This is an article I wrote for a writing job I recently started. but after some consideration I thought it might as well go on here as this is, essentially, my portfolio.
I was asked to write an article on how to make money within the blogosphere and so here it is, in all its glory, read over and edited.
Also, expect to see a few more articles popping up on here in the near future as I'm working on getting everything I've written in the past 2 years online and readable in one place (dodgy sentence structure there, I know, but I'm feeling lazy tonight).
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In addition to social networking and emailing, blogging is one of the most common things or activities the Internet, or World Wide Web, is associated with today. Many websites allow users to create a blog, short for web log, or connect to their own or other Internet users’ blogs via links sometimes known as a ’blogroll’.
If you visit a popular search engine such as Google and search for a blog on your subject of choice you will be very likely to come across thousands of blogs on that one subject, from literature to film and everything in between.
It is a way of informing Internet users of the latest Hollywood blockbuster or letting them know what you think of Emily Bronte’ Wuthering Heights. It is also a way of maintaining a portfolio of your art or writing which is easily accessible to anyone with an Internet connection.
Blogging, however, doesn’t just need to be a hobby. It can also be a way of earning a bit of extra cash on the side. By applying your skill, which we’ll assume is writing here, you can soon start earning from 30 to 100 pounds a extra month.
Many bloggers and Internet users like to tell you that within 24 hours you will have a steady monthly income of around £10,000. This, unfortunately, is very unlikely.
However, with the three Ps - Patience, Persistence and Perseverance - you can start earning a bit of extra money on the side, simply by working in the comfort of your own home.
Blogging from home is a great part-time job for parents, students, the retired or even full-time workers who are looking to kill, but not waste, a little bit of their extra time. It is also very productive, rewarding and fun, and you only need two things: a computer or laptop and an Internet connection. Once you have these you’re just about ready to go.
Below is an extensive guide which will help you with making money in the online blogging universe, or as it is commonly known, the Blogosphere.
Your Portfolio
This is probably one of the most important things a writer needs if they want to start making money with their skill. Potential employers and/or fans will want to see what you have written in the past and a portfolio (preferably online) is a great way to show these employers what you have written in the past and your level of skill.
Your portfolio can be of anything: fictional pieces, poetry, reviews or even your daily thoughts on what is happening in the world. Instead of spending a large amount of money on web hosting and URLs, sign up to a free blogging service such as Blogger (www.blogger.com), Wordpress (www.wordpress.com) or even Deviant Art (www.deviantart.com).
Once you’ve signed up to one or more of these websites, start uploading your work. Uploads can be done at any speed daily, weekly or even fortnightly, but when first building your portfolio, it would be best to upload a piece around twice a week. Make sure that the blog is easily accessible with a simple name and that the posts are laid out well and east to read and/or follow. Also include a small personal profile and, if you have one or both, a link to FaceBook or Twitter which will allow people to follow and keep up to date with your work.
Another way to start building a portfolio is by writing for free, which I’ll cover in the next section.
The Three Ps: Patience, Persistence, Perseverance
The next thing you’ll need is what I like to call the three Ps: Patience, persistence and perseverance.
Patience - This is very important when looking for work as a blogger. As I mentioned in the previous section, a good way to build a portfolio up is by writing for free. It also helps to gain traffic to your blog.
At first, the concept of writing for nothing may sound very unattractive, but there are hundreds of people on Gumtree and Craigslist who are looking to build content on their own websites, and you could be the perfect person to help with this. Not only that, but many website owners will help you with building traffic by adding a link to your website or blog at the bottom of your article or story. These non-paying website owners can be found in the Community > Creative Writing section of Gumtree and the Jobs > Writing/Editing section of Craigslist.
If an ad sounds attractive to you, paid or unpaid, contact the poster straight away and give them some background info on yourself as well as a link to your online portfolio and some contact details. Make yourself sound professional but not overly egotistical.
Paid jobs, however, may be far and in between, but if you keep searching, you will be able to find them.
Instead of simply scrolling through ads, why not post one yourself? While on Gumtree, Craigslist or both, post an ad selling your writing services. If you are confident in your writing you will be able to sell yourself with a cleverly worded ad. Your ad, which will be free to post, doesn’t need to be elaborately worded or exceptionally long, it just needs to include a small profile (e.g. “I am a student studying English Literature with Creative Writing at the University of East London”), the services you are offering and some contact details, preferably a phone number and email.
Persistence - Unfortunately the writing world is sometimes so full of freelance writers that website owners are currently not looking for anyone else to write for them. This isn’t the end of the world, though. While out of work, continue to build an online portfolio and post or update your Gumtree and Craigslist ads every week.
You may begin to think that there will be no jobs or money in writing for you. With persistence, however, you will get there and start making some money with that skill you’ve spent many years building up.
As I read on a website recently “Success is the sum of small efforts repeated day in and day out” (Lord Zion, 2012). What this means is that to succeed you may have to repeatedly post small ads online or reply to ads, but if you remain consistent and patient success will come your way.
Perseverance - Success doesn’t come without its difficulties and obstacles. This is why, sometimes, you will need to push yourself to achieve success. Continue searching for writing jobs online as well as posting ads and building a portfolio. The bigger the portfolio and the more ads you post, the more likely you are to score a job in writing.
Consider the Benefits First
There is an endless amount of benefits in blogging from home. The first is just that - working from home. Here is the top three.
When you are at home you’re at your most comfortable. Rather than sitting in a stifling office from 9 to 5 you can relax in your living room or home office with your laptop in front of you and an endless supply of tea and biscuits. This is especially good if you are a person who likes to spend time alone.
The next benefit, and my favourite, is being able to listen to music of my choice. Rather than hearing the office radio playing in the background I am able to visit YouTube or my own personal music library and choose an album that I am in the mood for. This can be very motivational if music is a big interest for you.
Alternatively you may choose to have the TV on. This, however, can be very distracting and you may find yourself watching TV instead of working.
Thirdly, you can choose when to have your morning, lunch and afternoon breaks so rather than waiting for 1 o’clock to come around before you can eat again, you can eat as soon as hunger or thirst strikes.
Start Small and Increase
Like with anything it is best to start writing for a small charge and then increase your charges as you progress. When you start getting offers for writing jobs a good price to charge is around the £3 mark. It’s not a large amount, but it is something. As you begin finding more writing jobs, increase your charge by, for example, £2.
Similarly, increase your word count with each new job. Start writing news articles with 300-500 words a time. These can be done in under an hour and require very little research. It also keeps you up to date with the latest news on the niche of which you are writing about.
Following on from the short news articles, try writing some reviews with a word count of around 750-1000 words a time followed by advice articles at around 2-3000 words. These longer articles you can charge £15 to £20 for.
It could take up to a year or possibly longer for you to progress to this stage, but it can be very rewarding in the long run and every piece you write will go towards your portfolio.
Use Social Networking Sites to Gain Traffic
The past five years has seen a huge boom in online social networking. Today it is hard to find someone who isn’t a member of FaceBook or Twitter and before these two sites there was MySpace.
If you watch a fair amount of TV or browse the Internet frequently you will notice that almost every programme you watch and website you visit has its own FaceBook page. This website which was once limited to one university in America is now a part of daily conversation, and for good reason too.
Users can view and build fan pages, upload notes (FaceBook’s version of a blog) and photos, connect with friends and family and share links and music videos with a simple copy and paste. This is why writers and other such artists should and often do have their own pages. By creating a page the artist will be able to connect it to their blog and keeps fans or “likers” updated with their newest piece of masterful art.
Twitter, on the other hand, is a newer website, but almost as popular as FaceBook has become. Known as micro-blogging, Twitter allows the user to post an update limited to just 140 characters. The user can connect to or contact others by using a simple tagging option which involves placing the ‘@’ symbol in front of a username and sending their message. They can also “follow” their favourite celebrities, musicians or writers with a quick click of the mouse.
This is another great way to guide traffic towards your blog or portfolio. If you’ve written a review of a film, book or musical piece, guide the creator or actors towards the review by writing a simple Tweet to them. They’ll be very grateful, especially if you’ve given them a positive review.
Don’t Quit Your Day Job
As mentioned at the beginning, blogging will not give you an income of £10,000 a month. Therefore you should keep working at your current job and use the blogging job as a form of extra income, however little it may be.
If you have a savings account, why not put everything you earn via blogging into this account and then treat yourself to a nice meal sometime or maybe buy that new mobile phone you’ve had your eye on?
With the way the economy is right now anyone who has a full-time job should consider themselves very lucky and quitting that job may end up being a very big mistake. This is why, once you start earning a bit of money blogging, quitting your current job should remain at the back of your mind, not the front.
Conclusion
By now you should have a basic grasp or idea of how to start earning money by blogging online. It is not the easiest of things to do, but if you are passionate about your chosen field of skill and interested in making some money out of it and getting your name “out there”, you can and will succeed.
More than just a money maker, blogging is a great way to build a portfolio, gain some fans and use your spare time to do something productive and educational. Below is a list of useful websites which you will be able to use for blogging, advertising and networking. By using all or most of them you will soon be seeing your writing on various websites and blogs which are read by hundreds of people a week.
Useful websites
www.gumtree.com - This is where you will post one of your ads selling your services. It is simple, fast and best of all, free.
www.craigslist.com - Similar to Gumtree, Craigslist is also free.
www.blogger.com - Blogger is one of the world’s most popular blogging websites, and for good reason too. With one email you can create numerous blogs. You will be given your own URL and all blogs are archived by year and month. Blogger, however, is a much more communal rather than business-like host. Best used for a personal portfolio.
www.wordpress.com - Wordpress is a much more business-like and professional looking blog. When starting a business online this will be your best choice.
www.ezinearticles.com - An excellent website to help with getting your name into the Blogosphere, Ezinearticles allows you to “Submit your best quality original articles for massive exposure”. And best of all, it’s free.
www.twitter.com - A micro-blogging service which helps you to connect with millions of users around the globe.
www.facebook.com - According to mostpopularwebsites.net, FaceBook is the second most popular website in the world (updated Monday, August 20th 2012) just behind Google. It allows you to connect with friends and family, “like” and create fan pages and upload photos and notes.
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Friday, 11 May 2012
Tourist Bowling - another short story
This is a short story I began writing in November '11 and completed around the next month The idea came after I'd spent a day in Central London observing the tourism of the area. After a while I began to wonder what it would be like if someone just jumped into their car and plowed through all the tourists.
Admittedly, this is far from being one of my best pieces, but I think it has a strong storyline and some good phrases. Enjoy!
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Day in and day out I saw them walking around with their A to Z travel guides, "I Heart London" t-shirts and their fancy digital SLR cameras. Tourists fucking pissed me off. It was bad enough driving them around, but each time I had to stop at a green light because they didn't know the the difference between the stop and go figures I got one step closer to putting my foot down and simply speeding through them. I knew that one day it would inevitably happen. I'd be plowing through those creatures like a harvester through hay, sending them flying as rabbits do when hit by a car; And I'd smile, no, I'd laugh with both pleasure and amusement. Being arrested was almost a certainty, but it was the perfect idea.
The day it happened began like any other: I awoke, showered, shaved and had my usual breakfast of two slices of Marmite on toast. Beyond that, nothing was, or would be, normal. I dressed in just a plain polo shirt and blue jeans, nothing like the "presentable" crap I wore on a normal day, made up some lunch (if I lasted that long, or remembered to eat) and some bottled water - a man like me needed to remain liquidated if I wanted my performance to be up to scratch and perfect. Perfect killing. Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd relate to; plowing, killing, destroying. Three brutal acts performed in one day, and the only emotion I felt was hate. Pure, dirty fucking hate.
I sat in my cab in front of the fuck-ugly tower block I spent my long, miserable days living in and let the engine warm up. It had just gone 8am so tourists would still be asleep in their swanky hotel rooms, dreaming of the London Eye and Trafalgar lions. Little did those tourists know that these would be their final dreams, or, failing that, their final happy ones. I was their nightmare about to come true. I was the bomb on the underground. The flight which fell into the sea. Everything a tourist would shit himself over.
The drive towards Central was uneventful and as boring as any other day with a bunch of students being the closest to tourists I saw and although despicable, they weren't my target for today. For 20 minutes I drove, staring hard ahead, thinking about nothing but giving those tourists a flying lesson. It was still early but traffic was beginning to build, indicating that I was close. Then, slowly, the Gherkin building began to grow as it came closer. I could tell Tower Hill - location of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge, two major tourist hotspots - were just about round the corner. It was nearly time.
I turned and the road leading to the Tower Bridge crossing was ahead of me. This whole area within a 4 mile radius would soon be swarming with feral tourists. I parked behind the Tower Hamlets pub and waited with a book. It was 8:45.
By quarter past nine the tourists were starting to appear in crowds, climbing off of the roofless tour buses and piling out of Tower Hill station. I stood looking over the side of Tower Bridge at the blue and brown rippling waters while the travellers posed for cameras and tour buses were driven over the bridge each way.
I then made my way back to the car, studying the road as I went, noting the spots where tourists crossed towards the tower and bridge, still unaware of the fate that awaited them. Back in the car I put on some sunglasses and a hat to reduce the risk of being recognised, hit play on the CD player for some angry Amon Amarth and after letting the engine warm up, exited the car park towards London's tower of torture and death. The traffic was still light at this point and as I put my foot down to pick up some speed, my first victim stepped into the road. As the figure came closer I prepared myself for the hit. 3 seconds later I felt it - a hard thump on the bumper followed by a wail and the somersaulting body of a thirty something man. I had no time to stop, but in my rear-view mirror I could see the body land followed by a small camera which, like the body, bounced slightly then settled. A smile escaped my lips as I saw people run into the road towards the body which by now was either a corpse, or, at the very least, mauled beyond recognition.
I drove past St. Paul's, the Gherkin and Samuel Pepys business snob's bar along with numerous office blocks until I finally arrived at the long straight commonly known as Victoria Embankment. To my left was the Thames with the London Eye in the distance and to my right was a small green and side road lined with architectural buildings. It was picturesque with the sun low in the sky and worthy of admiration, but that would take time, and time I didn't have. The pigs would be after me soon and I had tourists to destroy.
The traffic moved at a comfortable speed with no to little amount of hold-ups and soon I could see the tip of the clock tower, something which those creatures like to mistakenly call Big Ben. The bunch of uninformed cretins. I was fast approaching another tourist hotspot: Victoria Square - the location of the Houses of Parliament and neighbour of the clock tower, Millenium Bridge and Westminster Abbey. Not forgetting a set of headlights where tourists didn't know the difference between the red 'stop' man and the green 'cross' man. I could take down five in one hit here.
Victoria Square traffic was at its usual heaviness, but I wasn't put off, it just meant more targets would be floating around.
As I waited at the traffic lights I heard a familiar London sound: sirens, and for the first time in all my years of living and working here I ducked my head down. It was obvious that they were after me, but I wasn't ready to be caught. Not just yet anyway. A few more deaths and injuries were due before they could lock me up.
I kept my head down and picked at my jeans until a set of flashing lights went past just as the traffic lights started to change. I was safe. Others were not. The cars ahead of me shifted and I turned left and onto the pavement where I sped up.
Some tourists escaped my path, others were knocked down like bowling pins. Their expressions would never be forgotten, they were looks of true fear. The type they've never felt before and, more than likely, would never feel again. One by one the car hit the feral creatures sending them in all directions. Those who weren't hit either laid flat on the patches of grass around the square or were crouched beside my victims which included Asians, Africans, Whites and even a judge or two. I didn't discriminate, I hit whoever crossed my path.
Having gone round Victoria Square, I sped towards my next destination: Trafalgar Square. I wouldn't be able to drive through the square, but a few road-crossers would be enough to satisfy my urges. The ringing of sirens was loud and irritating, but my current adrenaline rush, coupled with the heavy traffic, prevented any fear from taking away my fun. And so I continued, now on my way round the corner to Soho after aboloshing some Trafalgar tourists.
It was starting to cloud over with what looked like some ugly rain-clouds. If the rain came now I'd be slowed down, adding to the risk of being caught, so I sped up, desperate to terrorise Soho.
The CD I'd been listening to ended and the radio turned on to Capital. The news was on; "A red taxi has been seen driving through Central London and hitting vistors and workers" it said, "If you see this happening, the Met has advised the public to avoid the car and driver and to alert the police by dialing 999," the female continued.
So, they were on to me. It was time to turn the caution up a notch and be extra vigilant. It'd be hard, but I had no choice. It was either be vigilant or be caught, and I knew which I'd prefer.
Thinking quickly I decided to avoid Soho as it was too open and hit Covent Garden instead; the back streets were a-plenty which meant there were places to hide, and there was the plaza, filled with locals and tourists. Perfect to continue my path of destruction.
Again, I drove through the now busy midday London streets with my head low and attention high.
After avoiding the long and busy roads, instead taking the back, more communal streets, I made it to Covent Garden - a place of shops, theatres, street entertainers and, more importantly, tourists. They were everywhere, swarming the market and streets with their guides, pathetic tee-shirts and souvenir shopping. It made me want to rip my eyes out. With a quick drive through (as opposed to drive-by) I'd be able to take out hundreds of the things. This really was a genuine tourist hot spot and, judging from the volume of the sirens, my last.
I turned into one of the many backroads as fast as the traffic would allow and followed the crowds towards the famous market known to be popular with travellers and tourists alike, giving me the perfect final destination before the inevitable arrest happened.
As the giant market came into view I accepted the fact that I was about to be locked up and pushed my foot down, slowly picking up speed before plowing through the crowds, sending bags, bodies and cameras in all directions.
The car then began to slow down and gargle. As I rolled to a stop, I closed my eyes and smiled; it had been a good few hours running a trail of death, destruction and hatred through the city, but now it was time for it to end. I didn't care about being arrested - in fact, I was the happiest I'd been in a long time - and I looked forward to being with my own kind again, starting afresh in a pure British atmosphere.
Finally optimistic, I smiled more and thought to myself about new beginnings as the Met pigs dragged me away, telling me what a piece of shit I was.
Admittedly, this is far from being one of my best pieces, but I think it has a strong storyline and some good phrases. Enjoy!
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Day in and day out I saw them walking around with their A to Z travel guides, "I Heart London" t-shirts and their fancy digital SLR cameras. Tourists fucking pissed me off. It was bad enough driving them around, but each time I had to stop at a green light because they didn't know the the difference between the stop and go figures I got one step closer to putting my foot down and simply speeding through them. I knew that one day it would inevitably happen. I'd be plowing through those creatures like a harvester through hay, sending them flying as rabbits do when hit by a car; And I'd smile, no, I'd laugh with both pleasure and amusement. Being arrested was almost a certainty, but it was the perfect idea.
The day it happened began like any other: I awoke, showered, shaved and had my usual breakfast of two slices of Marmite on toast. Beyond that, nothing was, or would be, normal. I dressed in just a plain polo shirt and blue jeans, nothing like the "presentable" crap I wore on a normal day, made up some lunch (if I lasted that long, or remembered to eat) and some bottled water - a man like me needed to remain liquidated if I wanted my performance to be up to scratch and perfect. Perfect killing. Now there's a phrase I never thought I'd relate to; plowing, killing, destroying. Three brutal acts performed in one day, and the only emotion I felt was hate. Pure, dirty fucking hate.
I sat in my cab in front of the fuck-ugly tower block I spent my long, miserable days living in and let the engine warm up. It had just gone 8am so tourists would still be asleep in their swanky hotel rooms, dreaming of the London Eye and Trafalgar lions. Little did those tourists know that these would be their final dreams, or, failing that, their final happy ones. I was their nightmare about to come true. I was the bomb on the underground. The flight which fell into the sea. Everything a tourist would shit himself over.
The drive towards Central was uneventful and as boring as any other day with a bunch of students being the closest to tourists I saw and although despicable, they weren't my target for today. For 20 minutes I drove, staring hard ahead, thinking about nothing but giving those tourists a flying lesson. It was still early but traffic was beginning to build, indicating that I was close. Then, slowly, the Gherkin building began to grow as it came closer. I could tell Tower Hill - location of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge, two major tourist hotspots - were just about round the corner. It was nearly time.
I turned and the road leading to the Tower Bridge crossing was ahead of me. This whole area within a 4 mile radius would soon be swarming with feral tourists. I parked behind the Tower Hamlets pub and waited with a book. It was 8:45.
By quarter past nine the tourists were starting to appear in crowds, climbing off of the roofless tour buses and piling out of Tower Hill station. I stood looking over the side of Tower Bridge at the blue and brown rippling waters while the travellers posed for cameras and tour buses were driven over the bridge each way.
I then made my way back to the car, studying the road as I went, noting the spots where tourists crossed towards the tower and bridge, still unaware of the fate that awaited them. Back in the car I put on some sunglasses and a hat to reduce the risk of being recognised, hit play on the CD player for some angry Amon Amarth and after letting the engine warm up, exited the car park towards London's tower of torture and death. The traffic was still light at this point and as I put my foot down to pick up some speed, my first victim stepped into the road. As the figure came closer I prepared myself for the hit. 3 seconds later I felt it - a hard thump on the bumper followed by a wail and the somersaulting body of a thirty something man. I had no time to stop, but in my rear-view mirror I could see the body land followed by a small camera which, like the body, bounced slightly then settled. A smile escaped my lips as I saw people run into the road towards the body which by now was either a corpse, or, at the very least, mauled beyond recognition.
I drove past St. Paul's, the Gherkin and Samuel Pepys business snob's bar along with numerous office blocks until I finally arrived at the long straight commonly known as Victoria Embankment. To my left was the Thames with the London Eye in the distance and to my right was a small green and side road lined with architectural buildings. It was picturesque with the sun low in the sky and worthy of admiration, but that would take time, and time I didn't have. The pigs would be after me soon and I had tourists to destroy.
The traffic moved at a comfortable speed with no to little amount of hold-ups and soon I could see the tip of the clock tower, something which those creatures like to mistakenly call Big Ben. The bunch of uninformed cretins. I was fast approaching another tourist hotspot: Victoria Square - the location of the Houses of Parliament and neighbour of the clock tower, Millenium Bridge and Westminster Abbey. Not forgetting a set of headlights where tourists didn't know the difference between the red 'stop' man and the green 'cross' man. I could take down five in one hit here.
Victoria Square traffic was at its usual heaviness, but I wasn't put off, it just meant more targets would be floating around.
As I waited at the traffic lights I heard a familiar London sound: sirens, and for the first time in all my years of living and working here I ducked my head down. It was obvious that they were after me, but I wasn't ready to be caught. Not just yet anyway. A few more deaths and injuries were due before they could lock me up.
I kept my head down and picked at my jeans until a set of flashing lights went past just as the traffic lights started to change. I was safe. Others were not. The cars ahead of me shifted and I turned left and onto the pavement where I sped up.
Some tourists escaped my path, others were knocked down like bowling pins. Their expressions would never be forgotten, they were looks of true fear. The type they've never felt before and, more than likely, would never feel again. One by one the car hit the feral creatures sending them in all directions. Those who weren't hit either laid flat on the patches of grass around the square or were crouched beside my victims which included Asians, Africans, Whites and even a judge or two. I didn't discriminate, I hit whoever crossed my path.
Having gone round Victoria Square, I sped towards my next destination: Trafalgar Square. I wouldn't be able to drive through the square, but a few road-crossers would be enough to satisfy my urges. The ringing of sirens was loud and irritating, but my current adrenaline rush, coupled with the heavy traffic, prevented any fear from taking away my fun. And so I continued, now on my way round the corner to Soho after aboloshing some Trafalgar tourists.
It was starting to cloud over with what looked like some ugly rain-clouds. If the rain came now I'd be slowed down, adding to the risk of being caught, so I sped up, desperate to terrorise Soho.
The CD I'd been listening to ended and the radio turned on to Capital. The news was on; "A red taxi has been seen driving through Central London and hitting vistors and workers" it said, "If you see this happening, the Met has advised the public to avoid the car and driver and to alert the police by dialing 999," the female continued.
So, they were on to me. It was time to turn the caution up a notch and be extra vigilant. It'd be hard, but I had no choice. It was either be vigilant or be caught, and I knew which I'd prefer.
Thinking quickly I decided to avoid Soho as it was too open and hit Covent Garden instead; the back streets were a-plenty which meant there were places to hide, and there was the plaza, filled with locals and tourists. Perfect to continue my path of destruction.
Again, I drove through the now busy midday London streets with my head low and attention high.
After avoiding the long and busy roads, instead taking the back, more communal streets, I made it to Covent Garden - a place of shops, theatres, street entertainers and, more importantly, tourists. They were everywhere, swarming the market and streets with their guides, pathetic tee-shirts and souvenir shopping. It made me want to rip my eyes out. With a quick drive through (as opposed to drive-by) I'd be able to take out hundreds of the things. This really was a genuine tourist hot spot and, judging from the volume of the sirens, my last.
I turned into one of the many backroads as fast as the traffic would allow and followed the crowds towards the famous market known to be popular with travellers and tourists alike, giving me the perfect final destination before the inevitable arrest happened.
As the giant market came into view I accepted the fact that I was about to be locked up and pushed my foot down, slowly picking up speed before plowing through the crowds, sending bags, bodies and cameras in all directions.
The car then began to slow down and gargle. As I rolled to a stop, I closed my eyes and smiled; it had been a good few hours running a trail of death, destruction and hatred through the city, but now it was time for it to end. I didn't care about being arrested - in fact, I was the happiest I'd been in a long time - and I looked forward to being with my own kind again, starting afresh in a pure British atmosphere.
Finally optimistic, I smiled more and thought to myself about new beginnings as the Met pigs dragged me away, telling me what a piece of shit I was.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Death is the Answer - my most disturbing story yet
Long time no write, I know, I know. I bow my head in shame. However, after 10 weeks of planning, lectures and wondering what's gonna happen next, I've finished the story for my Exploring Fiction portfolio.
Inspiration for this came from The Shawshank Redemption film and Manhunt 2 on the PSP in which the protagonist escapes from a mental hospital. People who have read certain parts of it said it made them feel a bit awkward or uncomfortable. And for that I am glad as it was my aim.
As I've never set foot in a mental hospital nor read of any real escapes, this had some tricky parts to write in which I simply had to make things up (the alcohol-drinking) and go by what I'd seen in films and on TV re-enactments. Saying that, I think it turned out pretty decently. Just don't take it too seriously. Thanks.
Now, without further ado, here is the story with the working title of 'Death is the Answer'.
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As the voices screamed through the long night, I wondered how long I’d be in this hellhole.
I wasn’t always considered a madman. On the outside I had a well-paying job as a record producer, a family and a home. That was until I killed them on January the twenty second.
It began like any other - I was working with a big rock band at the time but after a major fuck-up at the office and finding my wife of eighteen years in bed with my best friend - a bit of a cliché, really - the switch was flicked and I snapped, cutting my wife’s and 15 year old daughter’s throats as they slept.
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“Heyyyyy, brother!”, Andrew called as I walked into his and his wife’s shop. I wasn’t really his brother, it was just a name he had for me as we’d been friends for years and were indeed more like brothers than friends.
“Morning,” I replied, “Got any snow?” I was on a quick break and decided that now was probably the best time to pick up as the shop was rarely busy at 11am and Andrew was always here at this time without fail.
He reached into his royal blue shirt pocket and threw a small bag filled with white powder to me. “On the house”, he said as I caught it. It was a Friday and after the week I’d had, I needed something a little stronger than a glass of whiskey when I got home that night and cocaine was just the thing.
I thanked him, said I’d see him tonight and left the shop feeling slightly more upbeat as I knew tonight would be a good one. The sad thing was, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
---------
At three thirty I left work in order to surprise my wife with an early arrival. I got home, slipped my key into the lock and opened the door quietly, hoping I wouldn’t be heard. I then stood in the hallway, listening for the TV, voices or footsteps until I heard the one thing I didn’t expect: my wife’s panting followed by the unmistakable voice of Andrew. I hoped they were having some sort of weird discussion or comparing sex noises, but when I heard it again, my hopes were dropped. It was coming from the bedroom. Our bedroom.
There was only one thing that could make this week worse, and it sounded like it was happening right now. I dropped everything where I was standing, walked towards the bedroom and burst in, yelling obscenities, telling Andrew to “Get the fuck out” and asking my wife what she thought she was doing.
----------
“You cheap, lying, fucking whore!”, I shouted, emphasising the word “whore” and stepping forward as I did so.
She whimpered and looked at the floor, wrapping her clothes around her bare body as she did so.
“Got nothing to say? Not even a fuckin’ apology? Worthless!”. I was unable to control my anger.
“That’s not fair! Not after the way you’ve been neglecting me”.
“Neglecting? I’ve been working! Without my working you’d be homeless. Of course, you wouldn’t understand that being the lazy, useless one you are!”
Apparently they’d been at it for around six months, meeting daily for afternoon sex whilst I was at work. I was beyond furious, beyond upset and beyond confused. I wanted to murder her on the spot but knew that I wouldn’t be able to contain my guilt.
That was until I took the cocaine that night.
----------
I waited for them to go to bed - my daughter in her own room, my wife in the spare - and began my preparations. Everything I needed was readily available so, after finding a decent knife and sharpening it, I got down to business, so to speak. Although my head was spinning, I felt in control. It was time.
Starting with my wife, I entered the dark room and stopped, listening to her soft breaths. The final ones she would take. I looked at her dark outline, her chest rising with each breath, and thought about our marriage and the waste it had been. I was furious.
As I stepped forward, I bent over and plunged the ten inch blade into her smooth throat, feeling the steel scrape bone and muscle as it went through. I clamped my hand over her mouth to prevent her from making any noises as she wriggled and shook in pain.
Nothing could have prepared me for the amount of blood that would spray as I pulled the knife out. I’d expected a bit of spray, but not this much. A dark fountain of red covered the walls, bedclothes and myself, ruining everything it touched. The shaking finally stopped and my lying, cheat of a wife let out one more long breath before becoming a corpse.
As I stood staring at the lifeless body in front of me I tingled all over. I had no idea murdering someone would feel this great and I couldn’t wait to do it again. I left the bloody corpse where it was and went to perform the same on my daughter, not thinking of the consequences likely to arise.
I entered her room and looked at her head poking out of the covers as she slept, peacefully unaware of the hell she was about to experience. In my high, angry and excited state I’d forgotten that she was just an innocent bystander.
In a similar manner as before, I sank the knife into my daughter’s throat, this time feeling it exit the back of her neck and pierce the mattress. Like her mother she had to be silenced and restrained while she struggled as well as showering me with blood. However, she died a much quicker death, lacking the dramatic final breath and shakes, instead just closing her eyes. If there wasn’t a large hole in her throat, she’d have just looked asleep.
----------
The trial judge called it the most “disgusting and brutal” murder he had encountered in 32 years; the press hated and me and my parents and in-laws forgot about me. I was a lone man with nothing to lose.
I loved my family, they were my life and soul, but until it happens to you, you’ll never understand why I did it.
There I was, lying in a cold cell, half naked and forced to listen to the constant screams day and night with nothing but regret and medication running through my head.
My actions may have crossed a line, but I was a sane man processing sane thoughts. I didn’t deserve this torture, but the warden didn’t care. I’m sure he even took pleasure in knowing that I had to hear these screams. Was this not a bad enough sentence? A cell was understandable, hearing those long, terrifying - and terrified - screams of the insane, that was torture. Right to the point of planning my escape. Mentally, of course - pen and paper were both out of the question for me as, apparently, both could be used as a weapon of sorts.
----------
When you’re locked up, unable to do what you want and when, time is all you have. Time and thoughts. I sat in my cold cell for hours at a time, thinking about the murder, my family, my freedom (and lack of) and, after some time, escape. I thought of ways to escape - tunnel under, feign illness, ambush or kill a guard and steal his uniform, but when I mentioned it to Danny, my cellmate and fellow sane man, he told me I was stupid for even thinking about it.
That was until two years into my incarceration and he was just as fed up as I was with living in this stone hole.
As we sat on our hard beds - me on the left side, Danny on the right - he looked up from his book, Stephen King’s ‘Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption’, smiled and said “Let’s do it”.
Over the following two weeks we would quietly discuss our escape - methods, routes and times - until the day finally came. March the tenth was the day we’d decided that this was it, we were going to get out of there and re-experience our
freedom.
----------
Lunch was the perfect time to study the building and plan the escape as our cell was a long distance from the lunch hall and involved passing a number of cells similar to ours and various rooms used for interrogation and interviews.
Walking along the sheet metal platform I could hear screams, cursing and mumbling. Everything I assumed was stereotypical to a high-security nuthouse. Glancing into some of the cells I caught sight of the source of the rancid smell which floated around the building: piles of shit left my those too lazy to use the toilets provided for them. I gagged. This building was a shithole, and I couldn’t wait to get out.
Entering the dinner hall (could they have named it anything more childish?), I saw people throwing food, nut bags talking to themselves and others just staring into space. The latter seemed the sanest. But I wasn’t here for friends, I just wanted to be a citizen again, living in a normal home and working a normal job.
After collecting my lunch of a cup of fermenting water and moulding bread, I ate slowly, looking around the hall for cameras, guards positions and doors. The first were everywhere, the second obvious and the third rare, but accessible, albeit protected by wire mesh. We just needed to use some simple violence and we’d be out.
I did the same for a week - looked, listened and mentally noted - until I could picture the building interior with my eyes closed. It was then that I knew it was going to happen. We, my cellmate and I, were going to escape. Have no worries. Live our lives and be free.
----------
The following week we spent preparing ourselves for the escape - sharing mental notes, discussing times and creating makeshift weaponry by each sharpening a toothbrush handle using the metal bed frame. It was exhausting, mentally (due to the secrecy) and physically, but the reward was going to be worth the exhaustion.
Easter was coming up which meant, like every yearly holiday in this madhouse, people were allowed to have the odd alcoholic drink and festive meal. It also meant that security would let their guard down.
We went to lunch at the usual time of midday, each grabbed a beer to cool our nerves and boost our confidence a little and sat in our usual places.
With our hearts racing and tension running high, our drinks were finished, we nodded at each other and stood, knocking our chairs over in the process. Due to the permitted drinking, the guards were none the wiser and simply glanced at us then continued drinking. Just how we hoped it would be.
Our first destination was the foods counter to collect another drink with the hopes that the guards would suspect nothing, then, with our drinks in one hand and weapons concealed up the sleeve of the other, we casually strolled towards the mesh-covered door, ignoring the flying food scraps and drunken shouting. It was time.
Danny distracted the sober-looking guard by asking if he wanted a drink which was held out to him. Naturally, the guard turned his head, revealing his neck to me, at which point Danny screamed “Now!”
At that signal I let the toothbrush fall into my hand and with a quick swing of the arm, embedded it into the guard’s exposed neck, hitting him so hard that the handle was invisible with only the brush showing. The sounds he made as he dropped to his knees were like nothing I’d heard before: he gagged, then choked, sounding as if a lump of food was stuck in his throat. Seconds later he coughed once and fell forward, has face bouncing as it hit the tiles.
The sounds of the guard hitting the floor caught the attention of the other guards who, by now, were a little worse for wear. “Shit!”, we both said sharply.
“Grab the keys”. Danny bent over the guards still corpse and started to detach the loop of keys from his belt while the other guards continued to wobble towards us, fiddling with their guns and walking into various obstacles familiar to a drunk person. “Hurry”, I told him, becoming impatient. The initial alcohol buzz was beginning to wear off now and I was feeling tired and irritant. If we wanted to escape we needed to do it now, and Danny’s slowness wasn’t helping.
“Got it!”
“Open the door.” The guards’ distance between us was decreasing and I was getting nervous when I heard a loud crack followed by a hollow thump behind me. Risking taking my eyes off of the guards, I looked towards the door and saw Danny’s body slumped against it. A trail of blood which looked like it had been painted on ran down the door and stopped at his face which was now flat against the door’s mesh covering.
With no time for upset, I turned and half walked, half ran to the door which, luckily for me, had been unlocked by my cell mate. I kicked him out of the way, pulled the door open and picked up pace, the drunk guards attempting to follow me. I only had to run a hundred yards and I’d be out.
Suddenly, I was propelled forward as something hit the middle of my back. I fell in a similar way to the guard I killed, my face hitting the floor and resulting in a mouthful of dust. I’d got out the building, but I hadn’t truly escaped. I’d failed for the last time, but with a strange feeling of euphoria I smiled before blackness took over.
Epilogue
What I did to my family was wrong, I know that, but as I’ve said before, until it happens to you, you’ll never truly understand why I did it, nor will you understand how I felt on that night.
My time in the mental institution was like none other. At home I was free and in the open, the nuthouse took all of that away from me in an instant and plunged me into a world filled with security guards, locked doors and mesh-covered windows. It was hell. That is why death, when it came, was a blessing.
Had the guards simply caught me during my escape, I’d have been locked up
with tighter security. Death was the only answer. For my wife, my daughter and myself.
Inspiration for this came from The Shawshank Redemption film and Manhunt 2 on the PSP in which the protagonist escapes from a mental hospital. People who have read certain parts of it said it made them feel a bit awkward or uncomfortable. And for that I am glad as it was my aim.
As I've never set foot in a mental hospital nor read of any real escapes, this had some tricky parts to write in which I simply had to make things up (the alcohol-drinking) and go by what I'd seen in films and on TV re-enactments. Saying that, I think it turned out pretty decently. Just don't take it too seriously. Thanks.
Now, without further ado, here is the story with the working title of 'Death is the Answer'.
-------------------
As the voices screamed through the long night, I wondered how long I’d be in this hellhole.
I wasn’t always considered a madman. On the outside I had a well-paying job as a record producer, a family and a home. That was until I killed them on January the twenty second.
It began like any other - I was working with a big rock band at the time but after a major fuck-up at the office and finding my wife of eighteen years in bed with my best friend - a bit of a cliché, really - the switch was flicked and I snapped, cutting my wife’s and 15 year old daughter’s throats as they slept.
----------
“Heyyyyy, brother!”, Andrew called as I walked into his and his wife’s shop. I wasn’t really his brother, it was just a name he had for me as we’d been friends for years and were indeed more like brothers than friends.
“Morning,” I replied, “Got any snow?” I was on a quick break and decided that now was probably the best time to pick up as the shop was rarely busy at 11am and Andrew was always here at this time without fail.
He reached into his royal blue shirt pocket and threw a small bag filled with white powder to me. “On the house”, he said as I caught it. It was a Friday and after the week I’d had, I needed something a little stronger than a glass of whiskey when I got home that night and cocaine was just the thing.
I thanked him, said I’d see him tonight and left the shop feeling slightly more upbeat as I knew tonight would be a good one. The sad thing was, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
---------
At three thirty I left work in order to surprise my wife with an early arrival. I got home, slipped my key into the lock and opened the door quietly, hoping I wouldn’t be heard. I then stood in the hallway, listening for the TV, voices or footsteps until I heard the one thing I didn’t expect: my wife’s panting followed by the unmistakable voice of Andrew. I hoped they were having some sort of weird discussion or comparing sex noises, but when I heard it again, my hopes were dropped. It was coming from the bedroom. Our bedroom.
There was only one thing that could make this week worse, and it sounded like it was happening right now. I dropped everything where I was standing, walked towards the bedroom and burst in, yelling obscenities, telling Andrew to “Get the fuck out” and asking my wife what she thought she was doing.
----------
“You cheap, lying, fucking whore!”, I shouted, emphasising the word “whore” and stepping forward as I did so.
She whimpered and looked at the floor, wrapping her clothes around her bare body as she did so.
“Got nothing to say? Not even a fuckin’ apology? Worthless!”. I was unable to control my anger.
“That’s not fair! Not after the way you’ve been neglecting me”.
“Neglecting? I’ve been working! Without my working you’d be homeless. Of course, you wouldn’t understand that being the lazy, useless one you are!”
Apparently they’d been at it for around six months, meeting daily for afternoon sex whilst I was at work. I was beyond furious, beyond upset and beyond confused. I wanted to murder her on the spot but knew that I wouldn’t be able to contain my guilt.
That was until I took the cocaine that night.
----------
I waited for them to go to bed - my daughter in her own room, my wife in the spare - and began my preparations. Everything I needed was readily available so, after finding a decent knife and sharpening it, I got down to business, so to speak. Although my head was spinning, I felt in control. It was time.
Starting with my wife, I entered the dark room and stopped, listening to her soft breaths. The final ones she would take. I looked at her dark outline, her chest rising with each breath, and thought about our marriage and the waste it had been. I was furious.
As I stepped forward, I bent over and plunged the ten inch blade into her smooth throat, feeling the steel scrape bone and muscle as it went through. I clamped my hand over her mouth to prevent her from making any noises as she wriggled and shook in pain.
Nothing could have prepared me for the amount of blood that would spray as I pulled the knife out. I’d expected a bit of spray, but not this much. A dark fountain of red covered the walls, bedclothes and myself, ruining everything it touched. The shaking finally stopped and my lying, cheat of a wife let out one more long breath before becoming a corpse.
As I stood staring at the lifeless body in front of me I tingled all over. I had no idea murdering someone would feel this great and I couldn’t wait to do it again. I left the bloody corpse where it was and went to perform the same on my daughter, not thinking of the consequences likely to arise.
I entered her room and looked at her head poking out of the covers as she slept, peacefully unaware of the hell she was about to experience. In my high, angry and excited state I’d forgotten that she was just an innocent bystander.
In a similar manner as before, I sank the knife into my daughter’s throat, this time feeling it exit the back of her neck and pierce the mattress. Like her mother she had to be silenced and restrained while she struggled as well as showering me with blood. However, she died a much quicker death, lacking the dramatic final breath and shakes, instead just closing her eyes. If there wasn’t a large hole in her throat, she’d have just looked asleep.
----------
The trial judge called it the most “disgusting and brutal” murder he had encountered in 32 years; the press hated and me and my parents and in-laws forgot about me. I was a lone man with nothing to lose.
I loved my family, they were my life and soul, but until it happens to you, you’ll never understand why I did it.
There I was, lying in a cold cell, half naked and forced to listen to the constant screams day and night with nothing but regret and medication running through my head.
My actions may have crossed a line, but I was a sane man processing sane thoughts. I didn’t deserve this torture, but the warden didn’t care. I’m sure he even took pleasure in knowing that I had to hear these screams. Was this not a bad enough sentence? A cell was understandable, hearing those long, terrifying - and terrified - screams of the insane, that was torture. Right to the point of planning my escape. Mentally, of course - pen and paper were both out of the question for me as, apparently, both could be used as a weapon of sorts.
----------
When you’re locked up, unable to do what you want and when, time is all you have. Time and thoughts. I sat in my cold cell for hours at a time, thinking about the murder, my family, my freedom (and lack of) and, after some time, escape. I thought of ways to escape - tunnel under, feign illness, ambush or kill a guard and steal his uniform, but when I mentioned it to Danny, my cellmate and fellow sane man, he told me I was stupid for even thinking about it.
That was until two years into my incarceration and he was just as fed up as I was with living in this stone hole.
As we sat on our hard beds - me on the left side, Danny on the right - he looked up from his book, Stephen King’s ‘Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption’, smiled and said “Let’s do it”.
Over the following two weeks we would quietly discuss our escape - methods, routes and times - until the day finally came. March the tenth was the day we’d decided that this was it, we were going to get out of there and re-experience our
freedom.
----------
Lunch was the perfect time to study the building and plan the escape as our cell was a long distance from the lunch hall and involved passing a number of cells similar to ours and various rooms used for interrogation and interviews.
Walking along the sheet metal platform I could hear screams, cursing and mumbling. Everything I assumed was stereotypical to a high-security nuthouse. Glancing into some of the cells I caught sight of the source of the rancid smell which floated around the building: piles of shit left my those too lazy to use the toilets provided for them. I gagged. This building was a shithole, and I couldn’t wait to get out.
Entering the dinner hall (could they have named it anything more childish?), I saw people throwing food, nut bags talking to themselves and others just staring into space. The latter seemed the sanest. But I wasn’t here for friends, I just wanted to be a citizen again, living in a normal home and working a normal job.
After collecting my lunch of a cup of fermenting water and moulding bread, I ate slowly, looking around the hall for cameras, guards positions and doors. The first were everywhere, the second obvious and the third rare, but accessible, albeit protected by wire mesh. We just needed to use some simple violence and we’d be out.
I did the same for a week - looked, listened and mentally noted - until I could picture the building interior with my eyes closed. It was then that I knew it was going to happen. We, my cellmate and I, were going to escape. Have no worries. Live our lives and be free.
----------
The following week we spent preparing ourselves for the escape - sharing mental notes, discussing times and creating makeshift weaponry by each sharpening a toothbrush handle using the metal bed frame. It was exhausting, mentally (due to the secrecy) and physically, but the reward was going to be worth the exhaustion.
Easter was coming up which meant, like every yearly holiday in this madhouse, people were allowed to have the odd alcoholic drink and festive meal. It also meant that security would let their guard down.
We went to lunch at the usual time of midday, each grabbed a beer to cool our nerves and boost our confidence a little and sat in our usual places.
With our hearts racing and tension running high, our drinks were finished, we nodded at each other and stood, knocking our chairs over in the process. Due to the permitted drinking, the guards were none the wiser and simply glanced at us then continued drinking. Just how we hoped it would be.
Our first destination was the foods counter to collect another drink with the hopes that the guards would suspect nothing, then, with our drinks in one hand and weapons concealed up the sleeve of the other, we casually strolled towards the mesh-covered door, ignoring the flying food scraps and drunken shouting. It was time.
Danny distracted the sober-looking guard by asking if he wanted a drink which was held out to him. Naturally, the guard turned his head, revealing his neck to me, at which point Danny screamed “Now!”
At that signal I let the toothbrush fall into my hand and with a quick swing of the arm, embedded it into the guard’s exposed neck, hitting him so hard that the handle was invisible with only the brush showing. The sounds he made as he dropped to his knees were like nothing I’d heard before: he gagged, then choked, sounding as if a lump of food was stuck in his throat. Seconds later he coughed once and fell forward, has face bouncing as it hit the tiles.
The sounds of the guard hitting the floor caught the attention of the other guards who, by now, were a little worse for wear. “Shit!”, we both said sharply.
“Grab the keys”. Danny bent over the guards still corpse and started to detach the loop of keys from his belt while the other guards continued to wobble towards us, fiddling with their guns and walking into various obstacles familiar to a drunk person. “Hurry”, I told him, becoming impatient. The initial alcohol buzz was beginning to wear off now and I was feeling tired and irritant. If we wanted to escape we needed to do it now, and Danny’s slowness wasn’t helping.
“Got it!”
“Open the door.” The guards’ distance between us was decreasing and I was getting nervous when I heard a loud crack followed by a hollow thump behind me. Risking taking my eyes off of the guards, I looked towards the door and saw Danny’s body slumped against it. A trail of blood which looked like it had been painted on ran down the door and stopped at his face which was now flat against the door’s mesh covering.
With no time for upset, I turned and half walked, half ran to the door which, luckily for me, had been unlocked by my cell mate. I kicked him out of the way, pulled the door open and picked up pace, the drunk guards attempting to follow me. I only had to run a hundred yards and I’d be out.
Suddenly, I was propelled forward as something hit the middle of my back. I fell in a similar way to the guard I killed, my face hitting the floor and resulting in a mouthful of dust. I’d got out the building, but I hadn’t truly escaped. I’d failed for the last time, but with a strange feeling of euphoria I smiled before blackness took over.
Epilogue
What I did to my family was wrong, I know that, but as I’ve said before, until it happens to you, you’ll never truly understand why I did it, nor will you understand how I felt on that night.
My time in the mental institution was like none other. At home I was free and in the open, the nuthouse took all of that away from me in an instant and plunged me into a world filled with security guards, locked doors and mesh-covered windows. It was hell. That is why death, when it came, was a blessing.
Had the guards simply caught me during my escape, I’d have been locked up
with tighter security. Death was the only answer. For my wife, my daughter and myself.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Knife Against Flesh, a poem
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.
----------
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
Note: this is not personal or aimed towards anyone, just a bit of fun.
----------
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, 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.
---------
"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.
---------
"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: -___-
-------------
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.
-----------
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
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