This is something I wrote in lecture a couple of weeks ago. It was going slow and I'd recently been listening to Skeletonwitch meaning I had some of their lyrics in my head. With a little bit of scribbling and imagery thoughts I came up with this.
Note: this is not personal or aimed towards anyone, just a bit of fun.
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Knife against flesh
Pushing harder as fear rises
Noises escaping the throat
As a stream of red escapes
Living, dying, suffering my wrath
Bleeding, choking, crying still more
Cutting the air, and cutting the throat
A knife against White flesh
Stream turns to river
Noises become screams
Crying becomes begging
As my knife cuts yet deeper
Body going limp
Falling down hard
Like the sack of shit you are
Worthy of no like
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Tuesday 22 November 2011
A story task, written by me
Following on from my previous post, we decided to have a little bit more writing fun. This time I told Tyla to set me a story task - write a short story of his choice, and this is what I was told to write about.
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"Wake up, soldiers!" were the first words Mick heard that morning. As he sat up he felt a hard rush followed by a throbbing temple. That bottle of scotch last night was nothing but a bad idea, especially with the knowledge that he was due to be fighting this morning. This hangover would, inevitably, slow him down. With a groan though, he climbed off of his bunk, taking care not to land too hard, and pulled on a pair of trousers, shirt and a pair of sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes. Around him, other soldiers, small and large, were pulling on their combat gear - known as "greens" throughout the army - and assembling their rifles. Today was a big one and they had to be prepared. Mick was soon reminded of this and vowed never to drink again.
Outside of the troops' sleeping grounds the soldiers were lined up and awaiting their briefing. "Ladies and germs, today is a day which will place your abilities on the line. You will fight, and you will win. Injury may occur, but giving up is forbidden. Fight to the win or fight to the death. Your choice! Now, when I say 'Fight' you charge those scumbags with everything you have! Am I clear?"
"Yes, Sir!" the soldiers - including Mick - replied in unison.
After a long and silent wait the general finally gave his order, "Fight, motherfuckers, fight!"
And so they charged up and over the sand dunes to be greeted with something they'd never seen before: toad-green, shiny, lumpy alien creatures. Mick knew they wouldn't be pretty, but this was far from his expectations. Before he could think any more, though, the creatures were approaching. Fast. "Shoot!" was all he heard before squeezing the trigger, causing his rifle to spit out a stream of bullets at breakneck speed, striking and piercing his target with ease, ripping the top of its head off in the process. He laughed. What. A. Shot, he thought. Stop thinking and fight. Fight. Fight!
After a battle which resulted in 5 deaths, countless injuries and the destruction of an alien battalion, the soldiers returned to camp for their lecture on the day's work. "I would like to congratulate you on your fine fighting today, soldiers. We may have lost some of our own but we killed more and for that you receive my full congratulations. However, I would also like to remind you that this is only the beginning and that we are far from the end of this war. Tonight, though, we celebrate!" He kicked the trunk beside him which opened to reveal a line of bottles filled with, undoubtedly, alcoholic substances.
Mick groaned and looked away but before he could walk in the opposite direction Private Chiko tapped his shoulder and held a cup filled to the rim towards him. "Drink?" he asked in his high, Asian voice. "no thanks, Chi", was Mick's reply, "I don't drink". He then winked, turned on his heel and walked towards the soldiers' camp - for once he was going to have an early night.
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"Wake up, soldiers!" were the first words Mick heard that morning. As he sat up he felt a hard rush followed by a throbbing temple. That bottle of scotch last night was nothing but a bad idea, especially with the knowledge that he was due to be fighting this morning. This hangover would, inevitably, slow him down. With a groan though, he climbed off of his bunk, taking care not to land too hard, and pulled on a pair of trousers, shirt and a pair of sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes. Around him, other soldiers, small and large, were pulling on their combat gear - known as "greens" throughout the army - and assembling their rifles. Today was a big one and they had to be prepared. Mick was soon reminded of this and vowed never to drink again.
Outside of the troops' sleeping grounds the soldiers were lined up and awaiting their briefing. "Ladies and germs, today is a day which will place your abilities on the line. You will fight, and you will win. Injury may occur, but giving up is forbidden. Fight to the win or fight to the death. Your choice! Now, when I say 'Fight' you charge those scumbags with everything you have! Am I clear?"
"Yes, Sir!" the soldiers - including Mick - replied in unison.
After a long and silent wait the general finally gave his order, "Fight, motherfuckers, fight!"
And so they charged up and over the sand dunes to be greeted with something they'd never seen before: toad-green, shiny, lumpy alien creatures. Mick knew they wouldn't be pretty, but this was far from his expectations. Before he could think any more, though, the creatures were approaching. Fast. "Shoot!" was all he heard before squeezing the trigger, causing his rifle to spit out a stream of bullets at breakneck speed, striking and piercing his target with ease, ripping the top of its head off in the process. He laughed. What. A. Shot, he thought. Stop thinking and fight. Fight. Fight!
After a battle which resulted in 5 deaths, countless injuries and the destruction of an alien battalion, the soldiers returned to camp for their lecture on the day's work. "I would like to congratulate you on your fine fighting today, soldiers. We may have lost some of our own but we killed more and for that you receive my full congratulations. However, I would also like to remind you that this is only the beginning and that we are far from the end of this war. Tonight, though, we celebrate!" He kicked the trunk beside him which opened to reveal a line of bottles filled with, undoubtedly, alcoholic substances.
Mick groaned and looked away but before he could walk in the opposite direction Private Chiko tapped his shoulder and held a cup filled to the rim towards him. "Drink?" he asked in his high, Asian voice. "no thanks, Chi", was Mick's reply, "I don't drink". He then winked, turned on his heel and walked towards the soldiers' camp - for once he was going to have an early night.
A brotherly collaboration
This is something which was written about three months ago but completely forgotten about as I'd been busy with house searching, uni and socialising. I was having a look through some documents on my iPad and came across this little gem.
Background story: I was sat in the bedroom with my brother (who happens to be the author of the previous brother-written story) and decided that we should have a little bit of writing fun and do a collaboration. The 'rules', if you can call them that, were that we each write a paragraph of between 100 and 200 words then continue it with our next one, if that makes any sense, and try to get around 500 words down.
Tyla began the story, I continued it, then he followed on. It's simple to tell who wrote what as he is a musical-obsessive and I'm a writer of weird things (admittedly, gay dogs are weird but ho hum). If I recall correctly, I'd been reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the time, hence the similarities.
It's not my best piece by far but it did make me laugh when I read it back earlier. Hopefully it'll leave you with more than a face like so: -___-
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Once upon a time a dog called Jeffrey met a another dog called jimmy. They met in a kennel and it was friendship at first sight. Jeffrey and jimmy do everything together, they play football together and they watch football together on their 70" tv. Jeffrey supports Chelsea and jimmy supports the scousers. One night Chelsea were playing the scousers (liverpool) at stamford bridge. Chelsea won that game and jimmy was VERY pissed off. While Jeffers Was celebrating jimmy walked out in a strop. They didn't see each other for a couple of days. When jimmy came back he said sorry to Jeffers. Later that day they both relised they were gay and they got married the next week and even better news jimmy relised that the scousers were crap so he started supporting Chelsea. (Tyla, 135 words)
Whilst in the kennel, watching seventy inches of Casualty, Jimmy had an epiphany, he realised that his life was not being lived to its fullest. And so an adventure was due. Over the next two weeks Jimmy huffed and barked, creating a strange concoction of chemicals which, when drunken, caused him to become The world's first shapeshifter dog - he was a canine capable of taking any form he wanted if he put his mind to it. Chelsea had been relegated to shite and adventure was all that was on young Jimbo's mind with now being the perfect time. So out he went, to perform his first task: getting those Chelsea suckers unrelegated. It would be hard but if he and his partner were to be happy, it had to be done, so out he went. (Pete, 138 (273) words)
When jimmy or "jimbo" thought long and hard about this he decided that he was gonna become a human. When jefferey saw jimmy become human jefferey also wanted to become human so that's what he done so in the end jefferey and jimmy both became human. When jimmy became human he had a change of mind and he wanted to play for his home town Liverpool. So he signed a contract at liverpool and jefferey signed a contract at Chelsea. Jefferey didn't like what jimmy had done. A week later it was Chelsea vs Liverpool in the final of the FA cup. They were both playing in the starting line up. This time Liverpool won the game and jimmy celebrated like mad in front of jefferey. After this jefferey was very angry so he hired an assassin to kill jimmy. Will he go through with it or will he back out at the last minute? (Tyla, 158 (431) words)
For a week, Jeff thought about the assassination but found himself unable to decide. Did he want to become the cliche lover-killer which had been done too many times in the past or did he want to remain in the same vicinity as a man (or dog) who played for those scummy scousers? Decisions, decisions. Pacing back and forth whilst listening to some Devildriver, Jeffrey dropped his head forward, threw it back, released a breath of air and made his decision - he was going to hire an assassin and get rid of Jeffrey, but it had to be professional and clean which meant the job could be done by only one man: Leon! (Pete, 110 (541) words)
Background story: I was sat in the bedroom with my brother (who happens to be the author of the previous brother-written story) and decided that we should have a little bit of writing fun and do a collaboration. The 'rules', if you can call them that, were that we each write a paragraph of between 100 and 200 words then continue it with our next one, if that makes any sense, and try to get around 500 words down.
Tyla began the story, I continued it, then he followed on. It's simple to tell who wrote what as he is a musical-obsessive and I'm a writer of weird things (admittedly, gay dogs are weird but ho hum). If I recall correctly, I'd been reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the time, hence the similarities.
It's not my best piece by far but it did make me laugh when I read it back earlier. Hopefully it'll leave you with more than a face like so: -___-
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Once upon a time a dog called Jeffrey met a another dog called jimmy. They met in a kennel and it was friendship at first sight. Jeffrey and jimmy do everything together, they play football together and they watch football together on their 70" tv. Jeffrey supports Chelsea and jimmy supports the scousers. One night Chelsea were playing the scousers (liverpool) at stamford bridge. Chelsea won that game and jimmy was VERY pissed off. While Jeffers Was celebrating jimmy walked out in a strop. They didn't see each other for a couple of days. When jimmy came back he said sorry to Jeffers. Later that day they both relised they were gay and they got married the next week and even better news jimmy relised that the scousers were crap so he started supporting Chelsea. (Tyla, 135 words)
Whilst in the kennel, watching seventy inches of Casualty, Jimmy had an epiphany, he realised that his life was not being lived to its fullest. And so an adventure was due. Over the next two weeks Jimmy huffed and barked, creating a strange concoction of chemicals which, when drunken, caused him to become The world's first shapeshifter dog - he was a canine capable of taking any form he wanted if he put his mind to it. Chelsea had been relegated to shite and adventure was all that was on young Jimbo's mind with now being the perfect time. So out he went, to perform his first task: getting those Chelsea suckers unrelegated. It would be hard but if he and his partner were to be happy, it had to be done, so out he went. (Pete, 138 (273) words)
When jimmy or "jimbo" thought long and hard about this he decided that he was gonna become a human. When jefferey saw jimmy become human jefferey also wanted to become human so that's what he done so in the end jefferey and jimmy both became human. When jimmy became human he had a change of mind and he wanted to play for his home town Liverpool. So he signed a contract at liverpool and jefferey signed a contract at Chelsea. Jefferey didn't like what jimmy had done. A week later it was Chelsea vs Liverpool in the final of the FA cup. They were both playing in the starting line up. This time Liverpool won the game and jimmy celebrated like mad in front of jefferey. After this jefferey was very angry so he hired an assassin to kill jimmy. Will he go through with it or will he back out at the last minute? (Tyla, 158 (431) words)
For a week, Jeff thought about the assassination but found himself unable to decide. Did he want to become the cliche lover-killer which had been done too many times in the past or did he want to remain in the same vicinity as a man (or dog) who played for those scummy scousers? Decisions, decisions. Pacing back and forth whilst listening to some Devildriver, Jeffrey dropped his head forward, threw it back, released a breath of air and made his decision - he was going to hire an assassin and get rid of Jeffrey, but it had to be professional and clean which meant the job could be done by only one man: Leon! (Pete, 110 (541) words)
Tuesday 6 September 2011
A story by my brother
As the title suggests, this is a story by my little brother. Being the typical 15 year old that he is, he's capable of everything - writing, reading the classics, being the Prime Minister and knowing the royal family. So, as proof of this, I gave him a writing task. He was required to write a story about a zombie raid in London (don't ask, I thought it'd be an easy one) and keep it around 500 words.
For someone who's never really written before (excluding schoolwork), it's not a bad piece of text and reminds me of how I used to write as a wee boy.
Now, without further ado, here it is.
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On the 22nd of September London was a perfectly normal city where normal people were doing normal every day things. This was untill scientists discovered an outbreak of some sort of unknown disease. This bemused scientists for a long while,they werent sure what the symptoms were and how the disease broke out. The first person they warned was the prime minister David Cameron.
Jack who was a top London scientist worked long hours to learn more about this disease no one had heard of because there was no name for it. Jack done his tests by using someone who was In the early stages of the disease. The tests that came back had never been seen before. Bare in mind jack was a top London scientist he was confused so he called in a couple more scientists to check the results and they had no answers. Meanwhile the patient is locked up for safety reasons, this was because they didn't know what the disease was. For example, if It was infectious or not. When jack goes back to check on the patient he is asleep. When the patient is proded by jack a couple he wakes up with red eyes and attempts to bite jack. This makes jack immediately go to the phone to warn the prime minister that there is an out break of a very serious and life threatening disease that could spread worldwide. The prime minister is advised to leave the country as soon as possible.
On the 24th of september the disease is spreading across the whole of England and starting to spread worldwide. For the last 2 days jack has been saying with a couple army soldiers for security. There are four of them in total including jack. Matt,Sam and Alex are the army soldiers. They have been forced to kill the people who are infected with this still unknown disease. The main priority to them is to reach loved ones and to protect them from this vile disease. Jack has this theory that if you are bitten by someone who is infected or blood goes in your mouth or eyes then you become infected with the disease.for this reason they wear masks at all times to protect themselves. With matt, Sam and Alex being in the army they have weapons to kill the infected. The only way to kill the infected is to remove the head or destroy the brain. The only weapon jack has is a baseball bat to protect himself and to fight off the infected. It was too late to find a cure for this killer disease because it was to dangerous to go back to the lab for jack and the equipment to test on the infected would have been destroyed. Who jack and his army crew could do was stay alive and hope things would eventually calm down.
(The end)
When I read this and mentioned the Shaun of the Dead similarities (removing the head and destroying the brain & baseball bat), Tyla claimed (key word here) that it was accidental. Hmmm.
For someone who's never really written before (excluding schoolwork), it's not a bad piece of text and reminds me of how I used to write as a wee boy.
Now, without further ado, here it is.
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On the 22nd of September London was a perfectly normal city where normal people were doing normal every day things. This was untill scientists discovered an outbreak of some sort of unknown disease. This bemused scientists for a long while,they werent sure what the symptoms were and how the disease broke out. The first person they warned was the prime minister David Cameron.
Jack who was a top London scientist worked long hours to learn more about this disease no one had heard of because there was no name for it. Jack done his tests by using someone who was In the early stages of the disease. The tests that came back had never been seen before. Bare in mind jack was a top London scientist he was confused so he called in a couple more scientists to check the results and they had no answers. Meanwhile the patient is locked up for safety reasons, this was because they didn't know what the disease was. For example, if It was infectious or not. When jack goes back to check on the patient he is asleep. When the patient is proded by jack a couple he wakes up with red eyes and attempts to bite jack. This makes jack immediately go to the phone to warn the prime minister that there is an out break of a very serious and life threatening disease that could spread worldwide. The prime minister is advised to leave the country as soon as possible.
On the 24th of september the disease is spreading across the whole of England and starting to spread worldwide. For the last 2 days jack has been saying with a couple army soldiers for security. There are four of them in total including jack. Matt,Sam and Alex are the army soldiers. They have been forced to kill the people who are infected with this still unknown disease. The main priority to them is to reach loved ones and to protect them from this vile disease. Jack has this theory that if you are bitten by someone who is infected or blood goes in your mouth or eyes then you become infected with the disease.for this reason they wear masks at all times to protect themselves. With matt, Sam and Alex being in the army they have weapons to kill the infected. The only way to kill the infected is to remove the head or destroy the brain. The only weapon jack has is a baseball bat to protect himself and to fight off the infected. It was too late to find a cure for this killer disease because it was to dangerous to go back to the lab for jack and the equipment to test on the infected would have been destroyed. Who jack and his army crew could do was stay alive and hope things would eventually calm down.
(The end)
When I read this and mentioned the Shaun of the Dead similarities (removing the head and destroying the brain & baseball bat), Tyla claimed (key word here) that it was accidental. Hmmm.
Location:Chelmsford, Essex
Sunday 21 August 2011
Sights and Sounds
This is a short piece I wrote last week in one sitting whilst waiting for a meeting time to arrive. If I recall correctly it was written as a quick observation practice but other than that, no specific reason. I'll probably refer back to it in the future as a reference to a new piece.
In the meantime, here it is, pretty much exactly as it was written by hand.
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It sounded like a low hum. A grumble. There were no in-between silences or sweet sounds, just a grumble. If you wanted a quiet holiday this wasn’t the ideal location.
Around me people spoke on their ‘phones and walked within their own shells. These were important people in their own rights. They had places to go, people to see. However, every one of these important people was just an ant in a huge society of workers.
On the outskirts of the hum was the rattling of machinery destroying concrete and the odd expensive car going past, releasing poisonous gases into the air. Trees lined the streets and occupied the communal parks. Birds spoke to each other, but I could still hear the destruction of concrete and the construction of buildings.
The sounds were comforting. I knew I belonged here. I was in my new home. I was in the metropolis, the city, London.
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The "ants" description came from the naturistic notion of there being hundreds of ants in a nest, walking around, working.
In the meantime, here it is, pretty much exactly as it was written by hand.
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It sounded like a low hum. A grumble. There were no in-between silences or sweet sounds, just a grumble. If you wanted a quiet holiday this wasn’t the ideal location.
Around me people spoke on their ‘phones and walked within their own shells. These were important people in their own rights. They had places to go, people to see. However, every one of these important people was just an ant in a huge society of workers.
On the outskirts of the hum was the rattling of machinery destroying concrete and the odd expensive car going past, releasing poisonous gases into the air. Trees lined the streets and occupied the communal parks. Birds spoke to each other, but I could still hear the destruction of concrete and the construction of buildings.
The sounds were comforting. I knew I belonged here. I was in my new home. I was in the metropolis, the city, London.
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The "ants" description came from the naturistic notion of there being hundreds of ants in a nest, walking around, working.
Friday 19 August 2011
The Chair, a short story
This was something I wrote at the start of the year as I wanted to write something nasty but kind of decent.
I was going through my writings on my laptop and came across the story. After a quick read, I noticed it needed some editing which I did and finally came out with this. It may need a bit more editing here and there but for now, it's fine and I'm pretty happy with it.
Enjoy!
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I could feel the cold steel against the small of my back and the blade sliding on my skin with my every step. Sometimes it would scratch and I’d feel a small tear of blood run down the indent and settle somewhere. People would look at me as I walked past them, not because of the knife - that was hidden under my trench coat - nor because of the pain each scratch caused, I could hide that with a determined face, but because of the scar across my mouth; held closed with lip rings. I was used to it though, and right now my scar was the last thing on my mind.
I pushed the two-way door, its hinges squeaking and approached the bar. “Double Jim Beam”, I said, wiping some sticky liquid off of the arm of my jacket. Fucking kids can’t even keep their drinks in a glass. I paid the young barman and found a table in the dark corner and waited.
An hour and two double Jim Beams later he walked through the door. A tall man with dark long hair, leather biker jacket and what looked like some expensive sunglasses resting on his head who walked with confidence and authority. He approached the bar and said some inaudible words with a laugh while the bar kid poured him a drink.
He threw some change on the bar, which I assumed was the correct amount, and glanced up, spotting me in the corner. Walking over with a dark pint of what looked like Guinness in his hand, he looked me up and down with an eye of suspicion and sat down in one smooth movement, not spilling a drop of alchohol. Clever bastard.
He lifted his pint and took a long drink, causing me to assume that he‘d had a long morning. “Got the gear?”, he asked quietly after letting the half-empty glass slide through his hand and gently settle on the table. I nodded slightly and tapped my left jacket pocket twice. “Let’s go”, he said before downing the rest of his pint and standing up. I took my Beam in two - the liquid burning my throat - and followed. I could see the barman staring at us curiously. I shot him a hard look followed by a sly smile and walked out.
********
We walked up the driveway towards my front door as I span my keys round my finger. With a final spin I caught the keys and pushed the main key into the lock. “After you”, I said, pulling the needle from my pocket and, in one quick movement, stabbed it into his neck and injected a nice, heavy dose of anti-speed. Two seconds later he fell with a heavy thud, his head hitting the doorframe as he dropped.
Play time!
********
With a groan, his eyes flickered open and he squinted in the fluorescent basement lights. Disorientated he tried to move, however, unfortunately for him, he was stuck with his ankles tied to the chair legs and his hands cuffed behind the hard, wooden chair.
“Evening. Sleep well?”.
Being a typical victim he replied with “Where am I?”, stripped to nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxers.
“I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I’d be more concerned about keeping still if you want to remain alive”, staring him in the face. As I said this this a smile grew on my face and he spat at me. Unaffected, I backhanded him across the face, my not-so-purity ring breaking the skin. A thin, red line of blood ran down his cheek. I wiped my sleeve over my face and walked across the basement floor towards a desk covered with a stained-brown bed sheet. Whipping it off there was a clang of metal. I dropped the sheet and looked in front of me, scanning the table and its contents. Across it were all the items I’d set out this morning: pliers, blowtorch, corrosive acid, jump cables and generator, thick ropes and a foot long baton, all clean, tested and ready for use.
I slipped on a pair of dirty industrial gloves and picked up the cold steel pot of acid. Using a thick metal syringe I sucked up some of the green acid through the one-way suction hole in the lid and walked towards my victim, a small smile growing on my face while a look of concern came over his along with increasingly deeper breaths to the point where he sounded like he was having an asthma attack.
As I stood above him and placed my thumb on the plunger he clenched his eyes shut and let out an ear-piercing scream of “NO!”, and that was it. I lowered my hand and placed the syringe back on the table and went upstairs to find a ball-gag. I could hear him release a lungful of air. The man thought he was potentially free. I knew otherwise.
********
After a ten minute search, I’d found the gag - a ’classic’ red ball and black leather strap with a connector buckle on the back - and set on my way back down to the basement. Once I was down I saw that my victim had managed to make the chair fall over onto the grey stone floor. He was now lying on his side, looking helpless and vulnerable. “Silly boy”, I laughed as I picked him up with some struggle.
After picking him up, I went behind him and grabbed his thick hair so I could attach the gag. After a lot of head-shaking and growling it was on and the mouthy cunt couldn’t utter another word.
As I returned to my position above him with a needle in my hand and him looking now even more helpless, I gently pushed the plunger and let two drops of acid fall onto his bare leg and quietly hiss as they cooked the skin. Behind the gag I could hear a long moan. “What’s that?”, I asked, lifting the gag. “Fuck you!”, was his only reply resulting in another backhand across his face.
“One more word and you’ll be tasting bleach!”, I warned him, letting the gag flick back into his mouth. I turned on my heels and walked back to the table as his eyes began to dilate with fear. At the table I ran my hand over the tools, each one clanging as I moved to the next when I spotted the large white box of 50 catheter needles I’d left on the shadowed wooden shelf above the table. They were just waiting and asking to be used and this was the perfect moment.
“Do you like piercings, Mr. Stanley?”, I asked, still facing the shelf. I heard a mumble. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I turned round and slowly walked towards him, unpacking a needle as I walked. At the chair I pulled off the orange cover with my mouth - hygiene was the last thing on my mind right now - and spat it to the side.
Standing there, I scanned his lame body up and down, wondering where to poke the first needle. There was so much bare skin it was impossible to choose just one place; this was going to take some time. I finally decided on the biceps - an area not too sensitive but would still feel the pain of a two-inch needle being jabbed in. I held the needle in my right hand, hovering beside the man’s arm, “Ready?”, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Stab!
“Mmph!”, I heard as his eye widened then slammed shut, presumably due to the pain the of a 2-inch needle piercing the flesh and muscle of his left arm. It now pointed out horizontally, looking like an arm version of Pinhead. A thin red line of blood dribbled down his arm and settled in the indent of his elbow joint. “Where next?”, I wondered aloud. The right arm was my choice, even things out a bit like a spirit level., so I repeated as before, except from behind this time. Unfortunately I couldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the pain in his face. From his groan though, I knew I’d hurt him and that was all I needed to know.
Once I’d finished having my fun with the needles he looked like a torso version of Pinhead from Hellraiser. With two in each bicep, one piercing each of his nipples and four in a diamond shape around his heart, he began to sound weak and exhausted - the only noises he was making were those of deep, shallow breathing.. He now looked more feeble than ever - his face was bruised and swollen and flopped loosely forwards, unliftable, each of his legs had numbers of small acidic burns and blood ran down his face from his nose and mouth onto his naked torso. How he was still conscious I had no idea.
To finish things off I collected my DSLR camera from the table, focused onto his body, my ‘model’ and began taking photos. To some these photos would be art, and we all know art sells and, of course, I knew the market of which these pictures would sell; guaranteed money. After a few more photos from different positions and angles it was time to release this man from his pain so I walked behind him and slowly began unstrapping the gag.
The gag ran down Mr. Stanley’s body, catching the needles mid-fall and landed with a quiet bounce on the floor, rolled a foot or two and was stopped by the strap intersecting the path. I returned to my position in front of him and looked down. He slowly rolled his eyes up to connect with mine and said between breaths “You . . . Bitch!”. Those were his final words before I reached round and pulled out the knife from the waistband of my red latex skirt. With a quick backhand slash I sliced the air with the blade, smoothly catching his throat in the process. When I stopped a number of bloodlines ran down his neck before his throat seemed to explode in a shower of dark red blood, catching my right side in the process.
I turned and walked up the stairs towards the exit of the basement, closing the door when I stepped out. I’ll clean him up later, I thought to myself before stripping and walking upstairs to run a bath. I was knackered.
I was going through my writings on my laptop and came across the story. After a quick read, I noticed it needed some editing which I did and finally came out with this. It may need a bit more editing here and there but for now, it's fine and I'm pretty happy with it.
Enjoy!
-----------
I could feel the cold steel against the small of my back and the blade sliding on my skin with my every step. Sometimes it would scratch and I’d feel a small tear of blood run down the indent and settle somewhere. People would look at me as I walked past them, not because of the knife - that was hidden under my trench coat - nor because of the pain each scratch caused, I could hide that with a determined face, but because of the scar across my mouth; held closed with lip rings. I was used to it though, and right now my scar was the last thing on my mind.
I pushed the two-way door, its hinges squeaking and approached the bar. “Double Jim Beam”, I said, wiping some sticky liquid off of the arm of my jacket. Fucking kids can’t even keep their drinks in a glass. I paid the young barman and found a table in the dark corner and waited.
An hour and two double Jim Beams later he walked through the door. A tall man with dark long hair, leather biker jacket and what looked like some expensive sunglasses resting on his head who walked with confidence and authority. He approached the bar and said some inaudible words with a laugh while the bar kid poured him a drink.
He threw some change on the bar, which I assumed was the correct amount, and glanced up, spotting me in the corner. Walking over with a dark pint of what looked like Guinness in his hand, he looked me up and down with an eye of suspicion and sat down in one smooth movement, not spilling a drop of alchohol. Clever bastard.
He lifted his pint and took a long drink, causing me to assume that he‘d had a long morning. “Got the gear?”, he asked quietly after letting the half-empty glass slide through his hand and gently settle on the table. I nodded slightly and tapped my left jacket pocket twice. “Let’s go”, he said before downing the rest of his pint and standing up. I took my Beam in two - the liquid burning my throat - and followed. I could see the barman staring at us curiously. I shot him a hard look followed by a sly smile and walked out.
********
We walked up the driveway towards my front door as I span my keys round my finger. With a final spin I caught the keys and pushed the main key into the lock. “After you”, I said, pulling the needle from my pocket and, in one quick movement, stabbed it into his neck and injected a nice, heavy dose of anti-speed. Two seconds later he fell with a heavy thud, his head hitting the doorframe as he dropped.
Play time!
********
With a groan, his eyes flickered open and he squinted in the fluorescent basement lights. Disorientated he tried to move, however, unfortunately for him, he was stuck with his ankles tied to the chair legs and his hands cuffed behind the hard, wooden chair.
“Evening. Sleep well?”.
Being a typical victim he replied with “Where am I?”, stripped to nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxers.
“I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I’d be more concerned about keeping still if you want to remain alive”, staring him in the face. As I said this this a smile grew on my face and he spat at me. Unaffected, I backhanded him across the face, my not-so-purity ring breaking the skin. A thin, red line of blood ran down his cheek. I wiped my sleeve over my face and walked across the basement floor towards a desk covered with a stained-brown bed sheet. Whipping it off there was a clang of metal. I dropped the sheet and looked in front of me, scanning the table and its contents. Across it were all the items I’d set out this morning: pliers, blowtorch, corrosive acid, jump cables and generator, thick ropes and a foot long baton, all clean, tested and ready for use.
I slipped on a pair of dirty industrial gloves and picked up the cold steel pot of acid. Using a thick metal syringe I sucked up some of the green acid through the one-way suction hole in the lid and walked towards my victim, a small smile growing on my face while a look of concern came over his along with increasingly deeper breaths to the point where he sounded like he was having an asthma attack.
As I stood above him and placed my thumb on the plunger he clenched his eyes shut and let out an ear-piercing scream of “NO!”, and that was it. I lowered my hand and placed the syringe back on the table and went upstairs to find a ball-gag. I could hear him release a lungful of air. The man thought he was potentially free. I knew otherwise.
********
After a ten minute search, I’d found the gag - a ’classic’ red ball and black leather strap with a connector buckle on the back - and set on my way back down to the basement. Once I was down I saw that my victim had managed to make the chair fall over onto the grey stone floor. He was now lying on his side, looking helpless and vulnerable. “Silly boy”, I laughed as I picked him up with some struggle.
After picking him up, I went behind him and grabbed his thick hair so I could attach the gag. After a lot of head-shaking and growling it was on and the mouthy cunt couldn’t utter another word.
As I returned to my position above him with a needle in my hand and him looking now even more helpless, I gently pushed the plunger and let two drops of acid fall onto his bare leg and quietly hiss as they cooked the skin. Behind the gag I could hear a long moan. “What’s that?”, I asked, lifting the gag. “Fuck you!”, was his only reply resulting in another backhand across his face.
“One more word and you’ll be tasting bleach!”, I warned him, letting the gag flick back into his mouth. I turned on my heels and walked back to the table as his eyes began to dilate with fear. At the table I ran my hand over the tools, each one clanging as I moved to the next when I spotted the large white box of 50 catheter needles I’d left on the shadowed wooden shelf above the table. They were just waiting and asking to be used and this was the perfect moment.
“Do you like piercings, Mr. Stanley?”, I asked, still facing the shelf. I heard a mumble. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I turned round and slowly walked towards him, unpacking a needle as I walked. At the chair I pulled off the orange cover with my mouth - hygiene was the last thing on my mind right now - and spat it to the side.
Standing there, I scanned his lame body up and down, wondering where to poke the first needle. There was so much bare skin it was impossible to choose just one place; this was going to take some time. I finally decided on the biceps - an area not too sensitive but would still feel the pain of a two-inch needle being jabbed in. I held the needle in my right hand, hovering beside the man’s arm, “Ready?”, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Stab!
“Mmph!”, I heard as his eye widened then slammed shut, presumably due to the pain the of a 2-inch needle piercing the flesh and muscle of his left arm. It now pointed out horizontally, looking like an arm version of Pinhead. A thin red line of blood dribbled down his arm and settled in the indent of his elbow joint. “Where next?”, I wondered aloud. The right arm was my choice, even things out a bit like a spirit level., so I repeated as before, except from behind this time. Unfortunately I couldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the pain in his face. From his groan though, I knew I’d hurt him and that was all I needed to know.
Once I’d finished having my fun with the needles he looked like a torso version of Pinhead from Hellraiser. With two in each bicep, one piercing each of his nipples and four in a diamond shape around his heart, he began to sound weak and exhausted - the only noises he was making were those of deep, shallow breathing.. He now looked more feeble than ever - his face was bruised and swollen and flopped loosely forwards, unliftable, each of his legs had numbers of small acidic burns and blood ran down his face from his nose and mouth onto his naked torso. How he was still conscious I had no idea.
To finish things off I collected my DSLR camera from the table, focused onto his body, my ‘model’ and began taking photos. To some these photos would be art, and we all know art sells and, of course, I knew the market of which these pictures would sell; guaranteed money. After a few more photos from different positions and angles it was time to release this man from his pain so I walked behind him and slowly began unstrapping the gag.
The gag ran down Mr. Stanley’s body, catching the needles mid-fall and landed with a quiet bounce on the floor, rolled a foot or two and was stopped by the strap intersecting the path. I returned to my position in front of him and looked down. He slowly rolled his eyes up to connect with mine and said between breaths “You . . . Bitch!”. Those were his final words before I reached round and pulled out the knife from the waistband of my red latex skirt. With a quick backhand slash I sliced the air with the blade, smoothly catching his throat in the process. When I stopped a number of bloodlines ran down his neck before his throat seemed to explode in a shower of dark red blood, catching my right side in the process.
I turned and walked up the stairs towards the exit of the basement, closing the door when I stepped out. I’ll clean him up later, I thought to myself before stripping and walking upstairs to run a bath. I was knackered.
Friday 10 June 2011
New writing job is here
So, after a dry spell of having no paid writing jobs, a fun one with decent pay has come along.
I did the usual post ad on Gumtree thing a couple of weeks ago and received little interest until Wednesday when I received a call from a man called Mike (also from Chelmsford) who runs a site called Apple Uncovered (www.appleuncovered.com) which is a blog focusing on new news (double word intentional) on Apple products.
After a second chat on the phone yesterday, Mike sent me an email with the details: I will be writing about new products on a frequent basis at £3 per article on a long-term basis. There were 8 links about things I was to write about and so I got to it.
The first article was about the new Apple HQ in CA which I knocked out in a couple of hours and was told is excellent and went straight online. 2 more have been written since.
Following on from the well-written article, I was told that if they continue to be of such a good standard, I'll be able to upload them myself. Not bad for my first article about something I know very little about.
So, hopefully this job will continue and I'll actually have something to do over the summer.
Pete is a happy man.
PS - all writing will be done better than this lazy blog post.
PPS - I'm 23 tomorrow. Happiness has suddenly gone :(
I did the usual post ad on Gumtree thing a couple of weeks ago and received little interest until Wednesday when I received a call from a man called Mike (also from Chelmsford) who runs a site called Apple Uncovered (www.appleuncovered.com) which is a blog focusing on new news (double word intentional) on Apple products.
After a second chat on the phone yesterday, Mike sent me an email with the details: I will be writing about new products on a frequent basis at £3 per article on a long-term basis. There were 8 links about things I was to write about and so I got to it.
The first article was about the new Apple HQ in CA which I knocked out in a couple of hours and was told is excellent and went straight online. 2 more have been written since.
Following on from the well-written article, I was told that if they continue to be of such a good standard, I'll be able to upload them myself. Not bad for my first article about something I know very little about.
So, hopefully this job will continue and I'll actually have something to do over the summer.
Pete is a happy man.
PS - all writing will be done better than this lazy blog post.
PPS - I'm 23 tomorrow. Happiness has suddenly gone :(
Monday 11 April 2011
Assignment H
As a side note, I still haven't done assignment G as it was one I've found a little tricky. I'll do it next week when I'm back on campus and able to get back to work properly (I'm having one of those break things back in Chelmsford right now which means doing no work and just lazing around. Standard me.
Assignment H, however, I did do in which we had to take a memorable or significant event in our lives and write yet another poem about it. We then had to reverse the poem and see which sounded better. Sorted. (For the record, I thought the second one sounded better). This was done in two parts, the second I'll describe below.
----------------
Travelling down the wavey slide
Picking up speed
Downward path ahead of me
No other way to go
Approaching the wave
Ready to somersault forwards
Flying through the air
Ground approaching fast
Summer green grass ready to take my fall
Landing on hard, dry ground
A guaranteed injury
The result of skating down a slide
---------------------
The result of skating down a slide
A guaranteed injury
Landing on hard, dry ground
Summer green grass ready to take my fall
Ground approaching fast
Flying through the air
Ready to somersault forwards
Approaching the wave
No other way to go
Downward path ahead of me
Picking up speed
Travelling down the wavey slide
--------------------
For part 2 we had to take one of the memorable lines and write a short piece about it. The following was my written piece:
------------------
The event of which I wrote about happened in the summer of 2004/5 which of course, meant summer green grass would be around. Me and my cousin had been going down a ‘wavey’ slide on a skateboard but just sitting down. I, however, thought it would be clever to step up a notch and go down the slide on the skateboard standing up. Possibly one of the worst ideas ever.
I prepared myself at the top of the slide by balancing one foot on the tail and my other on the tongue which was in the air. After a count of three I pushed my front foot down and began travelling down the slide.
All was fine for around a second and a half and then it all went wrong. I was launched into the air where I managed to somersault and land full body-weight onto my elbow. The second I hit, a huge pain shot up my arm which turned into a warm tingle which refused to budge.
An hour later, my elbow was the size of a cricket ball and impossible to move. A visit to the hospital was in order. It wasn’t broken but the bone was cracked.
That elbow still likes to crack (in the knuckle way) at random occasions.
The worst ideas create the best memories. (Copyright to me!)
Assignment H, however, I did do in which we had to take a memorable or significant event in our lives and write yet another poem about it. We then had to reverse the poem and see which sounded better. Sorted. (For the record, I thought the second one sounded better). This was done in two parts, the second I'll describe below.
----------------
Travelling down the wavey slide
Picking up speed
Downward path ahead of me
No other way to go
Approaching the wave
Ready to somersault forwards
Flying through the air
Ground approaching fast
Summer green grass ready to take my fall
Landing on hard, dry ground
A guaranteed injury
The result of skating down a slide
---------------------
The result of skating down a slide
A guaranteed injury
Landing on hard, dry ground
Summer green grass ready to take my fall
Ground approaching fast
Flying through the air
Ready to somersault forwards
Approaching the wave
No other way to go
Downward path ahead of me
Picking up speed
Travelling down the wavey slide
--------------------
For part 2 we had to take one of the memorable lines and write a short piece about it. The following was my written piece:
------------------
The event of which I wrote about happened in the summer of 2004/5 which of course, meant summer green grass would be around. Me and my cousin had been going down a ‘wavey’ slide on a skateboard but just sitting down. I, however, thought it would be clever to step up a notch and go down the slide on the skateboard standing up. Possibly one of the worst ideas ever.
I prepared myself at the top of the slide by balancing one foot on the tail and my other on the tongue which was in the air. After a count of three I pushed my front foot down and began travelling down the slide.
All was fine for around a second and a half and then it all went wrong. I was launched into the air where I managed to somersault and land full body-weight onto my elbow. The second I hit, a huge pain shot up my arm which turned into a warm tingle which refused to budge.
An hour later, my elbow was the size of a cricket ball and impossible to move. A visit to the hospital was in order. It wasn’t broken but the bone was cracked.
That elbow still likes to crack (in the knuckle way) at random occasions.
The worst ideas create the best memories. (Copyright to me!)
Sunday 20 March 2011
Assignment F
For this week's assignment we had to take last week's character and create a situation with dialogue and written in 1st or 3rd person view. As you can see I chose third. Where the inspiration for this one came from I not certain, but I was doing a little a little research on prices for tours round the Tower of London and decided I wanted to incorporate the tower into my story.
However, as I wasn't able to find much on the royal members who had resided there over the past 1000 years I decided on the person/people in this story which I've called "Counted".
----------
Skidding round the corner and almost losing his footing, Pete continued to run through the numerous corridors of Hungary‘s greatest tower, not daring to look behind through fear of hitting into something or someone he didn‘t fancy hitting. Besides, he knew what was behind and it wasn’t something he’d want to see again, anyway.
“Come the fuck back!”, a voice echoed, bouncing off of every wall along with the thump of something hard against the cold, grey stone. God knows who it was but Pete wasn’t going to find out anytime soon if it could be helped.
Turning another corner, he spotted a large wooden door, slightly open which, judging from the strip of yellow light that shone through the gap, would provide a hiding area.
Slowly closing the door to it’s original position, Pete turned on his heels and saw that someone he hadn’t seen when he’d entered the room seconds earlier was sat on the bed, smiling softly. She was dressed in a large, decorative dress which only a person of royalty would be fit to wear with her hair tied up and a smile that could freeze anyone in their path, including, evidently, Pete. Still smiling, she gently licked her lips, removing what looked like a small speck of blood. She’d either bitten her lip or, if she was who Pete thought she was, she’d just had a meal.
The woman in front of Pete could only be Elizabeth Bathory of Hungarian royalty.
“Can I help you?”, she asked in a soft yet strong voice.
Rumours had been floating around that the Countess had been taking in female workers (with teenage virgins being her favourite) and torturing, mutilating and even killing them, 10s at a time. She’d apparently also been bathing in their blood to remain beautiful. If the latter was true, it had certainly worked.
“N-no. I mean, yes. Some nut bag out there seems to have a slight disliking towards me. Fancy telling him to fuck off out of here, save my skin and be a heroine to the city?”, he replied in a sentence which seemed to instead be just one long word. He quickly added “Your Highness”, for good measure.
She pondered the thought for a moment, flicking her eyes around the room, then stopped still and said flatly: “You mean the Count of Hungary, my husband?”
Half a second after hearing that final syllable, Pete had opened the door and started running. There was no way he’d be staying in the presence of that woman and her wild husband.
However, the escape card was not in the hands of Pete and, as he ran round the first corner of the corridor, a searing paid shot through his body. Looking down at his torso, he appeared to be impaled upon the Count’s razor-sharp sword.
“You’ve been Counted” were the last words Pete heard.
------------
However, as I wasn't able to find much on the royal members who had resided there over the past 1000 years I decided on the person/people in this story which I've called "Counted".
----------
Skidding round the corner and almost losing his footing, Pete continued to run through the numerous corridors of Hungary‘s greatest tower, not daring to look behind through fear of hitting into something or someone he didn‘t fancy hitting. Besides, he knew what was behind and it wasn’t something he’d want to see again, anyway.
“Come the fuck back!”, a voice echoed, bouncing off of every wall along with the thump of something hard against the cold, grey stone. God knows who it was but Pete wasn’t going to find out anytime soon if it could be helped.
Turning another corner, he spotted a large wooden door, slightly open which, judging from the strip of yellow light that shone through the gap, would provide a hiding area.
Slowly closing the door to it’s original position, Pete turned on his heels and saw that someone he hadn’t seen when he’d entered the room seconds earlier was sat on the bed, smiling softly. She was dressed in a large, decorative dress which only a person of royalty would be fit to wear with her hair tied up and a smile that could freeze anyone in their path, including, evidently, Pete. Still smiling, she gently licked her lips, removing what looked like a small speck of blood. She’d either bitten her lip or, if she was who Pete thought she was, she’d just had a meal.
The woman in front of Pete could only be Elizabeth Bathory of Hungarian royalty.
“Can I help you?”, she asked in a soft yet strong voice.
Rumours had been floating around that the Countess had been taking in female workers (with teenage virgins being her favourite) and torturing, mutilating and even killing them, 10s at a time. She’d apparently also been bathing in their blood to remain beautiful. If the latter was true, it had certainly worked.
“N-no. I mean, yes. Some nut bag out there seems to have a slight disliking towards me. Fancy telling him to fuck off out of here, save my skin and be a heroine to the city?”, he replied in a sentence which seemed to instead be just one long word. He quickly added “Your Highness”, for good measure.
She pondered the thought for a moment, flicking her eyes around the room, then stopped still and said flatly: “You mean the Count of Hungary, my husband?”
Half a second after hearing that final syllable, Pete had opened the door and started running. There was no way he’d be staying in the presence of that woman and her wild husband.
However, the escape card was not in the hands of Pete and, as he ran round the first corner of the corridor, a searing paid shot through his body. Looking down at his torso, he appeared to be impaled upon the Count’s razor-sharp sword.
“You’ve been Counted” were the last words Pete heard.
------------
Sunday 13 March 2011
Assignment E (and more)
This post is going to be on more than just this weeks assignment. There's a little bit of news on the writing job front also which I'll get to at the end of this post. Firstly though, I suppose I should post the assignment, yeah?
This week we had to look at some observation notes we took whilst sat outside during the workshop and turn them into a story written in a 2nd person point of view ('You' as as opposed to 'I' or 'They')
I quite enjoyed this assignment as it gave me a new voice to work with and something which I've not done before as I've always written in either first or third person perspective out of habit and comfortableness.
Anyway, here it is, a little story I call 'Blue Monday' (the skies were perfectly blue and it was a Monday, geddit? Clever, huh?)
-------------------
You’re sitting there on the small stone step, staring at the water rippling quietly with the blue sky reflecting off of its surface and the sun reflecting its beams through the air. You can feel the heat of the sun on your cheek but the soft breeze is keeping you cool. You can’t help but think that it’s an absolutely beautiful day and that spring has almost arrived. Looking beyond the water you can see that the horizon is a soft yellow haze. Somewhat mesmerising.
30 yards to your right is a small group of students trying to fly a kite but are failing miserably. You want to join them but can’t as you have to wait for someone and you can’t afford to miss this meeting, especially after what happened last time you disappeared before meeting a friend.
There’s a bird beside you. A pigeon. And you can’t help but stare at the thing with its head bobbing back and forth as it walks and its little trick of hopping onto the ledge, turning round and hopping back down again with bird-like skills. Shouldn’t he be in Trafalgar Square though?
You’re checking your mobile for the third time in - according to the clock - the third time in 15 minutes, wondering where he is when you glance up and see your friend walking towards you with a big grin on his face. Sitting down beside you he’s asking you “So, have you got the gear?” in a quiet voice following it with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” you’re saying whilst reaching into your bag and producing a plastic bag. You’re handing it to him gently so as not to drop it.
He’s looking and reaching his hand in, muttering the word “Perfect” and after a few seconds he’s pulled out a chilled bottle of real Coca Cola. Just what he asked for.
------------
Moving onto the news of the writing job, the story goes somewhat like this:
I'd been corresponding with someone over email for a few days just arranging and making some sort of deal about what I'd be writing etc. Standard stuff and a meeting was arranged for today.
Went to the meeting/interview (which went really well) and met the man I'd be writing for. We. discussed details (what he wants written, where it'll be, future ideas etc) and came to a deal that I'll get back to the flat and using the notes I'd taken during the meeting, write out a short biography and details of the (personal training) services he offered.
Now that's all written out and emailed I'm just waiting for a reply and going to arrange a price which I've got a rough idea of. Got to decide whether to do it by work count of set price. Think I'll go with the former as it's probably easier to work with.
There'll also be some future meetings on something like a fortnightly basis just to discuss everything and see what needs to be done.
So, after whit loads of emails to various 'employers' I've landed a decent gig which should remain on-going for however long it goes. And I'll finally have some money for a nice load of fatty junk food and some clementines.
That'll be all for now. More info and assignments to come next week.
This week we had to look at some observation notes we took whilst sat outside during the workshop and turn them into a story written in a 2nd person point of view ('You' as as opposed to 'I' or 'They')
I quite enjoyed this assignment as it gave me a new voice to work with and something which I've not done before as I've always written in either first or third person perspective out of habit and comfortableness.
Anyway, here it is, a little story I call 'Blue Monday' (the skies were perfectly blue and it was a Monday, geddit? Clever, huh?)
-------------------
You’re sitting there on the small stone step, staring at the water rippling quietly with the blue sky reflecting off of its surface and the sun reflecting its beams through the air. You can feel the heat of the sun on your cheek but the soft breeze is keeping you cool. You can’t help but think that it’s an absolutely beautiful day and that spring has almost arrived. Looking beyond the water you can see that the horizon is a soft yellow haze. Somewhat mesmerising.
30 yards to your right is a small group of students trying to fly a kite but are failing miserably. You want to join them but can’t as you have to wait for someone and you can’t afford to miss this meeting, especially after what happened last time you disappeared before meeting a friend.
There’s a bird beside you. A pigeon. And you can’t help but stare at the thing with its head bobbing back and forth as it walks and its little trick of hopping onto the ledge, turning round and hopping back down again with bird-like skills. Shouldn’t he be in Trafalgar Square though?
You’re checking your mobile for the third time in - according to the clock - the third time in 15 minutes, wondering where he is when you glance up and see your friend walking towards you with a big grin on his face. Sitting down beside you he’s asking you “So, have you got the gear?” in a quiet voice following it with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” you’re saying whilst reaching into your bag and producing a plastic bag. You’re handing it to him gently so as not to drop it.
He’s looking and reaching his hand in, muttering the word “Perfect” and after a few seconds he’s pulled out a chilled bottle of real Coca Cola. Just what he asked for.
------------
Moving onto the news of the writing job, the story goes somewhat like this:
I'd been corresponding with someone over email for a few days just arranging and making some sort of deal about what I'd be writing etc. Standard stuff and a meeting was arranged for today.
Went to the meeting/interview (which went really well) and met the man I'd be writing for. We. discussed details (what he wants written, where it'll be, future ideas etc) and came to a deal that I'll get back to the flat and using the notes I'd taken during the meeting, write out a short biography and details of the (personal training) services he offered.
Now that's all written out and emailed I'm just waiting for a reply and going to arrange a price which I've got a rough idea of. Got to decide whether to do it by work count of set price. Think I'll go with the former as it's probably easier to work with.
There'll also be some future meetings on something like a fortnightly basis just to discuss everything and see what needs to be done.
So, after whit loads of emails to various 'employers' I've landed a decent gig which should remain on-going for however long it goes. And I'll finally have some money for a nice load of fatty junk food and some clementines.
That'll be all for now. More info and assignments to come next week.
Friday 11 March 2011
Persistence Pays Off
As some of you know, I've been looking for a paid writing job for quite some time and not been having much luck. Until the last couple of days. The story is below:
----------------
As of late, I have been without money (by which I mean £35 overdrawn, no income and living off of dry pasta and tap water - ah, student life) and have therefore been required to browse Gumtree looking for writing jobs which put some money in my pocket.
Although I enjoy doing freelance writing for nothing (which I’m doing with this article right now) I also have to feed myself, even if it’s with pocket money. However, to succeed in this I have spent hours at a time on the aforementioned website replying to ads which I feel I’d be able to write about and earn enough money to buy a tin of beans and some bread. This is where persistence comes in.
I spent my evenings replying to ads with a lengthy email which would include descriptions of my capabilities, what I’m willing to do or write about (which was just about anything) with an added link to my blogs at the bottom for some samples of my writing.
A few times this worked and I’d get the odd job here and there but recently I was having an extremely dry run. Until the evening of the 11th of March, that is. There I was, sat on a forum and Facebook, daydreaming of having a walk around London when ’Sunshine of Your Love’ suddenly started playing out of my mobile beside me. When I checked who it was, it was just a UK number which I didn’t recognise. I answered anyway.
After a 20 minute conversation/interview which involved questions about what I’d be writing about, am I interested in journalism and about possibly becoming a teacher I was told I’d receive a call in approximately two weeks confirming whether I’d got the position or not. Hanging up, I felt extremely optimistic as the interview seemed to go well, emails had been positive and I felt that I’d answered the questions well and with a verbal sign of confidence. This had to go on Facebook!
Do I think I’ve certainly got the job or do I keep an open mind and apply for the odd one here and there just to keep me on my toes? I’ll go for the latter myself but remain optimistic about the former.
It’s taken three months of blood, sweat and tears (Note to self: Stop exaggerating) but I‘m there (almost).
Moral of the story? Should you be turned down for one job, don’t think that’s the end, just keep applying and you’ll get there in the end.
And remember these three words: Persistence pays off.
----------------
----------------
As of late, I have been without money (by which I mean £35 overdrawn, no income and living off of dry pasta and tap water - ah, student life) and have therefore been required to browse Gumtree looking for writing jobs which put some money in my pocket.
Although I enjoy doing freelance writing for nothing (which I’m doing with this article right now) I also have to feed myself, even if it’s with pocket money. However, to succeed in this I have spent hours at a time on the aforementioned website replying to ads which I feel I’d be able to write about and earn enough money to buy a tin of beans and some bread. This is where persistence comes in.
I spent my evenings replying to ads with a lengthy email which would include descriptions of my capabilities, what I’m willing to do or write about (which was just about anything) with an added link to my blogs at the bottom for some samples of my writing.
A few times this worked and I’d get the odd job here and there but recently I was having an extremely dry run. Until the evening of the 11th of March, that is. There I was, sat on a forum and Facebook, daydreaming of having a walk around London when ’Sunshine of Your Love’ suddenly started playing out of my mobile beside me. When I checked who it was, it was just a UK number which I didn’t recognise. I answered anyway.
After a 20 minute conversation/interview which involved questions about what I’d be writing about, am I interested in journalism and about possibly becoming a teacher I was told I’d receive a call in approximately two weeks confirming whether I’d got the position or not. Hanging up, I felt extremely optimistic as the interview seemed to go well, emails had been positive and I felt that I’d answered the questions well and with a verbal sign of confidence. This had to go on Facebook!
Do I think I’ve certainly got the job or do I keep an open mind and apply for the odd one here and there just to keep me on my toes? I’ll go for the latter myself but remain optimistic about the former.
It’s taken three months of blood, sweat and tears (Note to self: Stop exaggerating) but I‘m there (almost).
Moral of the story? Should you be turned down for one job, don’t think that’s the end, just keep applying and you’ll get there in the end.
And remember these three words: Persistence pays off.
----------------
Monday 7 March 2011
Assignment D
This one was set last week and should have been put up in the same week but, alas, I forgot, didn't I? Classic Pete. Enough woefulness, however, lets move onto the assignment.
This (last) week we had to rewrite the following excerpt in our own style however we liked:
"and you tell me my other self will you answer me at last I am tired of you I want you I dream of you for you against you answer me your name is a perfume about me your colour bursts among the thorns bring back my heart with coll wine make me a coverlet of the morning I suffocate beneath this mask withered shrunken skin nothing exists save desire - Philippe Sollers (1936 - )
The piece above was type exactly as it was given to us - no punctuation, no sentence structure, no sense but with some close reading and a thesaurus I managed to come up with the following entitled "My Other Self":
You ask my other self
The one which answers words
Why I dream of you many times
Despite being tired of you
Give me your name
A wish upon my mind
A possible demand
Who am I writing of?
Against your wishes
I want to dream of you
And the thorns
Which are a perfume to me
Your colours
And your wines
Are bedclothes covers
Over me in the morning chill
Your mask suffocates me
With desirous skin
Which exists in this world
Nothing but shrunken
And withered to grey dust
--------------
When read in class it generally received good comments, especially about the first verse and final line. Another piece of writing I was quite happy with. Sadly I don't really know what it means, the words just came out after reading the extract. Oh well.
Strange isn't it? When I started uni just 6 months ago, I hated poetry (still do at times) but now a lot of my assignments are written in a poetic style. Maybe I'm a sell-out/fraud?
This (last) week we had to rewrite the following excerpt in our own style however we liked:
"and you tell me my other self will you answer me at last I am tired of you I want you I dream of you for you against you answer me your name is a perfume about me your colour bursts among the thorns bring back my heart with coll wine make me a coverlet of the morning I suffocate beneath this mask withered shrunken skin nothing exists save desire - Philippe Sollers (1936 - )
The piece above was type exactly as it was given to us - no punctuation, no sentence structure, no sense but with some close reading and a thesaurus I managed to come up with the following entitled "My Other Self":
You ask my other self
The one which answers words
Why I dream of you many times
Despite being tired of you
Give me your name
A wish upon my mind
A possible demand
Who am I writing of?
Against your wishes
I want to dream of you
And the thorns
Which are a perfume to me
Your colours
And your wines
Are bedclothes covers
Over me in the morning chill
Your mask suffocates me
With desirous skin
Which exists in this world
Nothing but shrunken
And withered to grey dust
--------------
When read in class it generally received good comments, especially about the first verse and final line. Another piece of writing I was quite happy with. Sadly I don't really know what it means, the words just came out after reading the extract. Oh well.
Strange isn't it? When I started uni just 6 months ago, I hated poetry (still do at times) but now a lot of my assignments are written in a poetic style. Maybe I'm a sell-out/fraud?
Tuesday 22 February 2011
A new music/creative idea
So there I was, lying in bed unable to sleep when an idea came along: Take my previous poetic assignment and turn it into a song/tune. I haven't made any music for quite some time as I've just not been feeling inspired/had the time etc so it's time to do something special. I don't know how long this'll take but I've got the main ideas in my head, it's just recording everything and making it sound 'right'.
I'll probably document it as it happens on here so keep an eye out or something.
That'll be all.
I'll probably document it as it happens on here so keep an eye out or something.
That'll be all.
Monday 21 February 2011
Assignment C
For our third assignment we were required to take one of last week's treatments and re-write it. As I very much disliked my fictional treatment, I chose that piece to re-write. For the piece I simply took the original true story and it's main points (head op, wires on brain, hospital) and made up some strange story. The only missing part is the mention of epilepsy.
I quite enjoyed this one as I felt very free to make up some story which meant although I had to keep the main points listed above I could make it as crazy as I liked.
So, without further ado, here it is:
--------------------------
I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t know the process, the time it would take, what it was for or if it would even be successful. I knew I was going to have a head operation but that was it. I was excited, though, but that may have just been the high dosage of morphine they had me on.
I sat on the hospital bed, with it’s crisp white sheets and hard mattress, waiting for the nurse to come into my room and roll me down to the theatre.
Finally, an hour later, the woman arrived in her pristinely ironed nurse’s uniform and started to wheel me towards the theatre. By the frown on her chubby face, she really wasn’t someone I’d want to fuck with.
I managed a smile though and even worked up the nerve to ask her if the op could be filmed. Rather than reply, she arched her thick eyebrows inwards and gave me a look as if to say “What is wrong with you?”
My mum just told me to calm down as we entered a cold small room.
The nurse reached for a long, thick syringe, filled with a clear liquid and asked “You ready?” I nodded and without warning, she pushed the needle into my arm and I soon fell asleep.
An unknown number of hours later, I awoke in a small, cold and empty room with stone floors, surrounded by bleeping machines and wires which trailed into my head.
The nurse soon entered the room, followed by my mum and slowly said “It has begun”.
-------------------------
Hopefully the sentence structure makes sense. If it doesn't, it's the fault of the word processor and having to use double spaced writing.
I quite enjoyed this one as I felt very free to make up some story which meant although I had to keep the main points listed above I could make it as crazy as I liked.
So, without further ado, here it is:
--------------------------
I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t know the process, the time it would take, what it was for or if it would even be successful. I knew I was going to have a head operation but that was it. I was excited, though, but that may have just been the high dosage of morphine they had me on.
I sat on the hospital bed, with it’s crisp white sheets and hard mattress, waiting for the nurse to come into my room and roll me down to the theatre.
Finally, an hour later, the woman arrived in her pristinely ironed nurse’s uniform and started to wheel me towards the theatre. By the frown on her chubby face, she really wasn’t someone I’d want to fuck with.
I managed a smile though and even worked up the nerve to ask her if the op could be filmed. Rather than reply, she arched her thick eyebrows inwards and gave me a look as if to say “What is wrong with you?”
My mum just told me to calm down as we entered a cold small room.
The nurse reached for a long, thick syringe, filled with a clear liquid and asked “You ready?” I nodded and without warning, she pushed the needle into my arm and I soon fell asleep.
An unknown number of hours later, I awoke in a small, cold and empty room with stone floors, surrounded by bleeping machines and wires which trailed into my head.
The nurse soon entered the room, followed by my mum and slowly said “It has begun”.
-------------------------
Hopefully the sentence structure makes sense. If it doesn't, it's the fault of the word processor and having to use double spaced writing.
Sunday 20 February 2011
Assignment B pt. 3
The third instalment of assignment B which was meant to be a fictional treatment of a significant day in my life. I'm not too impressed with this but I'm sure it'll do.
--------------
Pete hopped onto the hospital bed before the nurse pushed her foot down onto the wheel lock and began wheeling the bed, with it’s wheels rattling dangerously, down the cold hospital corridor towards the operating theatre with his parents beside the bed, trying to keep up to speed.
When asked if the operation could be filmed, the nurse simply replied with “We’ll see what we can do” with which his mum followed with “Be quiet and calm down”.
Although nervous, Pete managed to keep calm as he was pushed out of the lift and towards the generic two-way doors which you see on films and drama shows. Through the doors, Pete and his parents were in a small square room which would lead into the operating theatre.
“Are you ready for this?”, his dad asked calmly. “Yep”, Pete replied before the nurse announced the cliché of “You’re just going to feel a small scratch,” before injecting the anaesthetic. “Now count down from 10”.
At 5, Pete fell asleep, ready to be operated on.
4 hours later, Pete’s eyes flickered open and he tried to sit up, forgetting that he was attached to a machine.
After lying in bed for 20 minutes, studying his surroundings, Pete’s mum walked in and smiled, happy to see he was awake (and alive). “How do you feel?” she asked. “Sore.”
“Well just relax and we’ll wait for the nurse to come in.”
Upon saying that, the nurse made an appearance to check how everything was and it was time for Pete to spend a week attached to a machine.
----------------
Hopefully the sentence structure is okay. If it's not, that's the fault of my word processor.
--------------
Pete hopped onto the hospital bed before the nurse pushed her foot down onto the wheel lock and began wheeling the bed, with it’s wheels rattling dangerously, down the cold hospital corridor towards the operating theatre with his parents beside the bed, trying to keep up to speed.
When asked if the operation could be filmed, the nurse simply replied with “We’ll see what we can do” with which his mum followed with “Be quiet and calm down”.
Although nervous, Pete managed to keep calm as he was pushed out of the lift and towards the generic two-way doors which you see on films and drama shows. Through the doors, Pete and his parents were in a small square room which would lead into the operating theatre.
“Are you ready for this?”, his dad asked calmly. “Yep”, Pete replied before the nurse announced the cliché of “You’re just going to feel a small scratch,” before injecting the anaesthetic. “Now count down from 10”.
At 5, Pete fell asleep, ready to be operated on.
4 hours later, Pete’s eyes flickered open and he tried to sit up, forgetting that he was attached to a machine.
After lying in bed for 20 minutes, studying his surroundings, Pete’s mum walked in and smiled, happy to see he was awake (and alive). “How do you feel?” she asked. “Sore.”
“Well just relax and we’ll wait for the nurse to come in.”
Upon saying that, the nurse made an appearance to check how everything was and it was time for Pete to spend a week attached to a machine.
----------------
Hopefully the sentence structure is okay. If it's not, that's the fault of my word processor.
Semester B - Week 2 (Continued)
Here is the second part of my assignment described below. This is the dramatic script. I'm still not too good as writing for TV so this is far from my best piece but hopefully it'll get me somewhere in life.
Hospital bed is being pushed down the corridor by nurses dressed in blue uniforms.
Pete (laughing) - I’m getting my head cut open in 10 minutes. Can you film it for me please?
Nurse - We’ll see what we can do.
Debbie (Mum) - Be quiet now, and don’t worry. I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.
Bed is pushed into a small room and Pete is injected with anaesthetic. Counting down from 10, he falls asleep, ready for the operation.
4 Hours later
Pete’s eyes begin flickering open and he’s finally awake.
Pete (thinking) - Where am I? Who are all these people in these beds? My operation has just finished.
Nurse walks in with parents.
Mum - Are you awake?
Pete - (Mumbles)
An hour later Pete is wheeled back to his hospital room where he will spend the next week attached to a machine to monitor brain activity.
Grandparents are sat in the room, waiting. Both ask how it went.
Nurse - It went very well. We got the wires attached with no problems. Through the next week we’ll be taking records and checking all activity of the brain when he has a seizure then we’ll analyse and decide whether it’s safe to remove the tumour or not.
Family member - Are you hungry?
Pete - Yes.
A week of lying in bed with wires coming out of the head has begun.
Hospital bed is being pushed down the corridor by nurses dressed in blue uniforms.
Pete (laughing) - I’m getting my head cut open in 10 minutes. Can you film it for me please?
Nurse - We’ll see what we can do.
Debbie (Mum) - Be quiet now, and don’t worry. I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.
Bed is pushed into a small room and Pete is injected with anaesthetic. Counting down from 10, he falls asleep, ready for the operation.
4 Hours later
Pete’s eyes begin flickering open and he’s finally awake.
Pete (thinking) - Where am I? Who are all these people in these beds? My operation has just finished.
Nurse walks in with parents.
Mum - Are you awake?
Pete - (Mumbles)
An hour later Pete is wheeled back to his hospital room where he will spend the next week attached to a machine to monitor brain activity.
Grandparents are sat in the room, waiting. Both ask how it went.
Nurse - It went very well. We got the wires attached with no problems. Through the next week we’ll be taking records and checking all activity of the brain when he has a seizure then we’ll analyse and decide whether it’s safe to remove the tumour or not.
Family member - Are you hungry?
Pete - Yes.
A week of lying in bed with wires coming out of the head has begun.
Semester B - Week 2
This week we had to take a significant day in our life/lives and create three pieces out of it: a poem, dramatic treatment (stage script) and fictional treatment.
As I'm not a fan of poetry, I put this back to the last minute but it seemed to come out okay, I suppose seeing as poetry is usually just written in a style which may people may call bollocks. After this post I'll be sticking up part two of this week's assignment and hopefully by the end of the night be able to stick up part 3 so here it is:
Lying on a bed
Travelling down a hallway
With tubes in my arms
And parents by my side
Sending me soothing words
Nervous but excited
Tired but awake
Curious but knowledgeable
And aware of what’s to follow
After I fall asleep
Waiting in a room
Surrounded by tools
A needle points towards me
And gently enters my arm
Before I know it, I’m asleep
Finally asleep
Surrounded by surgeons
It’s time to start
Cutting things open
With a sharpened medical blade
Move forward 4 hours
Eyes flicker open
Wondering where I am
I’m in a hospital ward
Sterile, white and cold
Gosh, I’m in G.O.S.H
Surrounded by fellow operationees
All attached to machines
Making strange noises
Bleeps and buzzes and hums
With wires in my head
And tubes in my arms
I’m unable to move
From this bed with locked wheels
And plain white sheets
Parents arrive at my side
Ask if I’m okay
Not okay but alive
But still extremely tired
And able to sleep for a day
I’m lying in bed
On my road to the cure
Of an epileptic life
To be free from worries
And able to have more fun
The road is long
This is just the beginning
But I’m willing and ready
To be attached to a machine
For the long week ahead
As I'm not a fan of poetry, I put this back to the last minute but it seemed to come out okay, I suppose seeing as poetry is usually just written in a style which may people may call bollocks. After this post I'll be sticking up part two of this week's assignment and hopefully by the end of the night be able to stick up part 3 so here it is:
Lying on a bed
Travelling down a hallway
With tubes in my arms
And parents by my side
Sending me soothing words
Nervous but excited
Tired but awake
Curious but knowledgeable
And aware of what’s to follow
After I fall asleep
Waiting in a room
Surrounded by tools
A needle points towards me
And gently enters my arm
Before I know it, I’m asleep
Finally asleep
Surrounded by surgeons
It’s time to start
Cutting things open
With a sharpened medical blade
Move forward 4 hours
Eyes flicker open
Wondering where I am
I’m in a hospital ward
Sterile, white and cold
Gosh, I’m in G.O.S.H
Surrounded by fellow operationees
All attached to machines
Making strange noises
Bleeps and buzzes and hums
With wires in my head
And tubes in my arms
I’m unable to move
From this bed with locked wheels
And plain white sheets
Parents arrive at my side
Ask if I’m okay
Not okay but alive
But still extremely tired
And able to sleep for a day
I’m lying in bed
On my road to the cure
Of an epileptic life
To be free from worries
And able to have more fun
The road is long
This is just the beginning
But I’m willing and ready
To be attached to a machine
For the long week ahead
Thursday 10 February 2011
1st writing of semester B
And so it has begun. Semester B, a time for us to fall asleep in lecture halls, listen to lecturers ramble on and do the odd piece of work. Having finished one piece already, I get a strange feeling that this semester may be a little harder than last sem. but, by the words of Daft Punk: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger.
I've now finished my project about Sony Erriccson's Xperia Play mobile which got me a little food money but nothing huge. Oh well, the owner of the site I found the ad on made me a featured writer.
I'm also about to begin writing for another publication which apparently sends out it's work to hundreds of other publications. Is this a potential for more work? Who knows.
Now that I've written a fair amount, I'm going to stick a blog up with links to every piece (those which are still not yet online I'll post up with words.
Annnnnnnyway, moving on, here is my first piece for the semester in which we had to write about how we get into our emotions as a writer, what is the strongest of our senses and the earliest smell we can recall.
Enjoy!
---------------------------
To tap into my emotions as a writer I try to think of past events such as a family member suffering from alchoholism for two years which almost caused my family to break apart.
On another occasion I may be angry at something, and using this feeling I’ll put it onto paper in the form of a diary entry or scribble in a notepad and look at it at a later date and use the words to write something.
Another way to get into my emotions is with music. Being an eclectic listener, I’m happy to listen to almost any genre which suits my mood (currently some Saxon and Gary Moore*). Many songs which were released in the 90s and early 00s (Most notably, Daft Punk‘s ‘One More Time‘) will bring out a feeling of euphoria.
Like many people claim, my strongest sense is probably smell. I can usually remember if something smelt like a piece of fruit or how a certain area had it’s own smell. I can only remember someone’s voice or accent if it is very distinct or sounds like another person’s voice. However, most of the time I don’t take too much notice of a voice.
The earliest smell I can recall is that of rotten eggs. Not the best of smells but one that’ll undoubtedly stick in my mind for a long time due to it‘s strength and how many times it happens.
The smell came at the same time of year, every year, without fail. It would be a hot summer’s day (does anyone remember what that felt like?) a week or so before the summer holidays would kick in and all the 16 year olds would be leaving so, of course, they used this to their advantage. The following became something which we knew would happen but we didn’t know when.
So what was this advantage? It was that of being able to crack open a month-old egg and causing the whole block to smell of said rotten eggs without the risk of being expelled from the school for a length of time.
It would always be on a hot day when a group of us would be sat on the wall, eating what we once thought constituted lunch when, after a while of eating a smell would begin to emerge from one of the blocks. The smell would continuously get worse until it came to the point that we were running in the opposite direction, trying to get away from it. If you’d like to know what we had to suffer with, take a walk past the flats being built of Gallion’s Reach retail park. You’ll then be able to feel how we felt on those once-existent hot, summer days.
*Guitarist of Irish band Skid Row (not the 80s thrash band), Thin Lizzy and solo work who was recently found dead. May a legend R.I.P.
-------------------
To criticise my own work, I'm going to say I'm not too impressed with it (however, it is better than a piece I had to write about pensions whilst incredibly drunk) but I am happy with it and using this as my finalised piece.
Just for a treat here is some Gary Moore followed by Skid Row:
I've now finished my project about Sony Erriccson's Xperia Play mobile which got me a little food money but nothing huge. Oh well, the owner of the site I found the ad on made me a featured writer.
I'm also about to begin writing for another publication which apparently sends out it's work to hundreds of other publications. Is this a potential for more work? Who knows.
Now that I've written a fair amount, I'm going to stick a blog up with links to every piece (those which are still not yet online I'll post up with words.
Annnnnnnyway, moving on, here is my first piece for the semester in which we had to write about how we get into our emotions as a writer, what is the strongest of our senses and the earliest smell we can recall.
Enjoy!
---------------------------
To tap into my emotions as a writer I try to think of past events such as a family member suffering from alchoholism for two years which almost caused my family to break apart.
On another occasion I may be angry at something, and using this feeling I’ll put it onto paper in the form of a diary entry or scribble in a notepad and look at it at a later date and use the words to write something.
Another way to get into my emotions is with music. Being an eclectic listener, I’m happy to listen to almost any genre which suits my mood (currently some Saxon and Gary Moore*). Many songs which were released in the 90s and early 00s (Most notably, Daft Punk‘s ‘One More Time‘) will bring out a feeling of euphoria.
Like many people claim, my strongest sense is probably smell. I can usually remember if something smelt like a piece of fruit or how a certain area had it’s own smell. I can only remember someone’s voice or accent if it is very distinct or sounds like another person’s voice. However, most of the time I don’t take too much notice of a voice.
The earliest smell I can recall is that of rotten eggs. Not the best of smells but one that’ll undoubtedly stick in my mind for a long time due to it‘s strength and how many times it happens.
The smell came at the same time of year, every year, without fail. It would be a hot summer’s day (does anyone remember what that felt like?) a week or so before the summer holidays would kick in and all the 16 year olds would be leaving so, of course, they used this to their advantage. The following became something which we knew would happen but we didn’t know when.
So what was this advantage? It was that of being able to crack open a month-old egg and causing the whole block to smell of said rotten eggs without the risk of being expelled from the school for a length of time.
It would always be on a hot day when a group of us would be sat on the wall, eating what we once thought constituted lunch when, after a while of eating a smell would begin to emerge from one of the blocks. The smell would continuously get worse until it came to the point that we were running in the opposite direction, trying to get away from it. If you’d like to know what we had to suffer with, take a walk past the flats being built of Gallion’s Reach retail park. You’ll then be able to feel how we felt on those once-existent hot, summer days.
*Guitarist of Irish band Skid Row (not the 80s thrash band), Thin Lizzy and solo work who was recently found dead. May a legend R.I.P.
-------------------
To criticise my own work, I'm going to say I'm not too impressed with it (however, it is better than a piece I had to write about pensions whilst incredibly drunk) but I am happy with it and using this as my finalised piece.
Just for a treat here is some Gary Moore followed by Skid Row:
Sunday 6 February 2011
More freelance stuff and the return to uni
So, as the title suggests, I've scored myself a little bit more freelance work - writing 3 pieces about medical schools/universities. Done one piece and waiting for feedback but I was happy with it so hopefully that's another tenner in my pocket. As the weekend is over I should be getting three more pieces from Pension Calculator (he did mention having plenty of needing to be done) and by placing some ads here and there online I'll hopefully be gaining some interest - persistence and cockiness can sometimes pay off, ya know?
I might stick up a post with links to every piece I've written just in case anyone is slightly interested in childs' savings news or pension advice. Or maybe you want to know about Bristol Med School or the city itself?
Part 2 of this blog is one of the better halves. Why? Semester B begins tomorrow which means more assignments and a weekly update of this blog (unless they give us something rediculously stupid). I'll also be able to use profanities in the work - being a big boy and all that crap (see what I did there) - and complain about the lecturers and time-tables (only one 9am start this time though).
Right, I'm just babbling now.
To finish off I'd just like to say R.I.P to Gary Moore - legendary guitary, I mean guitarist, of Skid Row (the Irish version before it was sold to the 80s metallers) and one of the classic line-ups of Thin Lizzy. Anyone who has heard his works will know what I mean. If not, here is the great Parisian Walkways with the also passed away Phil Lynott:
I might stick up a post with links to every piece I've written just in case anyone is slightly interested in childs' savings news or pension advice. Or maybe you want to know about Bristol Med School or the city itself?
Part 2 of this blog is one of the better halves. Why? Semester B begins tomorrow which means more assignments and a weekly update of this blog (unless they give us something rediculously stupid). I'll also be able to use profanities in the work - being a big boy and all that crap (see what I did there) - and complain about the lecturers and time-tables (only one 9am start this time though).
Right, I'm just babbling now.
To finish off I'd just like to say R.I.P to Gary Moore - legendary guitary, I mean guitarist, of Skid Row (the Irish version before it was sold to the 80s metallers) and one of the classic line-ups of Thin Lizzy. Anyone who has heard his works will know what I mean. If not, here is the great Parisian Walkways with the also passed away Phil Lynott:
Thursday 3 February 2011
Hello, new freelance work!
So, have I mentioned a few times previously I was having a bit of trouble with my previous freelance work and was dropped from it without a full mention. However, with an exchange of emails between myself and the owner of MY Egg Nest, Mr. Owner contacted another colleague who runs a different site and is now sending me some work to do.
Two pieces are completed. One is confirmed as fine and dandy, just waiting for the next one to be confirmed.
This means a number of things: no confusion, a job/something to do in my free time (other than the usual stuff) a bit of monies so we can attack Camden again and play lemonball and I can finally eat some expensive junk food. Oh, and my portfolio can continue to grow.
So, despite my legs feeling dead after a trek from Beckton to Tower of London and back, today/night has been a good one.
Both links are now online. This is what I'm now writing about for monies:
Average age for retirement on the rise
Pension time bomb
Two pieces are completed. One is confirmed as fine and dandy, just waiting for the next one to be confirmed.
This means a number of things: no confusion, a job/something to do in my free time (other than the usual stuff) a bit of monies so we can attack Camden again and play lemonball and I can finally eat some expensive junk food. Oh, and my portfolio can continue to grow.
So, despite my legs feeling dead after a trek from Beckton to Tower of London and back, today/night has been a good one.
Both links are now online. This is what I'm now writing about for monies:
Average age for retirement on the rise
Pension time bomb
Monday 31 January 2011
A quick update
Yes, yes, I know I've been posting a lot recently but, if you've read each post, you'll see that I've been sat on this laptop thingy with a broken keyboard (damn you epilepsy!), whacking out articles for Devil's Deeds and London Impact. Along with this I've spent many hours on Gumtree looking for paid work. Sadly I was unsuccessful.
Until today, that is. During my daily browse I came across a website which is looking for writers which they'll be paying (amount I am currently unsure of but money's money, right?).
In other news: Semester B starts in a week which means that this blog will be updated with actual writing rather than updates weekly. However, it also means I won't get the lie-ins I've been taking advantage of these past weeks although, excluding Wednesday, all lectures begin at 1 which means an extra 2 hours sleep and an alarm set a bit later. Bliss or a bad idea? You decide.
That's it for now but knowing me, I'll probably knock out an article or update by tomorrow. We'll have to see.
Until today, that is. During my daily browse I came across a website which is looking for writers which they'll be paying (amount I am currently unsure of but money's money, right?).
In other news: Semester B starts in a week which means that this blog will be updated with actual writing rather than updates weekly. However, it also means I won't get the lie-ins I've been taking advantage of these past weeks although, excluding Wednesday, all lectures begin at 1 which means an extra 2 hours sleep and an alarm set a bit later. Bliss or a bad idea? You decide.
That's it for now but knowing me, I'll probably knock out an article or update by tomorrow. We'll have to see.
Saturday 29 January 2011
So, My Egg Nest may have taken me back (and more)
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of checking my emails and finding one from the site I was writing for which had an invoice with it for the previous work I've done. This email also mentioned that the boss of the place sends out payments on the last Friday of the month. Although that would have been nice to know two weeks ago, I'm just glad that I may be back on the writers team.
However, now that it's the weekend aka no work time I'll probably have to wait until Monday for any more correspondence from/between the site and, hopefully, said correspondence will involve some links being sent with articles for me to make a bit of money from which will, without much doubt, go towards Lucozade, cheap alchohol, clementines, travel around London for writing inspiration and snooker. Happy days may follow.
Along with this, I was recommended another site by a friend which is looking for marketing people to try and get local companies advertising on the site/magazine thing so I'm also applying for that job.
It seems that since starting university, I've written more articles, assignments and blogs than I did in school. It all goes on the C.V. I suppose.
And finally, semester B starts in just over a week. After a long 2 months Christmas holiday it'll be good to get back to work as, other than be ill, write articles, play snooker, read and sleep, I've had little else to do and no routine. Saying that, I believe it's not long until we have yet another reading/drinking week.
My life: the epitome of shits and giggles.
However, now that it's the weekend aka no work time I'll probably have to wait until Monday for any more correspondence from/between the site and, hopefully, said correspondence will involve some links being sent with articles for me to make a bit of money from which will, without much doubt, go towards Lucozade, cheap alchohol, clementines, travel around London for writing inspiration and snooker. Happy days may follow.
Along with this, I was recommended another site by a friend which is looking for marketing people to try and get local companies advertising on the site/magazine thing so I'm also applying for that job.
It seems that since starting university, I've written more articles, assignments and blogs than I did in school. It all goes on the C.V. I suppose.
And finally, semester B starts in just over a week. After a long 2 months Christmas holiday it'll be good to get back to work as, other than be ill, write articles, play snooker, read and sleep, I've had little else to do and no routine. Saying that, I believe it's not long until we have yet another reading/drinking week.
My life: the epitome of shits and giggles.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
A few updates
So, since my last post mentioning my first publication, I've managed to get a couple other pieces published which I'll link below. I also managed to hook myself a little job rewriting news articles. However, this site appears to have lost some interest in me suddenly so I don't know where this will be leading to or if I'm still on their writers list. Ho hum.
http://www.devilsdeeds.com/booksreviewcomment.html - This link has two of my current pieces on it: review of a book on Kraftwerk and the most recent one on how books are an endless source of inspiration.
I've also written another piece on Islington which is due to be put onto London Impact when it launches at the beginning of next month so I'll post a link up to that when it happens.
Following on from that, semester B starts on the 7th which means a return of the weekly postings of assignments.
Fun times ahead.
http://www.devilsdeeds.com/booksreviewcomment.html - This link has two of my current pieces on it: review of a book on Kraftwerk and the most recent one on how books are an endless source of inspiration.
I've also written another piece on Islington which is due to be put onto London Impact when it launches at the beginning of next month so I'll post a link up to that when it happens.
Following on from that, semester B starts on the 7th which means a return of the weekly postings of assignments.
Fun times ahead.
Wednesday 12 January 2011
Good news re. previous post
As you may have read in my previous post (if you did read it,that is), I'd written a review for my current living area of Beckton/UEL. This article was sent off and, after waiting a few days I got a nice reply of:
"Thank you for submitting to London Impact. We have looked at your work and we will be using it in our debut online publication".
So it looks like my journey as an article writer is beginning.
I have also applied and will be appearing in another article site due to appear on Friday. I'll keep the name secret until my article appears. Saying that, it won't be mentioned on this blog so you'll just have to find it yourself. Think of it as a treasure hunt, if you'd consider a book review to be treasurable.
If I write an article to appear on one of the sites it won't be appearing on here and vice versa. Best to keep things fresh and different, wouldn't you say? Rather than clicking on a link just to find yourself reading the same thing which you read two minutes ago.
Keep an eye out for the next posts :)
Pete
"Thank you for submitting to London Impact. We have looked at your work and we will be using it in our debut online publication".
So it looks like my journey as an article writer is beginning.
I have also applied and will be appearing in another article site due to appear on Friday. I'll keep the name secret until my article appears. Saying that, it won't be mentioned on this blog so you'll just have to find it yourself. Think of it as a treasure hunt, if you'd consider a book review to be treasurable.
If I write an article to appear on one of the sites it won't be appearing on here and vice versa. Best to keep things fresh and different, wouldn't you say? Rather than clicking on a link just to find yourself reading the same thing which you read two minutes ago.
Keep an eye out for the next posts :)
Pete
Monday 10 January 2011
Beckton/UEL publication submission (non-academic)
This is a piece of writing I submitted for a new site about to pop up called ldmimpact.co.uk. It is a detailed review/information piece about the area I'm currently living in which is Beckton and UEL. Hopefully, if it's good enough, it'll be considered for online publication. Fingers crossed.
------------------------
Beckton, a place of Asda, retail parks and an academic arena known as The University of East London, Docklands. Being a student and resident of the aforementioned university, I have the pleasure, and sometimes displeasure, of the looks, sounds, smells and weather of this small area.
As I look out of my bedroom window on the second floor of Redbridge House, also known as the Yellow Building, I can see a big green building of the same size covered in windows. We call this place Shepherd House.
If I look to my right on the other hand, I can see the flowing water of the docks and a feeble, leafless tree being attacked by the high winds of January.
Beyond the docks is the London City Airport. Some might consider it a noisy place, especially when the planes start up their engines at seven in the morning. I, however, am used to the roaring of those flying machines. Due to this “skill”, I can continue my daily doings (I would say routine but what student has one of those?) and even sleep through the roar.
We then have the path beside the buildings which often smells of illicit substances and has kids riding their bikes up and down. If you’re lucky you might get involved in a 2am snowball war.
Outside of campus is the Docklands Light Railway, commonly known as the DLR or Cyprus. Outside of that there is very little of interest other than the community centre which many of us believe teaches the skill of graffiti and beyond (if anyone can confirm this, please get in touch) and a chemist. However, we can’t forget the newsagent’s slash off-license which provides us poor students with the pleasurable park bench cider and Polish beers.
Those who are fans of the smell of eggs will be glad to know that by standing outside of Templars, aka party, house you can have yourself a nice whiff of said smell. Those who aren’t fans of such should prepare themselves. I find a scarf does the job just fine.
Some people seem to be slightly unwise in these buildings as, at this moment in time, I can see through many windows, although unfortunately, nothing interesting is happening. If we’re lucky though, the view directly opposite from the kitchen shows another kitchen. I’ve found in the past that owners of the other kitchen are fans of three males dancing at the window.
When it comes to tenants in this place I often have the pleasure of catching my flatmate attempting to sing ‘Arabian Nights’ in its original language. From the repetitive wording, I’d say he is unsuccessful in that department. Keep to your sports, Tino, singing doesn’t suit you.
Would I recommend this are as a place to live? Yes and no, depending on what you’re looking for. If you wish to live in an uneventful place, seemingly in the middle of nowhere but with three retail parks nearby, Beckton is your place. If you wish to live in a lively area, keep well away.
---------------------------------
That's it for the first piece of writing. I've also contacted another person in regards to some writing but so far he hasn't replied.
From this point on I'm going to start sending out pieces for publication in the hopes that I can get some work further than the assignment submissions office.
I'll post up when I get notice of whether it is due for publication or not :)
------------------------
Beckton, a place of Asda, retail parks and an academic arena known as The University of East London, Docklands. Being a student and resident of the aforementioned university, I have the pleasure, and sometimes displeasure, of the looks, sounds, smells and weather of this small area.
As I look out of my bedroom window on the second floor of Redbridge House, also known as the Yellow Building, I can see a big green building of the same size covered in windows. We call this place Shepherd House.
If I look to my right on the other hand, I can see the flowing water of the docks and a feeble, leafless tree being attacked by the high winds of January.
Beyond the docks is the London City Airport. Some might consider it a noisy place, especially when the planes start up their engines at seven in the morning. I, however, am used to the roaring of those flying machines. Due to this “skill”, I can continue my daily doings (I would say routine but what student has one of those?) and even sleep through the roar.
We then have the path beside the buildings which often smells of illicit substances and has kids riding their bikes up and down. If you’re lucky you might get involved in a 2am snowball war.
Outside of campus is the Docklands Light Railway, commonly known as the DLR or Cyprus. Outside of that there is very little of interest other than the community centre which many of us believe teaches the skill of graffiti and beyond (if anyone can confirm this, please get in touch) and a chemist. However, we can’t forget the newsagent’s slash off-license which provides us poor students with the pleasurable park bench cider and Polish beers.
Those who are fans of the smell of eggs will be glad to know that by standing outside of Templars, aka party, house you can have yourself a nice whiff of said smell. Those who aren’t fans of such should prepare themselves. I find a scarf does the job just fine.
Some people seem to be slightly unwise in these buildings as, at this moment in time, I can see through many windows, although unfortunately, nothing interesting is happening. If we’re lucky though, the view directly opposite from the kitchen shows another kitchen. I’ve found in the past that owners of the other kitchen are fans of three males dancing at the window.
When it comes to tenants in this place I often have the pleasure of catching my flatmate attempting to sing ‘Arabian Nights’ in its original language. From the repetitive wording, I’d say he is unsuccessful in that department. Keep to your sports, Tino, singing doesn’t suit you.
Would I recommend this are as a place to live? Yes and no, depending on what you’re looking for. If you wish to live in an uneventful place, seemingly in the middle of nowhere but with three retail parks nearby, Beckton is your place. If you wish to live in a lively area, keep well away.
---------------------------------
That's it for the first piece of writing. I've also contacted another person in regards to some writing but so far he hasn't replied.
From this point on I'm going to start sending out pieces for publication in the hopes that I can get some work further than the assignment submissions office.
I'll post up when I get notice of whether it is due for publication or not :)
Friday 7 January 2011
Goods and bads of 2010
This is a thing I've been doing for 3 0r 4 years now (it appears that I didn't do one for 2009, oops) - a blog post listing the goods and bads of 2010. It began on the now unused Myspace but moved onto Facebook and now here.
Now, I normally do this earlier but this year I haven't bothered. Until now.
As you can see, I have two blogs, one for book reviews and this one for creative writing. As this post is a form of writing, it'll go here.
Beginning with the goods:
- Finishing and passing college
- Getting offers from all 5 of my uni choices
- Going to uni (UEL, if you're mightily interested)
- Meeting God knows how many people
- Becoming friends with some of these people
- Getting drunk on a number of different alchoholic drinks
- Writing has improved
- Discovering many new authors and books (just need to find the time to read them all now)
- Being able to cook
- Now living in London
- Amaretto
- Park bench cider (or maybe that should be in the bad?)
- Chinese takeaways
- London nights out
- Procrastination :D
- Surviving the new year
Bads:
- Bit of trouble with some college work
- Lack of monies
- Park bench cider
- Cooking failures (it's gonna be a long time 'til I can cook rice perfectly)
- Procrastination :(
- Hangovers!!!
2010 was a good year for me and one of the best yet. A year of new beginnings and also endings.
I'm not going to set myself any resolutions as they're one of the things I don't believe in. However, I am going to set some targets. Those being the following:
- Get a job
- Not leave work to the last minute (which I'm guilty o at this exact moment)
- Spend less
- Meet more people in and outside of uni
- Eat more healthy (this is a long shot though, we all know what us students are like)
That's all and until next time, See ya!
Now, I normally do this earlier but this year I haven't bothered. Until now.
As you can see, I have two blogs, one for book reviews and this one for creative writing. As this post is a form of writing, it'll go here.
Beginning with the goods:
- Finishing and passing college
- Getting offers from all 5 of my uni choices
- Going to uni (UEL, if you're mightily interested)
- Meeting God knows how many people
- Becoming friends with some of these people
- Getting drunk on a number of different alchoholic drinks
- Writing has improved
- Discovering many new authors and books (just need to find the time to read them all now)
- Being able to cook
- Now living in London
- Amaretto
- Park bench cider (or maybe that should be in the bad?)
- Chinese takeaways
- London nights out
- Procrastination :D
- Surviving the new year
Bads:
- Bit of trouble with some college work
- Lack of monies
- Park bench cider
- Cooking failures (it's gonna be a long time 'til I can cook rice perfectly)
- Procrastination :(
- Hangovers!!!
2010 was a good year for me and one of the best yet. A year of new beginnings and also endings.
I'm not going to set myself any resolutions as they're one of the things I don't believe in. However, I am going to set some targets. Those being the following:
- Get a job
- Not leave work to the last minute (which I'm guilty o at this exact moment)
- Spend less
- Meet more people in and outside of uni
- Eat more healthy (this is a long shot though, we all know what us students are like)
That's all and until next time, See ya!
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