14. And so it was that the family of Pethuel came to a place which was not valley; nor was it mountain, nor forest, nor field. 15. In this place was a gathering. 16. The gathering was of many peoples, congregated there for purposes unknown, and so they did wait. 17. At this time, Pethuel joined with those who waited; a host which numbered seven times seven times seven and then three more who had just turned up, throwing the numbers off. 18. One of those who waited was Paul, who was the son of Daniel, who was the son of Peter, who was the son of David, who was the son of Enoch, whose father’s true name was forgotten, though his friends called him ‘Skipper.’ 19. They waited for ten days and seven nights, due to Paul losing count a couple of times. 20. After this time, Pethuel turned to the crowd and addressed them. “What exactly are we waiting for?” spake he. 21. And no man among them could say. 22. Seeing this, the family of Pethuel continued on their journey, saying to one another: “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”
NON-CONTIGUOUS HOMAGE FORTNIGHT #9: Try too hard to be P.G. Wodehouse
‘What what!’ bellowed Uncle Archibald Reginald Featherstone the Third, fifteenth Duke of Normington and Honourary Chair of the Haveringminster Cricket Association good-naturedly.
‘Archie!’ responded Peregrine St. John Psmythe, gallumphing guilelessly across the carefully threadbare carpet of the hallway of the Ingot Club for Gentlemen of Novel Opinions like a particularly rangy antelope in a brown tweed suit. ‘What what indeed, old fruit! How the devil?’ He pumped Archie’s hand with the vigour of a professional pump operator who, reinvigorated by a bracing round of redundancies amongst his colleagues and union-mates, has resolved to put his all into the execution of his pump-operating duties in the hope of staving off early retirement and, with it, the threat of more time to spend with his forthright and ebullient wife.
‘Perry, Perry, Perry,’ thundered Archie warmly, which was technically correct, although perhaps a touch too emphatic for the club’s older members, several of whom shifted restively beneath their newspaper pages like volcanos who are trying to sleep under the business section and keep being disturbed.
‘Archie!’ reiterated Peregrine, noticeably failing to move the conversation on.
‘Perry,’ repeated Archie, somewhat grudgingly this time.
‘Archie,’ said Peregrine. ‘How the devil? How the deuce are you? Archie, Archie, Archie. My old fruit. Uncle Archie.’ The silence which followed this stretched out like an elongated object of some kind described in unnecessary detail for comic effect.
NON-CONTIGUOUS HOMAGE FORTNIGHT #8: Try too hard to be H.P. Lovecraft
I fought my way up the sandy slope, trying desperately to keep my companion in view. Above the dune’s crest, I perceived a dull glow of light the colour of which was a strange and unsettling shade of violet. Some force, unknown and ancient, called to me; I felt a rising of dull panic in my stomach. My companion, without so much as a momentary hesitation, crested the dune and disappeared from view; I knew at that moment that I would not see him again. Drawn further up the slope by impulses not quite my own, I scrambled breathlessly up the shifting sands before reaching a point where I could see, inch by painful inch, over the dune’s peak and onto the plateau below.
What I saw there, dear reader, submits itself not to description – not in any language known to man. From the centre of the thing, gelatinous tentacles splayed out in an untraceable knot of translucent flesh; they were coated in sand, as if the creature had been thrashing the very ground beneath it with furious wrath. In the centre of the writhing mass – God preserve me! – was a loathsome and glistening mound, composed of a material I knew not. It seemed at once living and not living – I fancied it was pulsing gently, but my own palpitations may have overwhelmed my perception. Step by horrified step, I retreated back down the dune, my mind fighting the sensation of numbing horror that now beset me. What manner of thing was that – from whence had it sprung and with what intention? As these and more questions clamoured in my mind, I became aware that I would carry the horror of what I had seen with me from that day forth.
It was the best trip to the beach ever and that’s what I did on my holidays.
NON-CONTIGUOUS HOMAGE FORTNIGHT #7: Try too hard to be Raymond Carver
The taxi arrives around midnight, then just sits outside with the engine running. I go downstairs and stand in the hallway, not wanting to turn on the light. I can feel the air moving around the house. A few doors are open, a few are closed.
Even though I can see it coming, the driver walking down the path and raising his hand, the knock on the door still manages to give me a kind of jolt. I don’t move. Maybe if I don’t move, he won’t see me. He waits a moment, the engine still running behind him. I haven’t even packed a bag. He knocks again, louder this time. I step up to the door and pull it open.
‘Taxi,’ he says. He’s a big guy, but not that big.
‘Nope,’ I say. We stand there for a few seconds. I look at him. He looks at me.
I’ve really got to stop prank-calling taxi companies.
NON-CONTIGUOUS HOMAGE FORTNIGHT #6: Try too hard to be Charles Dickens
Rotund and generous by nature, Mr. Pimplepop was a gentleman often to be found distributing hand-crafted wooden toys to poor children. In fact, he was engaged in just such an activity upon the occasion of his first encounter with the infamous Lord Snittington-Sneer.
‘My goodness, my lad,’ burbled Mr. Pimplepop, ruffling the angelic blonde hair of a young naïf. ‘How in the heavens can you be expected to carry on your daily business without the benefit of a wooden locomotive to play with?’
‘I’m awful sorry, sir,’ replied the radiant stripling. ‘I ‘ad no idea such a thing was needed.’
‘Oh ho ho,’ rumbled Mr. Pimplepop with delight. ‘No idea, you say!’ Before the sentiment could be expanded upon, however, a dark shadow stole across the heart-warming tableau and the spindly figure of Lord Snittington-Sneer lurched into sight. His face was sour and miserly, while his heart was as shrivelled and empty as his bank account was immodestly full. He struck terror into the souls of all who encountered him and it was said that he thrived especially on the fear of the impressionable young. Also, he was probably Jewish.
Include detailed stage directions
KITCHEN. TABLE & TWO CHAIRS. ON THE TABLE ARE A SELECTION OF HERBS & SPICES – MARJORAM, THYME, CORIANDER, SAGE, BASIL – AND A METAL FORK, ONE PRONG OF WHICH IS SLIGHTLY BENT. ENTER KALI.
KALI: Hello?
SHE LOOKS AROUND, BUT THE KITCHEN IS EMPTY. SHE PICKS UP THE JAR OF THYME, THE LABEL OF WHICH IS TOO SMALL FOR THE AUDIENCE TO READ.
KALI: I guess I ran out of this and everyone left. (LAUGHS)
SHE PULLS HER PHONE OUT OF HER POCKET AND SILENTLY READS A TEXT MESSAGE – “BORED OF WAITING, SO LEFT. SUZ XX.” SHE TYPES A REPLY, AGAIN WITHOUT SPEAKING – “OK SEE YOU THERE HOPEFULLY LOL X.”
KALI: Right.
SHE LEAVES. MOMENTS LATER, A MOTE OF DUST FLOATS ACROSS THE STAGE AND SETTLES ON THE JAR OF BASIL, INDICATING TO THE AUDIENCE THAT KALI’S HUSBAND BASIL HAS DIED.
Write to prove a point
As the sirens receded into the distance, Geoff smiled to himself in the darkness. He could still taste the metallic flavour of blood at the back of his mouth and his hands were slick with gore. Above all this, though, was the heady exhilaration of revenge. As he had watched their eyes, full of pain and too-late remorse, he had felt the burden of years falling from him. Years of rejection; years of shattered dreams; years of well-used semicolons. At last, the depth of his artistry would be understood. At last, the world would know his name. Maybe there was even “room in the market” for a confessional autobiography. “Room in the market,” they had said. Perhaps now their graves would read “there simply isn’t room in the market.” Geoff laughed. He had a feeling that the Numington-Putsch Literary Agency had drafted their last ever letter of rejection.
Suddenly change characters’ motivations
Olaf Manful smiled as he stashed the hard drive in his bag. He turned to his diminutive companion.
‘This should have all the information we need,’ he said. ‘With this, we can bring down the entire multinational criminal operation and prevent those nukes from being fired.’
‘Great, great,’ said Gilgo Shortington. ’So let’s get out of here before the guards find us.’ He moved for the door, but Olaf put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Not so fast, little buddy,’ he said. ‘I want to know what else they’ve got hidden here.’
‘Why?’ Gilgo said, throwing his hands in the air. ‘We’ve got the computer drive thing, so let’s just go.’
‘No,’ said Olaf. ‘We’re just getting started.’ Gilgo stared at him for a moment as the alarms blared around them.
‘Just getting started? What do you mean just... This is what we came for. This is the whole point. If we hang around, we’ll probably get caught and have to do a daring escape. We’ll almost definitely get into some sort of spectacular shootout. We should just go. There’s literally nothing to be gained from staying.’
‘Ha!’ Olaf laughed. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about undercover work, little buddy.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
