live in internet pornland in that I find doing the old grunt ‘n’ squirt into a woman’s mouth terribly horny.

Why?

Why would that be remotely sexy? Why is it sexy when some guy on the net does this to some woman floating around in the same digital ether?

Am I some misogynist monster, dominating and claiming my woman by marking my territory?

Am I gay? I mean, watching some guy splodge onto some woman’s face… If it had been custard that he’d squirted into her mouth that wouldn’t be anywhere near as arousing. There is something about it having to be the male lovejuice…

Ok, if it was just a guy having a wank and spunking off into space, would that turn me on?

Oh fuck, maybe I am gay?

It’s displacement. I’m not looking at that guy per se, I’m imagining it’s me doing the squirty love thing. So when I’m imagining a guy having a wank, am I thinking about me having a wank?

Fuck, I think I’ll file this under, “Things not to discuss with your friends.”

“Cup of tea?” I hadn’t even noticed Jen get up, let alone leave the room.

“Er, yeah, thanks,” I was amazed that we could still speak to each other as humans after what had gone on.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, Honey?” I’m fucking funny, I am.

“I mean, do you take sugar?” she snarled

“I’m sweet enough?” I offered.

“Is that a ‘Yes’ then?”

“Yes.”

I took the tea to mean that I wouldn’t be having a sleepover at Jen’s. So, gone was the need for the “How do you like your eggs in the morning – unfertilized” gag.

Ambivalence had given way to a cold indifference. Even with my clumsy, uninsightful and manly ways, I could tell I was no longer welcome here. I drank back the scalding tea so quickly it tore away the inside of my mouth. Ok, I drank the hot tea and it hurt a bit.

“I’ll be off then, Jen,” I said, ambling towards the front door.

“Great, see you then,” she barely looked up from whatever deed that suddenly required her urgent attention in the kitchen/ diner.

“I’ll see myself out…”

It had to be raining. An apt obituary to the night. Fuck, how odd was that?

***

“John?” it was Jen, I didn’t know she had my work number.

“D’you fancy going out tonight?”

It had been three days since I’d heard from her. I’d tried to contact her at work and at home, but without any joy. I hadn’t been playing hard to get.

“Hi Jen, I thought you’d…” What? Died? Fled the country? Decided that you never wanted to see me again?

“…I thought you’d, er, lost my er, number…”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, I er…” there was no way of getting out of this without sounding completely pathetic.

“I thought we could go to Scorpion tonight.”

My heart sank. Throbbing music and lasers. Probably pole dancers. Fuck, probably dancing. I hate fucking dancing. I feel so bloody self-conscious. What does it mean? What’s the purpose of it?

“You do like a bit of a boogy, dontcha?” she coaxed. Shit, I could imagine her doing a little demonstrative shimmy as she said it.

“But it’s a school night…” It was. It was a bloody Wednesday. What kind of lunatic goes out in the middle of the week? Well, sure I’d done it as a student, but that was in pursuit of extended drinking hours. That, and the prospect of bagging off with some inebriated soul who should know better. The thing was, you couldn’t hear what people were saying. God, you couldn’t hear yourself think.

“I’m not working tomorrow,” she insisted, “C’mon, I’ll have you in bed before 2…”

“Yeah, I know, and if not you’ll make sure I go home…”

“Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

“Ok…” Fuck. Shit and fuck. Assert yourself, John!

“Great, I’ll pick you up at 9?”

“Er, where?”

“Your house. Oh, one thing – I haven’t got any money. I don’t get paid until the weekend. You don’t mind subbing me a few quid?”

Fuck. Dancing, going out to play on a week night, and now I’m paying for someone else…

“Ok…” I wonder if she’ll kiss me tonight, “You don’t mind if we finish up kind of early tonight?”

“Absolutely fine – it’ll be a quiet night – seriously.”

***

When Jen turned up that evening her appearance, and general demeanour come to that, didn’t exactly scream ‘quiet night out’.

Her freshly washed blonde hair was tied up in floppy ‘shag me now’ bunches. She wore almost no make-up except for a very ripe and shiny red lipstick. I remember reading that red lips were a sign that a woman was in oestrus. That’s why lipstick came into being – to make women more attractive to men by indicating that they were more, er, receptive.

As I stood gazing upon the deliciously sexy form that was Jen, my mind drifted to the events of that night. All the sexual gymnastics mixed in with lipstick into a great erotic splurge.

This was all brought to a sudden handbrake halt when I thought of rimming - the act of licking someone else’s bum bit – tied in with Rimmel, a famous manufacturer of lipstick… What does it all mean?

What about Red ring showers?

On her tee shirt, as a kind of homage to a famous high street brand, the word ‘Fuck’ was printed across her breasts. Less of an invitation, more of a demand.

Oh God.

“You look…” Nice? Shaggable? Like the woman I want to spend the rest of my life/ evening/ next twenty minutes with?

She smiled her smile and I was carried off to Scorpion.

As expected, it was shit. There were lasers and smoke and an astonishingly loud pulsating fucking racket.

“I’ve made a policy with myself never to sleep with anyone twice…” she bellowed at me over the sticky glass table.

“What never?” I may have sounded crushingly disappointed.

“Not at the moment anyway,” she grinned as she flicked my nose and vanished off to the dance floor.

I’d read somewhere that dancing was a kind of elaborate foreplay – or perhaps a display of property – or availability – or physical prowess. Whatever I’d read, didn’t to my mind, mean I’d ever have to actually do it.

So that was my evening. I sat and watched Jen dancing – for whatever reason – as the sound and lights gradually melted my brain. Occasionally she’d skip back, grinning so happily, flattering me with her presence – a bit like a daughter chatting to her old dad – until I gave her some more money for a drink, and then off she’d go again.

I drank too many expensive bottled -  ‘I can’t believe it’s not chemicals’ – ciders. I looked around at all the dancing folk. What were they getting out of this that I couldn’t even begin to see? I looked at some blondesque women, who, to the casual observer, had stripy hair. Why was stripy hair supposed to be attractive? What bloody maniac decided that stripy hair was going to be the next big thing?

Jen was dancing with two men in tight white shirts and significant hair product. They appeared to be playing some kind of sexual ping-pong with her as she laughed and whirled between them.

By the time she came back to the table I was astonishingly drunk and not a little maudlin.

“I’m going back to Steve’s tonight,” she yelled at me, “He and Mark are having a bit of a – er – party…”

My face felt several sizes too big as I managed to drool, “All I want is a girl with stripy hair…”

Jen afforded me a patronising, “Aww…” before she rubbed my head and vanished off with fucking bastard Mark and Steve.

Aside from its wonderful self-marketing properties, alcohol has a number of other fantastic intrinsic talents when blended with the human grey-matter. In this case it was the sudden, almost compulsive, desire to return home. It didn’t matter if the drink was half-finished. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t bagged off. Home and bed were all that mattered.

“Hi!” suddenly a pretty woman clattered through my malaise.

I squinted at her in a vain attempt to focus. She appeared to pulsate. Through the fog though I could see she had shoulder length stripy hair.

“Jen sent me over…” she smiled.

“Hi,” I grinned, “stay here, I just have to go to the loo…”

With the music from Mission Impossible one, two and three playing loudly in my subconscious I sped to the bog. If I allowed myself to metabolise any more of that chemical cider nonsense, I’d be incoherently pickled.

“I must puke, I must puke…” went the inner mantra.

I did, indeed, vomit. A golden waterfall of apples and bile. It wasn’t exactly an advert for shampoo, but it was wonderfully purging.

But no-one’s going to snog you with a mouthful of fetid flotsam and jetsam, are they? That’s why God invented the handy, buy in the bog and stick them in your gob, chewable toothbrushes.

I piled four into my mouth and chewed and crunched and licked but the taste of the lining of my stomach wouldn’t go away. I looked at the condom machine. Ribbed, flavoured, fuck, you could even buy ones with a little vibrator on the end…

Flavoured!

Ok, they were whiskey flavoured, but well worth a try. I pumped in my money, got myself four flavoured condoms and quietly secreted myself in one of the cubicles. I opened all the wrappers and, without a moments thought, stuck them all in my mouth and chewed vigorously.

Flavoured my fucking arse! They all tasted like rubber with a hint of God knows what. I momentarily panicked as I thought, “Rubber breath” but really, I was too pissed to care.

I got back to the table to find stripy haired lady waiting for me. How lovely. It was time for the smoochy dances and we found ourselves draped languidly all over each other…

Then I woke up.

This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t my bedroom. This wasn’t my house. I have a friend, Gordon, a chemical engineer who travels around the world, who, when he finds himself in predicaments such as this looks at the ceiling and returns to his default setting which is the Hotel Moskva in Moscow. So, if he’s not at home, and he’s got no idea where he is – he’s usually there.

I, unfortunately, had no such default setting. If I wasn’t in my own bed I’d usually close my eyes, think, “There’s no place like home” three times, and then find myself… well, in the same place really.

I looked around for clues. In the darkness I could make out the gently snoring form of stripy haired woman.

That wasn’t good enough for me. I needed more. Where did she live? Was it near me – if it was then that was a good thing because I had to get changed out of my vomit spattered clothes –

Oh Jesus, had I really chewed on condoms?

I also needed my car for work. What kind of moron goes out drinking on a school night?

Oh bloody fucking shit.

I didn’t even know stripy haired woman’s name. I’d actually done talks on sensible sexual behaviour among teenagers, and now here I was. Well, here I was. At least if I knew her name, I wouldn’t feel… well, I wouldn’t feel such a tart.

I could make out the shape of her bag on the floor next to the bed. If I could find her purse, there must be something in there, like a driving licence, an identity badge of some sort to tell me what her name was.

I quietly rolled out of my side of the bed, round to her side where the bag was. I gently opened it and looked inside – a veritable Aladdin’s cave of womanly accoutrements.

I reached inside and quietly lifted out her purse/ wallet thing. It opened out into three sections. There was an NHS card in one of the transparent windows. K. Wilson it said underneath a ridiculously unflattering photo. I decided I couldn’t call her Ms Wilson for the rest of the morning, and so I dug deeper in my search for her identity.

God, she had loads of credit and store cards. I spread them out across the bottom of the bed as I went. I could just read them in the half-light. Many of them didn’t give me any further information – until I got to her bankcard – her name was Kate.

But was she a ‘Kate’, or a ‘Katy’ or a ‘Kitty’ or..? I emptied all the contents of her purse on the floor. Surely there must be something?

“What are you doing?” Kate, Katy, Kitty sounded kind of drowsy, but a little angry too.

“I was just…” and then I looked at the fruits of my labour. The open, rummaged through bag, the empty purse with all the credit and debit cards lined up across the foot of the bed, and the little pile of money and bits of paper on the floor between my legs…

“I know what this looks like…” but what? Go on John, impress her. But what? You were rifling through all of her personal possessions, because?

“I’m phoning the police,” she looked at me defiantly as she pressed 999 on her phone.

“I, er…” I had nothing to say. Should I run away?

“Police please,” she almost spat.

“Can’t we...?” What? What could we do? Dance? There’s a great idea. Talk? Yeah, we could talk – ‘So, how often do you have guys home who help themselves to your things?’

Calmly, she gave her name and address. The good news was that she lived just round the corner from where I stayed. I could have gone home and had a shower, got changed and picked up my car. However, things were now looking altogether less certain.

She explained how she’d invited me home – paused while she was admonished by the voice on the phone – defended herself by saying I was a friend of a friend, and then explained how she found me emptying her bag and wallet.

She was succinct and factual. I thought she did rather well in the circumstances.

She put the phone down.

“They’ll be here within an hour…” she sat on her bed, folded her arms and stared at me, daring me to make a false move…

“Will I just pop your things back in your bag?” I offered brightly.

“That’s evidence – a crime scene,” she snarled.

I nodded in agreement and sat like a naughty primary school child awaiting the headmaster.

We sat there for the full hour. I didn’t want to leave because I thought that would make me look even more guilty in the circumstances. I thought I’d be able to talk to whatever police officer who arrived and explain away this whole unfortunate affair. Goodness, how we’d laugh.

Bad cop, bad cop finally arrived in the shape of PC Berryman and WPC Salisbury. He was tall and slim with a slightly pointy nose and piercing grey eyes. She was about a foot shorter, quite Mediterranean looking. I imagined her taking her hat off as her glossy auburn hair cascaded down her back, her lips pouting in wet anticipation…

Kate, Katy, Kitty explained what had happened. I nodded enthusiastically in agreement at all the bits I could remember.

“Did we really not have sex?”

She rolled her eyes and blushed slightly, “You fell asleep and started snoring before your head it the pillow…”

“Oh…”

“You’ll have to come back to the station,” said WPC miserable.

“Fine, I understand, it would be more than your paperwork could stand to have a section that said, ‘Misunderstanding – no further action’ in it, would it?”

“It wasn’t a fucking misunderstanding, you were going through my bag while I was asleep…”

“…and I told you that I was just looking for something with your name on it,”

“You could have asked me when I woke up…” she did have a point.

“We’ll have to handcuff you, sir,” PC Berryman had got right into his role.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, my name’s John. And you don’t have to handcuff me  - I’ll come quietly…”
“Sorry sir, health and safety. If you refuse, we could call for backup,” PC Berryman would have made a great straight man for someone. He’d even have made a good straight man for many of the straight men I’d seen.

“Health and safety!? Health…” I was stammering with incredulity, “She,” I said pointing at WPC Salisbury, “Would have no difficulty putting me in the back of the police car on her own. I’m a fucking social worker. I’m I lover, not a fighter…” God, did I really say that?

I put out my hands and PC Berryman cuffed me. I smiled a goodbye to Kate, Katy, Kitty as I was ushered out of the door. I was amazed by the amount of people out and about on the street. The whole world seemed to stop and watch me as I was escorted, handcuffed, into the police car.

May 29th

Impressed with Ads

By Caducean Whisks
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Has anyone else noticed the aptness of the Google ads at the bottom of the pages?  The program that selects them must read the page looking for key words and pick ads accordingly.  I’m soooooooooo impressed.

 

Here are some good ones I’ve noticed:

 

When the page I’m looking at features Cyprus Rachael and her cucumber allergy, the ads are:

“Hotels in Paphos”, “150 Hotels on Cyprus”, Cheap Itchy Skin Bumps” (ooh! Great!  I’ll take an armful).

 

On my own wall:

“Write a novel on-line” – um, yeah, some of my posts are a bit long.

 

On Pim’s “Love Me Do 8” in Critiques (which features a cat falling off a roof):

“Dabners for Cat Posts”, “Cat care articles + books”, “Argos Pet Insurance”.

 

On Aonghus’ spooky Talisman 7 thread:

“Easily Hypnotize Anyone”.

 

On the main wall when aphids and pesticides were being discussed:

“Science of bedbug control”, “Organic Pest Control”, “Pest Control London”

 

On the main wall when everyone was making tea, there were lots of ads for tea, teapots and the like.

 

On the Great Word Cloud Bazaar:

“Need a Novel Agents”, “Literary Agents”, “Secrets of Book Writing”, “Looking to get Published?”

 

On Spangles’ thread, the Psychic’s Bible:

“Psychic”, “Free Spiritual Numerology”, Your free clairvoyance”.

 

On my own “Song of the Suburbs” starring a dilapidated house being renovated (and a dog):

“Bespoke Landscapes Surrey”, “Pink Dog Collars”, “Laurel from £2.90 each”, “Tree Surgeon Romford”.

 

On Heidi’s short story, “Rough Trade”:

“Dental Implants from £397”, “Cosmetic Dentistry”, “My Dentist’s Secret”.

 

On Ancient Woodland’s “Chained Chaos” blog:

“Apprentice Electricians”, “Electrician Courses”, “Eye Laser”, “Become a Green Plumber” – no I don’t get those, either, in relation to Woody’s story but I've only read the first chapter so farIt may become clearer when I've read the rest.

 

On Uncut Edge’s Wall:

“Cable Knit Sweaters”, “Ladies Pretty Knitwear” – I don’t get those neither, nor, but there is clearly a theme going on.  Ah!  Yes I do – there is a post on cable-knit sweaters higher up!

 

On the 4th Competition (undamaged thread) about escaping words:

“Word”, “Learn English Vocabulary” - absolutely!

 

All in all, a fun way to avoid doing the paperwork or cutting the grass.

I’m sooooooooo impressed.

 

Whisks

May 29th

Wednesday, 10 October 2007 - The fourth in the series...

By EzBloke

So, maybe I had calmed down by this time...? There seems to be less anger, agression and general naughty word...ness. I do seem to have slipped into "90's young duuuude" mode and not in any enjoyable way. I've cleaned this up a bit - spelling mistakes plus "gonna" and "coz" have been, for the most part, culled. Thankfully. My aplogies if this is going off the "boil", I was well chilled by now...

                                                       ***

Ok, today's entry is about the language I use. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I like the following ideas; TLA's spelt out (Yuessohay) and I've extended this - more later. George Bernard Shaw's fabulous fish; GHOTI. So now I have two languages and I use them in two different ways. Don't panic, if you get confused I'll, um, carry on regardless… Let's face it, I really haven't got a bloody clue myself so you don't stand a hope.

So let's start with the language of emohem. Mind Over Matter, remember? Oh ffs, you are useless - look back. You don't have far; this is still a new blog ok? Lazy buggers.

Right so that's all well and good but how to divide up the words, as every word is now it's phonetic first letter, you would for example end with one word like this; Tecuebeefjayohteelde. (The Quick Brown Fox Jumped Over The Lazy Dog) Which is a gobfull and no mistake; soooooo. We need a rule to help and what better rule than the rule of three? Every third letter is a new word. Tecuebe efjayoh teelde. Spanking! Now, the important thing to remember is that this is a magical language. So, where all other languages are interpretable, this one isn't. It just isn't. How do you know that the above three words don't mean Tiny Queen Beatrice Finally Judged Olaf The Latvian Demon? You don't. And that means that it's a good language for the mysteries of emohem. Of course, the emohem expert needs to know, so with every use of the language the speaker/writer/whatever leaves a tiny blob of explanatory emohem - like a wax seal. Goddamn this is good.

 

Now what if our emohem is an expert? Let’s call him and emohemee. Ooooo, these are longer than three but not so long as to make sense; An emohem ee. That just looks shite. So, lets use the fantasy writers most over used tool; the apostrophe. Now, we are taking the piss a bit really, 'coz let's face it, how many times do you see those wonderful names and foreign words (and we know their foreign 'coz they've got an apostrophe in 'em, geddit?) split to help us with our diction? All the time, no?

 

Here we go; emohem'ee. Hmmmm, nearly but not quite; How about em'ohemee? Oh yes.


Ok, a quick squiz down the alphabet and set the words up;

A=Ay, B=Bee, C=See, D=Dee, E=Ee, F=Ef, G=Gee, H= urk! Um, come back to that one…, I=Ay… awww tits, come back to that one too…, J=Jay, K=Kay, L=El, M=Em, N=En, O=Oh, P=Pee, Q=Cue, R=Ar, S= Es, T= Tee, U=Yu, V=Vee, W= eh? Ah…uh…fuck it, back to that one too…, X=Ex, Y=Wy, Z=Zee or Zed
Whoop!
Although, I reckon you can prolly spot what is fundamentally wrong with the old language. Yep, there is an awful lot of EEEEE's, so many my heads spinning…

 

Ok, new rule needed; Where we have two vowels together, like say "Up Is Down" (a direction altering chant to be used when faced with towers that need to be climbed or something…) How the fuck should I know? I'm just pigging winging this as I go. Shut up. So Up Is Down would be Yuaydee - which is a bit of a mouthful when spoken for the first time BUT if we say that every time a double vowel hits the beginning of a word we swap the second vowel to the actual vowel… hold on, I’m getting lost here… oh, yeah so the second is left as a real one;

YuiDee - Yoo-eye-dee (much easier to pronounce).


If, on the other hand, the vowels are together at the end of the word, then we make the first vowel the real one; Level Eighty One is Eleeoh so it becomes Eleoh. Get it? No? Tough, it's happening. And it's in there by the bucket load!

 

Ok, one more slight hitch; triple written vowels; Level Eighty Four looks like this Eleeef, which just looks stupid, so lets get rid; new rule; written triple letter vowels; the double is shortened to a single; Eleef looks better.


One more rule just because I thought I was fucking brilliant; at the end of a word E is replaced with I but still pronounced EE;

B=Bi, C=Si, D=Di, E=i, G=Ji, P=Pi, T=Ti, V=Vi, Y=Wi and Z=Zi

This way when discussing the novel you'll be in a secret society that knows how to pronounce the words properly won't you? My advice; don't correct their mispronunciation, just look smug knowing they are soooo pathetic and have not cracked open this blog. Winner. Or you could be the novel guru that does correct them and help them by pointing them toward this blog. If you wanted…

So, still have a bunch of issues; H, A & I, and W

Here's how I got round them;  H = Aitch, or Aich or Aytch but mostly avoiding using those words if you can…! A=Ay or Eigh (as in Eight) and I=Aye. Ha!

So we'll wang up some basic emohem practitioners;
Em’ohembe – MOMB – Mind over matter beginner,
Ayem’ohembe – AMOMB – A mind over matter beginner,
Tiem’ohembe – TMOMB – The mind over matter beginner;
Em’ohemyu – MOMU – Mind over matter user;
Em’ohemee – MOME – Mind over matter expert;
Em’ohemti – MOMT – Mind over matter teacher;
Em’ohempi – MOMP – Mind over matter pupil;
Ha! You get the idea. So that pretty much wraps up the magical language. Lot's of chanting and shit; some written toss yada yada yada.

Now, the names of the characters I've already explained, and as I come up with some more; I'll drop 'em on here. Honest.

So I came across another piece of advice in one of those bloody books from EzBird;
Place.
Oh for fucks sake, what now?
It is important for the reader to have a sense of place.
Eh?
When reading a new novel, no matter what, it is good to have a sense of familiarity.
Oh crap.

But, now, there's the place names that need thinking about. Like, whilst I'm not interested in telling the tale from the beginning; On the planet blah in the land of bleh, I might just as well write it was a dark and stormy night… Oooo, that's pretty good actually, no, no, you can't… can you…? No. Stobbit. Stupid.

 

Back to place. So, according to the long and… dreary … article, dear readers, apparently you lot get lost finding your arse. Maybe I'm only selling me book to bright readers? Ok, maybe not. I figure that make it a really niche, niche, market. You know I'm only kidding right? Right? Hey! Where are you going? I was only joking, oh come on! Maybe I'll tell you about the article on not thinking you are smarter than your readers another time…!
:o)

So, back to place; the theory is that if you write your novel about, say New York, then knowing the place and making the odd reference helps the reader settle into the "place" especially if they have been to or live in New York themselves. In fact, there is a bit of a "Hey! I know where he's talking about! It's just over there! Behind that car. That's on fire."

 

But, in my novel there is no such "place" - not in reality; it's all in my head. So how do I get you there? How do I describe what I really feel awkward about? How do I tell you that the world is unknown, I have no idea how big the planet is? Oh god! Do I have to know how the solar system works too? The Universe? Are there stars? Moons? Shit, how would I know? Oh Christ this is going to be a complete fuck up isn't it? Pull yourself together. The audience is listening.

 

So let's see, a good start is to name the village. Now that is easy; I'll nick it from a couple of Ozzies I know (That's a whole different story). Hell, I nick so much from them already, how the hell would they know? So here goes; Leicestershire. Loughborough. Or as they like to call it looga barooga… You gotta love those antipodeans.


So Sariro comes from, ah, let's wheech it around a tad; Luga B'ruga (Gotta have an apostrophe, no?) There ya go.

 

Now, these guys run to "safety" so where are they running to? A place in the mountains but they'll not get there without passing thru another place. Big breath. Ok, this one is for EzBirds brother (also RIP, damn this is depressingly regular); he was taking Bird (his girlfriend of the time) on holiday. She wanted to go somewhere exotic. He didn't. So he told her he was taking her to Mablé Torpé. Or, as we in the UK know it; Mablethorpe…! The guy was a genius!

So, as he was the quintessence of "Live" as in "Live your Life", I dedicate that to him. I am Living my dream, he lived his. Thankfully computers can't kill you. They can't… can they? Computers? Kill you? Can they? Hell, why am I asking, you lot? Sheesh. I must be going mad.

Ok, so that's language and stuff covered. Now what else was I going to tell you? Oh yeah, Beasties. Hmm - now this is the reverse of reverse psychology… or psychology as I like to call it… (chortle). Here's how it goes; pick up a book called "How to interpret your dreams" or some such and spin through it looking for natural or supernatural imagery and you'll get pretty the much same thing; unicorns = penis, horses = penis, dragons = hot penis; cats = soft fluffy…penis (?). What I'm trying to say here is that no matter what animal you chose, real or imaginary it's your penis. If you are a women, well that's different. It's someone else's penis, obviously…

So, take that and spin it on it's head a touch. And we have my pincipia Eydeene. Eydeene is this planet. Did I not mention that? Ooops. I D N E. It Does Not Exist, simple. Are you getting any of this?

The point is every mythical (in our world) beastie is not a personification of some male organ (on Eydeene); but rather a power trip of “mankind”. This means that every beastie I introduce will have started with a man. A plain old simple bi-ped. Dragons? Bi-ped. Centaurs? Bi-ped. And so on and so on. How about that?


The next update may jump around a bit…! As, originally, this journal was my procrastination from the novel and now I want to, er, procrastinate from this too - because I’ve forgotten where I was and all that. As you can see; this is sooo planned. Oooooo; planning! Yes, that's what I'll talk about, er… tomorrow?


                                                      *** 

What I found interesting is the way that the novel has actually evolved. Some of this blog is still pertinent but some, such as the"chants", are not; the dialogue is relatively free of this made up language, although there are some references still. And it is evolving still; the latest iteration may make some more of this language redundant. Truth is, though, it was still necessary to go through this thought process. (Maybe not the blog though...!) It is so strange looking back, even only a couple of years!

Hey ho. Reflective mood today. Maybe it's the sunshine. So it won't last long then...!

Ez

May 28th

Of one thing I am certain

By Padma

Of one thing I am certain

 

Of one thing I am certain

My birthday will fall

On a Wednesday next year

The lines on the wall

More blurred than clear

As I wait for the sign

To dramatically appear

A gong to sound

A bugle to call

 

I was born in spring

Now summer comes early

A season lies in state

To tell you life is merely

A document of fate

A journal of travel

From gate to gate

With tickets to transience

That we cling to so dearly

 

Of one thing I am certain

Nothing does return

Itinerant fog, a falling leaf

You cannot unlearn

You can’t trap grief

Return stolen moments

By time, the thief

Or recreate from ashes

The things you burn

May 28th

Sunday, 7 October 2007 - the third...

By EzBloke

Here we go - the third installment of drivelling nonsense. By this time I must have had a coffee or something. It seems slightly less... aggressive.
The warnings still stand though; there are scenes of an adult nature and biology. Ok, there aren't, but if it gets people reading it then I'll do anything. Well, not anything. Obviously not anything. Most things. Anyhoo... on with the (other) drivel...

                                                           ***

Right, more characters…
Ok, so what we have here is a book about dreams. With absolutely no dream sequences in it… yet. Time to get jiggy with the dreamy shit.

So, the truth about the legends is the crux of this series. I'm looking to convey the vast difference between the glorious gung-ho stories of war and the gritty reality. I heard on the radio when I began this book about soldiers during the Second World War shooting over the heads of the enemy because they couldn't bring themselves to actually kill. Now if it's true and not hype, that is an amazing revelation. According to the story, it was very common too. The bit I don't get is how millions of front-line bods still lose grip with mortality when no-one is shooting at anyone…

Based, very weakly, on this premise I have my storyline; Bad guys are not so bad, the majority are press-ganged (or in fantasy terms; enthralled) into service, ergo reticent to play ball, but compelled to do so. Haven't worked out how or why just yet, but I'm getting there. Good guys are a bunch of dumb shits; because they get to come back to Paradise after they die, their lives tend to not be so… valuable. One or two heroes will just be some poor sod in the wrong place at the wrong time being given a damn good shagging by lady luck. And, because it's just not a fantasy novel without one, we will have a traitor… dun dun duuuuun. Cool.

So, our heroes; Halfir, Grinii we have met - maybe we'll give them a crew; lets see; A couple of fit young birds, some buff blokes and of course Mr Obligatory Traitor Esquire, I Thank You.
 

Names.
Right; for the biog and all that shit;
Ok, One guy's going to be called Mad Adam Two Swords. At some point he can wax lyrical about the state of his armour. ROFL. Ahhh, man that's good. Google - trust me. Soddit; Lee Tanith! Madam Two Swords… damn, is mine far enough detatched to be non-plagiaristic?
Ah, fuck it. Who cares? It's there as a giggle. And Lee's book is not the same either. And she's a she… Madam Two Swords that is. Oooo, I wonder if the wax lyrical bit's in there. Toss. Best' go see if the library's got a copy…

Ok, onwards; My all time favourite name in the world bar none; Henrietta Chicken. Google… WTF? A naked rubber dog toy… man there are some real sick people on this planet.
 

Who's next; Leonorah Spit. (Chuckle) Ahhh, I so cannot call her Spitroast, that would just be too unsubtle … can I? Hmmm… thinks…

Ok, another couple of Hero's; Oooo, bad guy; Gol Myne… oh yes, it says greed, it says dwarf, it says dirty, it says traitor! As for why; his brother… Sil Myne (snigger)… lost his life because of Halfir's incompetence and Gol has held a grudge ever since. Liiiiike it!
How about this… Gol and Sil did not die to get into Paradise…! So how'd they get in then? Aha!!!! There are two ways! You die OR you accompany someone who was born here!!!! Testing his theory, Irsi,  (Remember him - he's our bad guy, or protagonist, yeah baby! Boy I am learning sooo much from these books!) takes Gol and Sil into Paradise because, get this; Irsi was born there. Yes! So now, Gol and Sil are poodling around in Paradise illegally, and when Sil pops his clogs due to some as yet unknown stupidity of Halfir's, everyone is expecting him to return. But he doesn't! Because, he doesn't belong there! Yeeeeha! Soooo, where is he? Well, I'll tell you. He's only on the baddies side isn't he?! His appearance has changed; because, let's face it even Irsi rewards his faithful, up to a point… So he's going to be one of the other crew;

Right, the "baddies"; Ahh, my old favourite from my AD&D days with Penfold and Scoob… christ I was young… Bungus Iteer. Geddit? Give me a chance, I was… *cough* twenty *cough* or so when I thought that gem up. He has a brother… ahem. Chukkus. (Chortle) Ahhh Those were the days. 
 

Anyhooo - These are the gnarly veterans. Plus, lets see… two more "regulars"…ah. Ok. Deep breath. We have the quiet, unassuming burly minimal talker; Pall Martan. A play on EzBro1's real name. RIP. A tribute to my older brother. A true hero, honest, upright, honourable. And a right miserable git to boot. Bless him. 

And let's see, ah my own true hero; Hairy Henry. Or as I like to say T'hairy Henry… in a slightly French accent. Thinking Football. No, not football, football. Oh all right; soccer then. It's still bloody football. The other is just armoured rugby…  

Right, now; coz the bad guys are press-ganged we need a bunch of press-gangedee's… Or something… LOL - god my sides hurt! This naming stuff is a piece of piss! For her birthday I bought EzBird a gardening book; not that she likes gardening you understand but it's something for her to do whilst she's locked outside while I work in here in the warm… just kidding. She does have green fingers. They were blue but now they've gone mouldy… ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha. Ahhhh. Anyway…
So she does like gardening…ok?

In her book there are two types of mud one of which is ericatius - see where I'm going with this? You got it! Eric Atiusoyl. Eric Atuis Soil. Goddamn this is puuuuure genius! Ok, wandering into the kitchen we have… eccinatia tablets. Oh yes. We now have another guy, Equin Atia. Whoop!

Ok, this one's an odd one; Izzit. Young lad, I reckon. Bit of a klutz. We'll pad these guys out a bit in their biographies' later.  

Ahh. Now, this next chap is important. He's a minor-ish character but suffice to say he is my morality tale. Arth Rytchuss. (Arthritis) Is a very old man and does not want to be here at all. I'll be killing him off somewhere near the middle of the story. He's going to die out of fear. You know that saying; "you have nothing to fear but fear itself"? Well, whoever said that wants to come live round here for a fucking day or two.  

So there we are; nine baddies, oh wait that's only eight. Tits. What the fuck was I thinking? Oh yes! Sil… or, as we shall introduce him… Plazt Iq'nabaal. (Plastic Nipple. Ok, by this time I was running on empty and needed help. Don’t blame me, blame my nephew. ok?)  Just check google; yep surprisingly few Plazt Iq'nabaal's in the world. Oooooo, do you reckon people will start naming their kids after these characters…? Dear god I pity those kids, they are going to get the royal shit kicked out of them when they start school… Not just for their names but because their parents are so… thick.

Interestingly when I Google Plazt Iq'nabaal it says "No matches; did you mean Platz Iq'nabaal?" Oho? Thinks I. Let's check out this. Yes, I Say, I did mean Platz Iq'nabaal. What a silly typist I am. Ok says Google. No: Your search - Platz Iq'nabaal - did not match any documents… LOL.

What you people have to realise is; this is the third post and I'm still catching you up; as in you have a loooong way to go yet. That is if there is anybody out there… is there anybody out there? How do I get this bloody thing working? You know what I need? I need someone who is aux fait with IT, that's what I need. Oh, wait… ohhhh, now I get what they meant by "get out you useless lazy fat fucker…" Sheesh, if they had only said what they meant. Man, I don't do subtle.

So, we now have our cast of characters; all bar the dragons and some magii. But we'll come to them later. Except one Magi; 'coz you're going to love this…! He's the one, right, that controls the weather… ok? following me so far? Cool. Well he has got to be called something like John Kettley or Ulrika Johnson, oh wait no, too girly. So I plump for; da da daaaaaa Michael Fish! And why? Here you go you pseudo intellectuals; check out GHOTI. GB Shaw wanted to simplify the Ingrish language; and pointed out (by ignoring some fundamental rules) that GHOTI could be pronounced FISH. GH as in rouGH, O as in wOmen (Wimmin. Not wimmin, wimmin ahhh how crap that looks written down Mr Hill…) and TI as in naTIon; GHOTI. FISH. See? Ok! So our weatherman is Mr Ghoti. Now, Michael. Mick? Mick Ghoti? Mike Ghoti? Oooo, Wiki; are you ready for this? Albania! Not the Southern dialect (Tosk) but the Northern dialect (Gheg); is translated as Mhill. So now we have Gheg'mhill Ghoti. Michael Fish.

And we sooo do not want to be wasting opportunities like this! F = GH? Ghuckin' priceless mate. LOL.
How about a sword called… Nog'huque… work it out… ignore the apostrophe's they mean jack. Awesome. Ahh, I so need to get out more…

Next time, emohem words and language, place names and magical beasties and weapon…ies…

                                                      ***

Can you stand the pace? Seriously? Please, if you want me to stop, I will. Just send me a snail mail; addressed to me, naturally, but written on the finest 80gsm, slightly yellowed, antique parchment written in rare blue squid ink from the great barrier reef, and sealed inside a sharp folded, crisp £50 note...

:o)

Ez

May 28th

Press Release about Searching for Simon

By ozangus
Milton Keynes – January 2008 – First time author Andy Angus hopes to bring hope to countless adopted people around the world with his about to be published first book about his twenty year search and consequent discovery of his birth family in Australia and New Zealand. Many years ago now Andy unwittingly set out on a journey of discovery that was eventually to take him quite literally to the other side of the world. Andy like many other people was adopted as a child of the 1960’s and over the years had often wondered about the truth surrounding his conception and how life might have been. It was this thirst for knowledge and the truth that lead him on a quest of over twenty years finally culminating in a Pandora’s Box of surprises that even he couldn’t have foreseen. Andy never set out to write a book about his experiences because at the time it was a very personal account of the highs and inevitable lows of his adoption and indeed his subsequent life and how it eventually turned out. That said he had always intended to document his investigations and travels just as a personal record for his family and himself, much as you would a travel diary or journal. However when Andy started putting it all down in writing he mentioned it in passing to a couple of colleagues at work who asked if they could have a look at what he was writing. Against his better judgement at the time Andy agreed and emailed them the first manuscript which subsequently became the basis for Chapter Two of the book. The feedback he received and reaction from those that read the first few paragraphs was astounding and made him realise that perhaps this was something he could and very possibly should share with a wider audience and so the idea of putting it into a book was born. It is a book for anyone who has been adopted or who is about to adopt. It is also for birth mothers and fathers who have found or been found by siblings long since given up. In essence it is for anyone who has been touched by the adoption process and it is something which never ceases to amaze Andy as to just how many people have been adopted, have had children adopted or known someone who has been adopted. It may be viewed by some as a very personal account of his growing up, the eventual discovery of being adopted and the subsequent search for a reason to explain his existence and where he came from. But although it can be viewed as a personal account Andy feels privileged to be able to share his experiences and all the highs and lows with anyone who wants to share in his exhilaration. It has made people cry and it has made people smile even laugh. But above and beyond that people have just said thank you, for the inspiration to start their own searching and for the confirmation that good things do happen in the rollercoaster we call life. The book itself is currently being published by the self publishing method and so retains the original ethos of being available to family and friends but also allows Andy to provide it to a wider audience should it be required as it is printed on demand. The company he is publishing through, LULU.com also submit it to Amazon (UK), Amazon (USA) and Barnes and Noble as part of the package. As you would probably expect he already has a number of people with their names down for copies, some who have been on the list since the start and are now begging for the rest of the book since they only got to see the beginning of the story and not how it turned out. Andy says: ‘’this is a once in a lifetime event and has been approximately four years in creation. I never imagined when I set out on this epic journey that I would end up being a published author. But thanks to the support of numerous friends, colleagues, family and of course Lulu.com I have now achieved something that I hope will open doors for so many other people in the same position as me’’ Lulu.com: Lulu.com is the premier marketplace for digital content on the internet, with over 300,000 recently published titles and more than 4,000 new titles added each week, created by people in 80 different countries. Lulu is changing the world of publishing by enabling the creators of books, video, periodicals, multimedia and other content to publish their work themselves with complete editorial and copyright control. With Lulu offices in the US, Canada, the UK and Europe, Lulu customers can reach the globe. Andy Angus is 45 years old and works for Thames Valley Police as a Control Room Operator in Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire. He also lives in Milton Keynes with his wife Michaela.
May 28th

Postcards from New York – No 2

By Kim

Dear friends,

 

I’m sure that 9/11 is one of those days that none of us will ever forget. It is the kind of day that you remember where you were when the news first broke.

 

Having visited Ground Zero and witnessed the progress that has been made towards rebuilding the area and the hope for the future that the locals have, we were impressed by the New Yorkers’ true grit resilience.

 

But have we really learned a valuable lesson from 9/11 or is there still a long way to go?

 

Real estate on Manhattan remains some of the most expensive on the planet. A one bedroom apartment here rents for a whopping $3000 per month. Therefore, some the communities on the island have learnt to adapt their spaces to accommodate multiple uses and gain the most value for their money. The most impressive of these compromises came when we visited Harlem. A sign adored the side of a beautiful Presbyterian Church. Apparently the Presbyterian congregation had use of the church six days a week and on the seventh day the building transforms into the local synagogue. What a marvellous arrangement. If only the rest of the world could learn to become this accommodating and tolerant, what progress we could make. We left the area with an overwhelming feeling of bonhomie and optimism for the future of our species.

 

This was short-lived however. As we travelled back along the subway line towards Brooklyn and our train pulled in to one of the stations along route, a blind man tried to board. Behind him trailed a sack barrow upon which was stacked all his worldly possessions bungee-roped to the trolley. Despite it being close to 80 degrees warm, the man, a middle-aged black man, wore several layers of clothing including a thick woolly coat which was tied at the waist with the obligatory piece of string. He boarded the carriage but was having difficulty lifting his trolley on board. The doors half closed trapping his bags and people stood and watched as he struggled; no-one helped him. Mike and I went to the man’s assistance and another man helped to release the trolley from the doors. The blind man was so very surprised to be helped at all and so very grateful. He was sober, clean and well spoken. We couldn’t help but wonder what this man’s story was. I was so tempted to remove pen and pencil from backpack, travel back along the line with him and ask him to reveal all. What an interesting story I bet it would have made. To be homeless in Manhattan is one thing, to be blind another, but to be homeless and blind?

 

What perplexed us most of all was the attitude of the other passengers; they just sat there. What were they thinking as they did so? Did it not occur to them that the train could not proceed until the doors closed properly. At the very least they were going nowhere until someone helped this man onboard and yet they still all sat there. Why?

 

Has the U.S. become any more compassionate since 9/11? Are they now willing to listen to and tolerate others more? Do they really want to help the genuinely oppressed? Our view is that the blind man thinks the jury is still out on that one...and so do we.

May 27th

Thursday 4 October 2007 - My *second* ever blog post...

By EzBloke

This is the second installment of my original blog - don't worry, only three more to go. Same style as the first one - so once again, my apologies for the use of bad language. Oh, and the swearing too... It does seem that I had not yet read the chapter "less is more".

                                                                                ***

Right, so this is Tuesday ok?
Geddit? Tuesday
Not Thursday but Tuesday
Good

Off we go then…

Yesterday *cough* I gave you a brief synopsis on the book. So, and this is the best advice I can give any aspiring writer; Write. You do not have to write clever JKR quality stuff at first. You do have to edit it. And edit it. And then edit it again. Best edit it again. Now get someone else to edit it. Honest, trust me on this. Oh, and don't use friends or family too heavily; they are biased. EzBird was a godsend, however; "You want me to read what? Sword and sorcery like shit?" (sic). She's a chicklit lover and refuses to watch The Lord of the Rings. For a whole day. End to end. All 12 DVD's. Plus Dorito's… Which means that when she blags the first chapter she's tough. Not in storyline or plot; but right where it counts: Speling (sick)… :o) and "scan"; as in, I can't be arsed reading this shit it doesn't scan properly… I'm telling you, editors like her are worth a pigging fortune. And she's all mine! Get your thievin' mitts off! Get yer own!

Ahem. Anyhoo… So the what. Sariro lives in an idyllic world; simple farming and constant sunny days, no wars, etc. That's because, get this, he lives in Paradise! He doesn't know it yet, or maybe not for a chapter or two. So here's how it goes; Sariro thinks "The End of Times" is a premonition but he is wrong;
Its not a future event; it was an historic event! Fuck me, this is brilliant!

 

Ok. So why does Sariro have dreams? They don't just happen… oh… wait, yeah they do… tits. Nah. I have a better idea. In my dream, (remember that? It was soooo long ago) Sariro was battling the bad guy who was excavating an old citadel. He was digging to release a… dragon. So what if the dragon is there from day one? Right, so Sariro is not "magical" until he… sleeps near the dragon. Dragons, whilst sleeping, and they can sleep for years, exude magic (or emohem as we will always call it). So Sariro sleeps with the dragon. Oh for heavens sake; will you keep this clean purlease. Near the dragon. The dragon is buried under this excavation jobby so… Sariro gets lost in caves. Cool.

Ok. Why? Why was Sariro in the caves, the daft twat? Got it! Oh you are going to love this! Ready? Sariro and his best friend… are camping in the forbidden lands (as a dare) and get lost in some caves…
Shit. Another character. Right. This will take a day or so, so give me a mo will you?

Ok here we go; Sariro's younger, shorter (I bet you have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this! I know that because… I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with it…) best friend is Phollebir. Oh yes!
Phollebir Jare (Folie Begere . . . ) geddit? He he he he. So, Sariro's nickname for his younger, shorter (wait for it, wait for it) best friend is… gnome. Oh yes! This is called a self fulfilling prophecy - shit I am good! And Phollebir is the bad guy doing the excavating during the third book. And at the end of the third book… oh no you don't! Like I'm going to tell you that. Not until I've worked it out properly anyway…

So,  type type type, blah blah blah.

First chapter begins with the two boys arsing around some caves, long story short; earthquake (dragon snoring…?) new holes; boys fall through; sleep near, not with, near Dragon. Job done. Lots of rewrites, edits and days later; it's pretty good, even if I do say so myself.

 

Right, where's that writers workshop website, I remember seeing something about the first chapter. Aw, crap; Start with a bang; leave the background until later.

Eh? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

It means, old chap, that those 2,500 words beautifully describing the cave and how emohem seeps into your soul from sleeping dragons will bore the living tits off anyone dumb enough to pick up your pathetic novel; probably in the bookstore, which means… buy your book? You'd think they would…

Aw for fucks sake. What else?

Right; To attract a publisher or literary agent…
Good, good, that's the plan.
You have to grab and retain their attention in the first 50 pages…
Uh?
If they don't want more after 50 pages you're writing is fucking shit and they'll throw you to the crows.

Well I may have paraphrased that a little, but you get the idea. Piss.

Ok. Scrap the cave bollocks. Start with… oh I dunno… oooooo, let's start with the end! Yeah, yeah, yeah, like I don't know it's been done before. Get a book on it baby; every fucking thing has been done before. It's not what you do; it's how different you are in doing it.

So, where was I?
Oh, yeah; The first 50 critical (no pressure then) pages. So; We're at the gates of Paradise and Halfir stands in front of Irsi. Grinii is smeared on the ground in front of him, having been creamed by the Evil Gnome before we get there. Halfir curses, Irsi sneers (all bad guys sneer. It's what they do, s'true). Irsi wangs a nasty at Halfir who ducks. But Irsi is smarter than that - he doesn't aim for Halfir. No, he aims at the stonework above his head. Bang! Down comes the arched doorway and turns our glorious last hero to pulp; without the hit records (If you don't understand, Google it; if you did understand and just didn't think it was funny, then this book is soooo not for you…) In goes Irsi. All hell breaks loose… literally as this is literary. (As opposed to littery. Which it may be…)

Awesome!
Ok, Chapter one, continues with some chat between Kentse and Sariro; ooooo, I know! Sariro recounts the legend about the end of the world. But his dreams don't precisely follow that line! Perfect! So the legend has been… exaggerated, no… embellished. Yes! Chinese whispers (Google should so be your best friend by now) means that everything is wrong. Oh yes everything! Well, nearly everything… Holy shit! This is a cracker! So Sariro and Kentse do some chatter about the legend. Then he talks her through his first dream. He describes the land, the people, the fortress and a citadel in the middle. Oh oh, wait up; after writing 8,000+ words describing this world it’s no good. Well, when I say no good, I don't mean no good, obviously it good but it's just "describing sunsets". And an action, fast paced, beat 'em up doesn't stop to describe sunsets; otherwise the reader (that's you lot. Oh yes it fucking is. I'm not doing this for love y'know. I'm doing it for the money. So get your wallet out and go buy a copy. Stop reading it in the library you tight wad) otherwise the reader (that's you… oh, done that already) gets bored; at best skips all your hard work, at worst puts the book down. Both fatal for sales of the sequel, or in our case treacle… ROFL. Geddit? It’s a play on words! Oh come on! It's a trilogy! The third book is a triquel! Goddamn you people are hard to please.

Anyway; just like painting when you were five years old; you take one great fat blob of colour and smear it all the way from one side of the canvas (well, paper) to the other. So it is with writing; grab every paragraph and make each one a chapter.

Sixteen chapters, all with a bit of sunset in 'em. Yay! Perfect. 
Ok now what?
Plot
Eh?
Plot.
Yeah got that; Irsi, gnome of darkness; paradise, Sariro stops him yada yada yada.

No
No?
No
No.

Plot is the characters having a mission and what they do to obtain that mission; sucking out their personalities and spitting them at the reader without dropping sudden solutions or unrealistic dramatic situations out of nowhere (Deus ex machina - I've read books like this and boy, was I pissed at the end, and no, I will not be reading that author again.)

 

Ok, so Sariro has to have some goal and a path to his goal and a whole bunch of options to choose from. I get it. Plot. Fucking hell, this is difficult.

 

Here we go; Sariro has to deal with now being intelligent, when before he was… thick. He has to grow up. Quickly. So what's to stop him? Himself; He's reticent at first to embrace this new him. Bit of a wimp then? Ugh. Yeah. Not good; no-one likes a wimp. Ok. We need to balance wimpy Sariro with overtly bloodthirsty… um… oooo, I know; Kentse.  His muse, Kentse, a bored rich girl is a hero worshipper! Perfect! Ok, so his lack of action pisses her off which means… he has to do something. Why? Um… because… he's in love with her…? (Hopefully) Ok. (Nods, slowly) We can use that. Yeah, he loves her. Unrequited love; bingo! Ok, so he does something wimpy, Kentse throws a right royal wobbler and she dumps him. No, not dumps him, coz she never went out with him. She… refuses to see him. Oh yes. Right. Wow. Ok, now we have a taste of a plot… Cool.

At some point during this last three months I have managed to write quite a fair bit of this novel. All based on this concept. The main thing to realise is that I am not just juggling this book but I have to bear all three in mind. And then I have a bit of an epiphany. Another book. That's four;
1.) Paradise Falls
2.) [Hell] Falls
3.) Paradise Regained
and now
4.) Hero Trials (Like the ten trials of Hercules only with Halfir, Grinii and ultimately Irsi)

Um, whilst I'm at it there are at least another… let's see… two after this;
5.) Dragon Thieves, which is the tale of how Irsi sneaks into the Dragon realms and steals the 25 eggs of the Dragonatomies that feature in Book 1. (EzNote: This title has changed since I regurgitated this garbage; it is now called The Egg Thief.)
6.) Mist Trials; Which follows Kentse's return to her native land/people and how she causes mayhem.

Ok, lets see; what's next?
Sense Impressions.
Eh? Pretend to be a smell?
No, you twat; what strikes the other senses? Smell, Touch, Taste, Sound? Lots of sight, but not much of the others.
Ahhhhh, gotcha!
Right.
Whizz through the chapters and make sure that all the senses are catered for!

 

Ok, Smell.
Smell? What the fuck smells? The book (I now have a book by the way…) says go out and smell around. Uh, ok… I live in a bit of a rough neighbourhood but if it's for my art…

Ok, so that was the dumbest fucking idea I have ever heard. Damn nearly got the living shit kicked out of me; Sniffing around I get accosted by some dick with a crew-cut, scar and scowl.

"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Hmm? Oh, don't worry; sense impressions" says I, happily.
"You calling me senseless?"
"Eh?"
"C'mere you prick" (Smack)
"Aww, for fuckth thake! Thath my fuckin' nothe!"

"Did you just call me a twat?"
"Eh? What?! No!"
"C'mere you prick" (Smack)

At this point play sound of running (away) feet.

Sense impressions my fucking arse.

Tomorrow, *cough*, we'll go through the chapters; add in some more characters etc. If I can be arsed.

 

;o)
                                                      ***

Ez

May 26th

THE WOOD SWAMP

By Tony

THE WOOD SWAMP

(With apologies to AA Milne and anyone else who feels they are owed one)

It was Raven who brought the news to forty-seven-and-a-half hectare Wood. He told Rabbit and Rabbit told Piggywig, who squealed it up and down the length and breadth of the forest until just about everyone knew – except Bray, of course.

‘Nobody ever tells me anything,’ he grumbled in a good-natured way, when he ambled into the clearing where all the other animals were chatting excitedly about what Raven had discovered.

‘Oh Bray,’ Skippy hopped up to the aging donkey, ‘it’s not that nobody ever tells you anything, it’s just that you never seem to hear. You’re always away in a world of your own.’

‘In a world on my own, to be more precise. But I don’t mind,’ he continued, ponderously. ‘I like my own company. We have good chats, me and myself. Don’t you worry about me, little Skip- ’

But Skippy had spotted tiger stripes and hopped off to see what Cubby thought of it all.

‘Hay-ho, alone again,’ sighed Bray and swished his raggedy tail.

* * *

‘It’s a whole new corner of the forest,’ said Piggywig.

‘Raven found it. It used to be all swampy, but it isn’t anymore.’

‘Wise Owl says the water table has dropped,’ said Skippy, trying hard to sound as though he knew what that meant.

Cubby thought it was very careless of someone to drop a water table, but he didn’t say so.

‘The thing is,’ Raven cawed, ‘It’s a great new place we can go and explore. Anyone who wants to, that is.’

Bruno thought it pertinent to ask, ‘Are there honey bees there, Raven?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, oh bear-of-little-brain; not yet at any rate.’

‘Then I shouldn’t think I would want to explore it; not yet at any rate,’ Bruno replied, rubbing his round tum, hungrily.

* * *

But many of the animals of 50 Hectare Wood – as it now had to be called – did explore the new area, The Wood Swamp, as Bray insisted on calling it and it kind of stuck, even though it was quite dry now and a great place where everyone could roam free.

‘I’m free to do what I like,’ squealed Piggywig.

‘I’m free to say what I like, Skippy said.

‘I’m free to be what I like,’ Bray said to himself and agreed, grudgingly.

More animals from other parts of the forest came to see The Wood Swamp, and liked it. Even Bruno was persuaded by Raven to come and joined his old friends, in spite of the lack of honey. Some even came from other forests, as news spread, and were welcomed by Skippy and Cubby and all the rest.

‘It’s nice here,’ said newcomer Rhino, sucking a peppermint.

‘It is. I think I’ll stay,’ hissed Sam, coiling his long tail round Rhino’s horn and popping his forked tongue between the animal’s great jaws trying to pinch his peppermint. He soon gave up and slithered off to try to find Rhino’s sweetie jar instead.

Hissing Sam was funny; he made the other animals laugh – especially when he was hanging from Rhino’s horn and pretending to pinch his peppermint.

‘It’s not right even to pretend to pinch someone’s sweet,’ said Bruno, with some feeling. But the others just laughed.

Except for Rhino.

And Bray.

One day Hissing Sam finally found Rhino’s sweetie jar where he kept it hidden between two big mossy roots of an oak tree.

‘The peppermints are on me!’ he shouted, distributing them liberally around the denizens of The Swamp.

‘Are those Rhino’s?’ asked Cubby, taking a tentative lick.

‘Who cares?’ laughed Skippy, jumping up and down and crunching on a mint.

‘I dare say Rhino might,’ said Bray, never one to recognise a rhetorical question.

‘Oh, don’t be an old fusspot, Bray,’ said Skippy and Cubby together.

‘Hissing Sam’s just having a bit of fun,’ Rabbit added. ‘We’re all friends here.’

Bruno felt it was wrong to mess with somebody else’s edibles, but he kept his own council.

Some of the animals were enjoying the mints. Other weren’t getting involved; they could see Rhino looked upset.

‘That’s just because he’s no longer in mint condition,’ quipped Hissing Sam, being funny again. Some animals laughed. Some didn’t want to get involved.

Slowly Bray made his way to the front of the group, his raggedy tail swishing nervously. He spoke in his usual slow, meditative manner. ‘It seems to me,’ he paused, ‘that for one animal to make free with another animal’s peppermints,’ he paused again, ‘is all wrong. Not right,’ he added to clinch the matter.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ hissed Sam, ‘You don’t like peppermints anyway,’ and slithered off to find some other source of amusement.

‘Yeah, you don’t like peppermints anyway!’ echoed Rabbit, ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

Bray shuffled his weight from one foreleg to the other, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m only saying what I feel. I thought it needed to be said.’

‘Well it didn’t,’ said Rabbit. ‘Mind your own business.’

Backing away just a little, Bray responded, ‘I – I think something like this affects all of us. That’s all.’ He turned and walked slowly away from the group of mostly silent animals.

‘Good riddance!’ shouted Rabbit, ‘We don’t need you telling us what we should and shouldn’t be doing.

Bruno watched Bray slowly disappear into the forest and thought he probably ought to say something round about now. He opened his mouth to speak, but the other animals were beginning to disperse, avoiding each other’s eyes. Bruno closed his mouth again.

* * *

Life on The Wood Swamp continued. It was still a great place to be. More animals kept joining those already there. Piggywig was still free to do what he liked. Skippy was still free to say what he liked. It was a place of freedom. A place to be.

Only Bray was no longer on the Swamp with them. For many, the freedom of The Wood Swamp was a freedom tinged with sadness.