Two extracts from part 3 of Year 1, Chapter 1. The first is by request of Quoth The Raven. It's because I couldn't be bothered to justify the role of my Policeman 1.0 character. The second one is more normal.
Euan turned and headed in the direction of the lights, picking an off-track route amongst the undergrowth. They pushed their way through a patch of bracken and burst out onto a tarmac road. Striding forward with more confidence they found a police car pulled up further down the road, an officer was stood by the open door, talking on the radio. They stumbled up to him and he put the radio back.
“What’s happening?” Euan asked his voice still hoarse from the smoke.
“You need to evacuate the area,” the officer replied. “There’s an evacuation point further down the road.”
“Thank you,” Penny replied. “Come on, Euan we’d better head there and see if we can find the others.”
“An officer will have to take a statement from you. Because I’m trying to imply that there’s been a crime and shit.”
“Oh na,” said Penny.
***
“Come with me,” Ronan gestured, flicking the end of his cigarette away into the undergrowth.
“You should be careful with that,” Felix told him, indicating the smouldering cigarette butt. “You could start a fire.”
Ronan fixed him with a look and merely smiled.
“So what are you going to show me?” Felix asked, glancing around himself restlessly.
“It’s over here,” Ronan replied, heading in the direction of the fire.
Felix wondered briefly whether this was such a good idea. It wasn’t a fear he would articulate to Ronan, however. They walked for quite a long time until they reached the edge of the char line where the fire had burnt and then passed onwards. Felix hesitated slightly at the line, but then followed Ronan over. The ground was still slightly hot under foot and some willowy saplings were still covered in glowing orange veins over the black char.
“There,” Ronan stated, pointing at the ground.
He was pointing at a bundle of charred hair and bone, which at some point would have formed the body of an animal.
“Stupid sheep. Panicked in the fire. Ran straight into the blaze,” Ronan pulled out another cigarette and stuck it into his mouth.
Felix looked down silently at the smoking remains and then at Ronan, who was taking a long drag on his cigarette. Ronan handed the cigarette over to him and Felix took a long draw. He handed the cigarette back, the strong tobacco catching slightly in his throat. Ronan merely smiled.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Nano, Modern Myth, 1.1.2
Four extracts this time, all from part II of Chapter 1, Year 1.
1st Year
Bonfire Night
II
“Which one of these guys is it that you really want to meet?” Cerys’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, a smile playing with the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Penny replied with a blush.
“Oh, come on. It’s obvious,” Cerys replied with a shake of her head. “You’ve been twitching to meet up with these guys for days. So either you’re really fed up with me, or you’re really hoping to see someone else.”
“Well, I suppose,” Penny muttered, looking away and rubbing her hands together anxiously.
“Brilliant!” Cerys replied in evident delight. “So which one is it? It’s not Eurig is it?”
“No, no,” Penny replied hastily.
“Hmph. Not pretty enough for you?” Cerys replied in mock hurt, playing the twin card as hard as she could.
Penny laughed in reply.
***
“Hi guys! How’s it going?” Cerys called over to Euan and Mike, who were stood quietly, looking pensive.
“Hey, Cerys!” Mike replied with a smile, “Good, thanks. How are you?”
“Hi,” Penny said quietly, half turning her head so that she could watch Euan without having to look directly at him.
“Good, good,” Cerys replied enthusiastically. “Euan! You’re looking very serious. Come and get into the festive spirit of things!”
“I never really thought of Guy Faulkes Night as particularly festive,” Euan replied mildly, with a slightly ironic smile.
“We’re celebrating our government defeating an evil terrorist plot! It’s celebratory and contemporarily relevant!” Cerys winked at him, an action largely lost by the darkness of the night.
“We’re celebrating burning a man alive. It’s a bit dark really,” Euan replied.
“Worse than that,” Penny chipped in, moving slightly closer to him. “Guy Faulkes wasn’t actually burnt alive. He was hung, drawn and quartered. And that was after being horribly tortured for months.”
“Charming!” Cerys replied, shaking her head. “Well, I’ll leave you two gloomy birds to it. Come on Mike! Let’s have a cheery walk.” With that, Cerys linked arms with Mike and lead him away to rejoin the main group a short distance away.
***
“It is a good view from up here,” said Penny, a hint of doubt entering her tone. “It can be a bit intimidating though. We bumped into Ronan and that lot on our way to meet you guys.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Euan replied, gritting his teeth slightly. “I’ve known Ronan for many years. Although, I personally wouldn’t trust him this near to a large supply of explosives.”
Penny laughed and glanced at his face, to check she’d judged his tone right. He smiled back at her and she looked away again.
“How do you know him? Was he at school with you?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I know him through far more sinister means than that,” he said in an increasingly suspenseful tone. “You see…” he paused for dramatic impact, “he is my… cousin!” he said the last with a bit of flare and an arm gesture.
“No way!” Penny replied, covering her mouth with her hand. She hastily rewound the conversation in her mind, making sure she hadn’t said anything that could offend a family member.
“Yes way. Unfortunately.” Euan smiled and then sighed.
“Wow. I’m sorry,” she giggled and then heartily laughed as she could just about make out his mournful expression. She pushed his arm lightly in a playful gesture.
***
“Look, perhaps we should go rejoin the others,” Euan said in a slightly apprehensive tone.
“I think you’re right,” Penny replied.
The two walked back the way they had come, suddenly aware of how much lighter it now seemed than it had earlier, even though it was later into the night. But the light was not the cool whites of moonlight, but the hot, yellows of firelight. Too much firelight.
1st Year
Bonfire Night
II
“Which one of these guys is it that you really want to meet?” Cerys’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, a smile playing with the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Penny replied with a blush.
“Oh, come on. It’s obvious,” Cerys replied with a shake of her head. “You’ve been twitching to meet up with these guys for days. So either you’re really fed up with me, or you’re really hoping to see someone else.”
“Well, I suppose,” Penny muttered, looking away and rubbing her hands together anxiously.
“Brilliant!” Cerys replied in evident delight. “So which one is it? It’s not Eurig is it?”
“No, no,” Penny replied hastily.
“Hmph. Not pretty enough for you?” Cerys replied in mock hurt, playing the twin card as hard as she could.
Penny laughed in reply.
***
“Hi guys! How’s it going?” Cerys called over to Euan and Mike, who were stood quietly, looking pensive.
“Hey, Cerys!” Mike replied with a smile, “Good, thanks. How are you?”
“Hi,” Penny said quietly, half turning her head so that she could watch Euan without having to look directly at him.
“Good, good,” Cerys replied enthusiastically. “Euan! You’re looking very serious. Come and get into the festive spirit of things!”
“I never really thought of Guy Faulkes Night as particularly festive,” Euan replied mildly, with a slightly ironic smile.
“We’re celebrating our government defeating an evil terrorist plot! It’s celebratory and contemporarily relevant!” Cerys winked at him, an action largely lost by the darkness of the night.
“We’re celebrating burning a man alive. It’s a bit dark really,” Euan replied.
“Worse than that,” Penny chipped in, moving slightly closer to him. “Guy Faulkes wasn’t actually burnt alive. He was hung, drawn and quartered. And that was after being horribly tortured for months.”
“Charming!” Cerys replied, shaking her head. “Well, I’ll leave you two gloomy birds to it. Come on Mike! Let’s have a cheery walk.” With that, Cerys linked arms with Mike and lead him away to rejoin the main group a short distance away.
***
“It is a good view from up here,” said Penny, a hint of doubt entering her tone. “It can be a bit intimidating though. We bumped into Ronan and that lot on our way to meet you guys.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Euan replied, gritting his teeth slightly. “I’ve known Ronan for many years. Although, I personally wouldn’t trust him this near to a large supply of explosives.”
Penny laughed and glanced at his face, to check she’d judged his tone right. He smiled back at her and she looked away again.
“How do you know him? Was he at school with you?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I know him through far more sinister means than that,” he said in an increasingly suspenseful tone. “You see…” he paused for dramatic impact, “he is my… cousin!” he said the last with a bit of flare and an arm gesture.
“No way!” Penny replied, covering her mouth with her hand. She hastily rewound the conversation in her mind, making sure she hadn’t said anything that could offend a family member.
“Yes way. Unfortunately.” Euan smiled and then sighed.
“Wow. I’m sorry,” she giggled and then heartily laughed as she could just about make out his mournful expression. She pushed his arm lightly in a playful gesture.
***
“Look, perhaps we should go rejoin the others,” Euan said in a slightly apprehensive tone.
“I think you’re right,” Penny replied.
The two walked back the way they had come, suddenly aware of how much lighter it now seemed than it had earlier, even though it was later into the night. But the light was not the cool whites of moonlight, but the hot, yellows of firelight. Too much firelight.
Nano, Modern Myth, 1.1.1
Disclaimer: Naturally this is written very fast and with no care for accuracy. These are 3 extracts from part I of Chapter 1: Bonfire Night from 1st Year. The extracts are not linked. They have been cleverly divided by ellipses. I'm so clever.
1st Year
Bonfire Night
I
From the darkness and the chaos came the inferno. But that was in the beginning.
The night was dark and sultry, clouds obscured the sky and blocked out all possible moonlight. A held silence stretched out, waiting, expectant. Light flashed suddenly and brilliantly across the sky in a streak, shrieking as it went. With a loud explosion the light blew into thousands of sparks, releasing the crowd from their spell.
“Ooh!”
“Ahh!”
“Whoah!”
The crowd muttered their ritual incantations.
“I don’t know what they’re so impressed about. You can barely see the fireworks with all this cloud,” Euan muttered, his eyes upturned to the sky.
Another firework shot upwards, exploding above the clouds, like unearthly red sheet lightning. The crowd “oohed” nonetheless.
“It’s not their fault,” Mike replied, thrusting his hands inside his pockets. “They came here to be entertained. And they have no damn intention of leaving until they are.”
The group sniggered slightly at this, their breath curling out like a fine mist and trailing away.
“You know, Mike, you don’t but half talk some bullshit sometimes,” Tom interjected, with a slight shake of his head.
With a whirring scream, a Catherine Wheel was set in motion, a few flying sparks all that could be seen from this far back in the crowd.
“He’s right though,” Euan replied, with a shrug.
“You would take his side, wouldn’t you,” Felix quipped snidely, his eyes dancing with mischief.
“Cut it out, Felix,” Tom snapped back, glowering darkly at him.
There was a brief silence between them, interrupted only by the repetitive pop of a set of Roman Candles being lit.
.....
The monk in his dark recess, lit only by the light of a small candle, prayed and quivered in fear. The air became hotter and thicker, but the fire could not reach him in his stone prison. The monk sweated and gasped; choking he collapsed forward onto his books, the light of his candle dim, so dim now. So dim with no air to keep it lit.
...
“And you think you can write your dissertation on one of these texts?” Mike replied, slightly breathless as they were reaching the summit of Muspel Hill.
“Yes. One specifically. The Old English text.”
The two of them scrambled up the last section of hill in silence and then paused on reaching the top. Mike thought about saying something, but then realised that really, there wasn’t anything he could say.
1st Year
Bonfire Night
I
From the darkness and the chaos came the inferno. But that was in the beginning.
The night was dark and sultry, clouds obscured the sky and blocked out all possible moonlight. A held silence stretched out, waiting, expectant. Light flashed suddenly and brilliantly across the sky in a streak, shrieking as it went. With a loud explosion the light blew into thousands of sparks, releasing the crowd from their spell.
“Ooh!”
“Ahh!”
“Whoah!”
The crowd muttered their ritual incantations.
“I don’t know what they’re so impressed about. You can barely see the fireworks with all this cloud,” Euan muttered, his eyes upturned to the sky.
Another firework shot upwards, exploding above the clouds, like unearthly red sheet lightning. The crowd “oohed” nonetheless.
“It’s not their fault,” Mike replied, thrusting his hands inside his pockets. “They came here to be entertained. And they have no damn intention of leaving until they are.”
The group sniggered slightly at this, their breath curling out like a fine mist and trailing away.
“You know, Mike, you don’t but half talk some bullshit sometimes,” Tom interjected, with a slight shake of his head.
With a whirring scream, a Catherine Wheel was set in motion, a few flying sparks all that could be seen from this far back in the crowd.
“He’s right though,” Euan replied, with a shrug.
“You would take his side, wouldn’t you,” Felix quipped snidely, his eyes dancing with mischief.
“Cut it out, Felix,” Tom snapped back, glowering darkly at him.
There was a brief silence between them, interrupted only by the repetitive pop of a set of Roman Candles being lit.
.....
The monk in his dark recess, lit only by the light of a small candle, prayed and quivered in fear. The air became hotter and thicker, but the fire could not reach him in his stone prison. The monk sweated and gasped; choking he collapsed forward onto his books, the light of his candle dim, so dim now. So dim with no air to keep it lit.
...
“And you think you can write your dissertation on one of these texts?” Mike replied, slightly breathless as they were reaching the summit of Muspel Hill.
“Yes. One specifically. The Old English text.”
The two of them scrambled up the last section of hill in silence and then paused on reaching the top. Mike thought about saying something, but then realised that really, there wasn’t anything he could say.
NaNoWriMo Excerpts
So, for anyone who doesn't know - which I think is no one, but there we are - for NaNoWriMo this year I'm doing the Great and Long Prophesied Re-Draft of Cymru. I won't be putting it onto ScribblePit simply because it's going to be eye-gougingly poor; I am, after all, attempting 50,000 words in thirty days. More than 50,000, in fact, because three days into the damn thing I'm thinking it's going to take far more than 50,000 words to tell the story, so I've upped my daily word-count rather ambitiously to 2500. The upshot of this is the first draft of a novel I will get out of it. The downshot, if such a concept exists, is the poorest quality of the written word since language was first invented. Rest assured that it won't remain this blindingly bad. I will ultimately edit it heavily.
Which brings me to my point: as I say, no full story, but I will be posting excerpts. They won't necessarily be any good, but hopefully they'll at least be marginally interesting teasers so people will actually want to read it and help me edit it in December. Fingers crossed, eh? Anyway, Jackanory.
AWEN
"What is 'home', in the hearts of humans?"
The voice cut softly, fluidly, through the still morning air, overlaying the melody of the bird-song and the quiet footfalls of a single pair of boots on the crunching, frozen grass. The scent of the dawn hung thickly all about her, heavy and fresh and sweet in her nostrils and somehow muffling all other sounds, apart from the teasing riddle. Awen smiled and kept walking. She didn't look around.
"Sanctuary," she responded calmly. Her own voice sounded almost too loud in the stillness around her, as though she were intruding on something. It would all be very different in a few short hours, when the farmers headed into Casnewydd proper for the festival and the merchants rolled by with their laden carts; but for now, the wide, grassy path leading down into the valley was all for Awen, and the riddling creature behind her.
He chuckled, voice dancing on the breeze.
"Well played, Rider," he murmured. "As ever. But as ever, questions beget more questions."
"As ever," Awen agreed mildly. It was an indisputable point in these conversations.
"Are you headed for sanctuary now, Rider?"
"I am," Awen nodded. "Of a sort."
"Oh?"
"Solace," she amended. "Which, as shelter from a conceptual hunter, counts as a form of sanctuary."
"What do you flee?"
"Weariness," Awen said quietly. "Despair. Futility."
"Despair cannot be sheltered from," he said lightly. "Only armed against."
"Perhaps," Awen conceeded. "I might argue that shelter is a way of mentally arming oneself, however."
"And what is your shelter, Rider?"
Awen stopped, and turned to look at him. He was lounging against the ancient wooden fencing that seperated the path from the pasture beside them, all long limbs and easy grace. His hair was black today, and long to his collar, a neatly trimmed beard lining a delicately pointed chin. His nose was delicately aquiline, bisecting high cheekbones and finishing above a pair of fully sculpted lips, currently quirked in a smile. He wore a regal outfit, brocade in a green strongly reminiscent of the dyes from Caerleuad and long waxed boots to the knee that might have made Awen wonder how she never heard him walking beside her if she hadn't known better. His eyes watched her, yellow and gold and gleaming.
"Whose face is that?" she asked, dodging the question.
He smiled broadly.
"Providence," he said slyly. "And, seemingly, digression. What arms you against despair, Rider? Is it that farmhouse down there? The cawl waiting in its pot? The woman you call Mother? Or is it this?"
He spread his arms, and the scents and sights and sounds of the morning around her became abruptly vivid, a glorious symphony of surroundings. Awen didn't answer for a few moments, simply basking in it; and then the world faded back into normality, the man watching her.
She could have answered, but he clearly already knew it.
Which brings me to my point: as I say, no full story, but I will be posting excerpts. They won't necessarily be any good, but hopefully they'll at least be marginally interesting teasers so people will actually want to read it and help me edit it in December. Fingers crossed, eh? Anyway, Jackanory.
AWEN
"What is 'home', in the hearts of humans?"
The voice cut softly, fluidly, through the still morning air, overlaying the melody of the bird-song and the quiet footfalls of a single pair of boots on the crunching, frozen grass. The scent of the dawn hung thickly all about her, heavy and fresh and sweet in her nostrils and somehow muffling all other sounds, apart from the teasing riddle. Awen smiled and kept walking. She didn't look around.
"Sanctuary," she responded calmly. Her own voice sounded almost too loud in the stillness around her, as though she were intruding on something. It would all be very different in a few short hours, when the farmers headed into Casnewydd proper for the festival and the merchants rolled by with their laden carts; but for now, the wide, grassy path leading down into the valley was all for Awen, and the riddling creature behind her.
He chuckled, voice dancing on the breeze.
"Well played, Rider," he murmured. "As ever. But as ever, questions beget more questions."
"As ever," Awen agreed mildly. It was an indisputable point in these conversations.
"Are you headed for sanctuary now, Rider?"
"I am," Awen nodded. "Of a sort."
"Oh?"
"Solace," she amended. "Which, as shelter from a conceptual hunter, counts as a form of sanctuary."
"What do you flee?"
"Weariness," Awen said quietly. "Despair. Futility."
"Despair cannot be sheltered from," he said lightly. "Only armed against."
"Perhaps," Awen conceeded. "I might argue that shelter is a way of mentally arming oneself, however."
"And what is your shelter, Rider?"
Awen stopped, and turned to look at him. He was lounging against the ancient wooden fencing that seperated the path from the pasture beside them, all long limbs and easy grace. His hair was black today, and long to his collar, a neatly trimmed beard lining a delicately pointed chin. His nose was delicately aquiline, bisecting high cheekbones and finishing above a pair of fully sculpted lips, currently quirked in a smile. He wore a regal outfit, brocade in a green strongly reminiscent of the dyes from Caerleuad and long waxed boots to the knee that might have made Awen wonder how she never heard him walking beside her if she hadn't known better. His eyes watched her, yellow and gold and gleaming.
"Whose face is that?" she asked, dodging the question.
He smiled broadly.
"Providence," he said slyly. "And, seemingly, digression. What arms you against despair, Rider? Is it that farmhouse down there? The cawl waiting in its pot? The woman you call Mother? Or is it this?"
He spread his arms, and the scents and sights and sounds of the morning around her became abruptly vivid, a glorious symphony of surroundings. Awen didn't answer for a few moments, simply basking in it; and then the world faded back into normality, the man watching her.
She could have answered, but he clearly already knew it.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Scribblers go Victorian! Part 2
The scene is the same as before, but about 10 minutes later.
AMITY and LYRIC have been making tea on the kitchen stove, SHIFT is experimenting with Victorian posture, and WRAITH has decided to embody his Victorian counterpart, the Invisible Man. He is completely invisible apart from a hat and his glasses.
CHRONAL is watching FINESSE apprehensively. FINESSE is pacing. She does not look happy.
FINESSE: The Victorians. Why the Victorians? Well, I suppose it’s obvious, really. What other era would a semi-literate ignoramus with an inappropriate gift choose for himself? Everyone knows the Victorians. Apparently. And what a perfect choice for a man who thinks you can learn to write by following a set of rules broken down into week by week lessons. No creativity, no divergence from the standard. Frankly, the Narrator is the most Victorian villain we’ve ever come across.
CHRONAL: Ignoramus?
FINESSE: Yes.
CHRONAL: I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before. It’s rather...Victorian.
FINESSE: Good point. And that was a rather 19th Century English colloquialism.
SHIFT: We’re still changing. Can you feel it? Our language is altering to fit the tropes of the age. Our natures, similarly, will begin to (she laughs softly) shift to accommodate them.
CHRONAL: You do not propose that we accept this state of affairs?
SHIFT: The idea could not be further from my thoughts.
LYRIC: The powers my errant brother employs have limits, just as my own do.
AMITY: I think I begin to see.
SHIFT: We must fight, Scribblers. Resist the change! We must clutch our own lexicon between our teeth, wrap our minds around the 21st century and refuse to accept our new personas.
WRAITH: What evs, bruv.
SHIFT: Quite.
FINESSE: OK. We talk normally, we keep a handle on our own reality, he can’t turn us into his pawns. Remember what we are to each other, really. Amity, my new memories are telling me you’re Mr Alun’s, sorry, you’re Chronal’s ward, and I’m fighting the urge to take you aside and warn you not to flirt with Lyric, because he is a renowned bounder.
AMITY: Wow, we really are in a terrible narrative! My new memories say I’m secretly engaged to a man from another part of town and we plan to elope. Shift knows, and wants to help.
SHIFT: Yes, but only because I’m Finesse’s sister and I know Finesse will be disinherited if Amity runs off with the wrong man.
LYRIC: 17 weeks of lessons and he’s still writing Eastenders in cravats.
FINESSE: OK. As soon as I get anywhere near him I can start getting him to reverse this, but for now we’re inside his narrative so we have to take care of ourselves. Watch your language. Remember who we are. Any ideas how we find him?
LYRIC: He’s the Prime Minister.
CHRONAL: Ah. Naturally. When one is not bound by the veil of ignorance, and may pick one’s own position, it is logical to choose something highly defensible.
FINESSE: Rephrase.
CHRONAL: Sorry. It’ll be hard to get at the Prime Minister.
LYRIC: Not if you’re the Prime Minister’s disreputable elder brother, always turning up asking to borrow money for his waster friends and their crazy ideas. Chronal, you spent £300 trying to build a zeppelin last month.
CHRONAL: So I did.
FINESSE: Shall we go?
SHIFT: I’ll meet you there. I’m going to fly. It’s a good chance to see Victorian London, even if it is the Narrator’s idea of it.
FINESSE: OK, but no bats. We’re not doing anything that resembles a Victorian narrative. In fact, Wraith, take off that hat.
The HAT drifts slowly down onto the chaise longue.
WRAITH: Just jokin’, innit.
FINESSE: Thank you. Let’s go.
The SCRIBBLERS walk through the ‘Victorian’ streets. They pass about three street boys who offer to shine their shoes, at least 4 ladies of negotiable affection, and 7 groups of young dandies out for a night on the town.
FINESSE is seething.
FINESSE: I hate Victorians.
AMITY: They aren’t Victorians.
FINESSE: I know that.
AMITY: I think they do, too. They feel pretty strange. Their surface emotions are all what you can see, but there’s a sort of underlying confusion to them all too. It’s like their true natures are buried, rather than converted.
FINESSE: Can they fight it?
AMITY: I’m not sure. We did. I could try boosting their confusion so it’s dominant, but I can’t help them understand what they’re confused about.
LYRIC: This is huge. I can’t do this. He’s altering people’s minds.
AMITY: But it isn’t real, Lyric. When you speak a rope into existence, then we’ve got a rope. He’s only creating a fiction and getting everyone to play along. The scale’s bigger, but the real change is less.
FINESSE: The effect on the world is real, though. I am seriously dressed like Ralph Nickelby’s mother.
They walk past Sweeney Todd’s barber’s, next to the pie shop. No-one comments.
A few streets down, they come across an old man with a youthful face, white hair and a high, aquiline nose. He speaks to a young woman in an Eastern European accent. She seems oddly hypnotised. Oh, and she’s wearing a nightie. She turns and begins to walk away with him.
An owl swoops down and heads straight for the old man, who promptly turns into a flock of bats. They peck at the owl, but are no match for the strength of the beating wings, and eventually they fly off.
The owl re-materialises into a slightly dishevelled Shift. Everyone looks very proud of her.
AMITY (to the girl): Are you all right?
GIRL: I...believe so. And yet I seem to be in the street clad in nothing but my night dress, so I am compelled to seek a second opinion.
LYRIC: Can you tell me your name?
GIRL: Lucy.
AMITY (Looking at her hard): Are you sure?
GIRL: I...I...what sorcery is this? I find I am two people. I am Lucy, and also Amy. And Amy is so very strange. So cruel to a man who adores her and off she runs, chasing the vampire. The things she has done. She can’t take them back. No. I shan’t be Amy. Leave me. I know you mean well. Good night.
The GIRL runs off towards a house with an open window and a white curtain billowing from it.
The SCRIBBLERS look awkwardly at each other for a minute.
AMITY: Yes. You can fight it off.
FINESSE: Good to know. Come on.
The SCRIBBLERS arrive at the Houses of Parliament.
DOOR MAN: Excuse me, ladies, you should know that no woman is permitted to pass into this House.
FINESSE: Really? Well my friend here is a tiger.
SHIFT obligingly makes this so.
FINESSE: Does that change things?
The 6 walk through, and SHIFT growls at the door man on her way past. He is very scared, of course.
WRAITH steals his keys on the way past, and uses them to open all the doors in their way. When at all possible, he does this in full view of a stranger so it’s not long before the halls echo with screams of people who are sure they’ve seen a ghost.
They arrive at the main chamber of the House of Commons, where the Narrator is in the middle of a rather mediocre speech which is nonetheless being very well received. He reaches a rousing conclusion.
LYRIC: Hello, little brother.
NARRATOR: Ah, Mr Jones. Come to ask for a loan, I suppose?
His insufferable lackies laugh.
NARRATOR: And I see you’ve brought your circus. Still, I really must protest, old boy. The tiger is one thing, quite a novelty, in fact, but the women? Why you let them get involved in your little games I’ll never understand.
More sycophantic response from the lackies.
The SCRIBBLERS all shift into fighting stance, but none move.
FINESSE: Your call, Jom.
NARRATOR: Not that I mind helping you out with a few titbits here and there, of course. After all, you are essentially a tradesman in talent. Good at making things, you see. Personally, I’m more cerebral. I govern countries, Jomas, make whole worlds out of words. What, at the end of the day, can you make?
JOM: ROPE.
Ropes fly out of the air and bind up the Narrator.
JOM: GAG.
A gag attaches itself to the Narrator’s mouth.
JOM: Point one, a Prime Minister’s brother would never, under any circumstances, interrupt a session at the House of Commons to ask for a personal loan. Point two, how can a ward possibly be older than her warders? Point three, women were allowed to enter the House, just not to participate. And point four, “old boy” is a 20th century colloquialism, you ignoramus.
The NARRATOR fights to get free of his bonds, but he can’t.
JOM: Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve altered people’s minds. You’ve given them whole alternative lives. How many marriages have you broken up, do you think? How many jobs lost? This is a work shop, isn’t it? All this is basically because you’re doing your homework. GAGS, RELEASE.
The gag comes off of the NARRATOR, who looks quite ashamed of himself.
JOM: You are 21 years old. I am staggered that you can be this self-centred, and to top it all off, also this ignorant of Victorian literature. How arrogant to do so much damage you can’t even undo.
NARRATOR: I can undo it.
JOM: Of course you can’t. You’ll get it wrong. You’ll remember how things were badly, put things back in the wrong places.
NARRATOR: You think I have to do it from memory? I’m a lot more powerful than you think, Jomas. AND THEN EVERYTHING RETURNED TO THE WAY IT WAS BEFORE THE NARRATOR BEGAN THE CHANGE.
JOM: GAG.
The SCRIBBLERS are walking away through the now normal streets back to their base.
LYRIC: We’ve got to find a better way than that. He’s not going to listen to me again.
FINESSE: We’ll think of something, when we have to.
They walk past the GIRL from the vampire scene. She’s in modern clothes now, and talking to a very nice looking chap, who couldn’t look more delighted at what she’s saying.
GIRL: I’m sorry I said no before. I was just scared, I suppose. Of course I want to go out with you, if you still want to...
The SCRIBBLERS walk off, the couple are kissing in the background.
AMITY and LYRIC have been making tea on the kitchen stove, SHIFT is experimenting with Victorian posture, and WRAITH has decided to embody his Victorian counterpart, the Invisible Man. He is completely invisible apart from a hat and his glasses.
CHRONAL is watching FINESSE apprehensively. FINESSE is pacing. She does not look happy.
FINESSE: The Victorians. Why the Victorians? Well, I suppose it’s obvious, really. What other era would a semi-literate ignoramus with an inappropriate gift choose for himself? Everyone knows the Victorians. Apparently. And what a perfect choice for a man who thinks you can learn to write by following a set of rules broken down into week by week lessons. No creativity, no divergence from the standard. Frankly, the Narrator is the most Victorian villain we’ve ever come across.
CHRONAL: Ignoramus?
FINESSE: Yes.
CHRONAL: I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before. It’s rather...Victorian.
FINESSE: Good point. And that was a rather 19th Century English colloquialism.
SHIFT: We’re still changing. Can you feel it? Our language is altering to fit the tropes of the age. Our natures, similarly, will begin to (she laughs softly) shift to accommodate them.
CHRONAL: You do not propose that we accept this state of affairs?
SHIFT: The idea could not be further from my thoughts.
LYRIC: The powers my errant brother employs have limits, just as my own do.
AMITY: I think I begin to see.
SHIFT: We must fight, Scribblers. Resist the change! We must clutch our own lexicon between our teeth, wrap our minds around the 21st century and refuse to accept our new personas.
WRAITH: What evs, bruv.
SHIFT: Quite.
FINESSE: OK. We talk normally, we keep a handle on our own reality, he can’t turn us into his pawns. Remember what we are to each other, really. Amity, my new memories are telling me you’re Mr Alun’s, sorry, you’re Chronal’s ward, and I’m fighting the urge to take you aside and warn you not to flirt with Lyric, because he is a renowned bounder.
AMITY: Wow, we really are in a terrible narrative! My new memories say I’m secretly engaged to a man from another part of town and we plan to elope. Shift knows, and wants to help.
SHIFT: Yes, but only because I’m Finesse’s sister and I know Finesse will be disinherited if Amity runs off with the wrong man.
LYRIC: 17 weeks of lessons and he’s still writing Eastenders in cravats.
FINESSE: OK. As soon as I get anywhere near him I can start getting him to reverse this, but for now we’re inside his narrative so we have to take care of ourselves. Watch your language. Remember who we are. Any ideas how we find him?
LYRIC: He’s the Prime Minister.
CHRONAL: Ah. Naturally. When one is not bound by the veil of ignorance, and may pick one’s own position, it is logical to choose something highly defensible.
FINESSE: Rephrase.
CHRONAL: Sorry. It’ll be hard to get at the Prime Minister.
LYRIC: Not if you’re the Prime Minister’s disreputable elder brother, always turning up asking to borrow money for his waster friends and their crazy ideas. Chronal, you spent £300 trying to build a zeppelin last month.
CHRONAL: So I did.
FINESSE: Shall we go?
SHIFT: I’ll meet you there. I’m going to fly. It’s a good chance to see Victorian London, even if it is the Narrator’s idea of it.
FINESSE: OK, but no bats. We’re not doing anything that resembles a Victorian narrative. In fact, Wraith, take off that hat.
The HAT drifts slowly down onto the chaise longue.
WRAITH: Just jokin’, innit.
FINESSE: Thank you. Let’s go.
The SCRIBBLERS walk through the ‘Victorian’ streets. They pass about three street boys who offer to shine their shoes, at least 4 ladies of negotiable affection, and 7 groups of young dandies out for a night on the town.
FINESSE is seething.
FINESSE: I hate Victorians.
AMITY: They aren’t Victorians.
FINESSE: I know that.
AMITY: I think they do, too. They feel pretty strange. Their surface emotions are all what you can see, but there’s a sort of underlying confusion to them all too. It’s like their true natures are buried, rather than converted.
FINESSE: Can they fight it?
AMITY: I’m not sure. We did. I could try boosting their confusion so it’s dominant, but I can’t help them understand what they’re confused about.
LYRIC: This is huge. I can’t do this. He’s altering people’s minds.
AMITY: But it isn’t real, Lyric. When you speak a rope into existence, then we’ve got a rope. He’s only creating a fiction and getting everyone to play along. The scale’s bigger, but the real change is less.
FINESSE: The effect on the world is real, though. I am seriously dressed like Ralph Nickelby’s mother.
They walk past Sweeney Todd’s barber’s, next to the pie shop. No-one comments.
A few streets down, they come across an old man with a youthful face, white hair and a high, aquiline nose. He speaks to a young woman in an Eastern European accent. She seems oddly hypnotised. Oh, and she’s wearing a nightie. She turns and begins to walk away with him.
An owl swoops down and heads straight for the old man, who promptly turns into a flock of bats. They peck at the owl, but are no match for the strength of the beating wings, and eventually they fly off.
The owl re-materialises into a slightly dishevelled Shift. Everyone looks very proud of her.
AMITY (to the girl): Are you all right?
GIRL: I...believe so. And yet I seem to be in the street clad in nothing but my night dress, so I am compelled to seek a second opinion.
LYRIC: Can you tell me your name?
GIRL: Lucy.
AMITY (Looking at her hard): Are you sure?
GIRL: I...I...what sorcery is this? I find I am two people. I am Lucy, and also Amy. And Amy is so very strange. So cruel to a man who adores her and off she runs, chasing the vampire. The things she has done. She can’t take them back. No. I shan’t be Amy. Leave me. I know you mean well. Good night.
The GIRL runs off towards a house with an open window and a white curtain billowing from it.
The SCRIBBLERS look awkwardly at each other for a minute.
AMITY: Yes. You can fight it off.
FINESSE: Good to know. Come on.
The SCRIBBLERS arrive at the Houses of Parliament.
DOOR MAN: Excuse me, ladies, you should know that no woman is permitted to pass into this House.
FINESSE: Really? Well my friend here is a tiger.
SHIFT obligingly makes this so.
FINESSE: Does that change things?
The 6 walk through, and SHIFT growls at the door man on her way past. He is very scared, of course.
WRAITH steals his keys on the way past, and uses them to open all the doors in their way. When at all possible, he does this in full view of a stranger so it’s not long before the halls echo with screams of people who are sure they’ve seen a ghost.
They arrive at the main chamber of the House of Commons, where the Narrator is in the middle of a rather mediocre speech which is nonetheless being very well received. He reaches a rousing conclusion.
LYRIC: Hello, little brother.
NARRATOR: Ah, Mr Jones. Come to ask for a loan, I suppose?
His insufferable lackies laugh.
NARRATOR: And I see you’ve brought your circus. Still, I really must protest, old boy. The tiger is one thing, quite a novelty, in fact, but the women? Why you let them get involved in your little games I’ll never understand.
More sycophantic response from the lackies.
The SCRIBBLERS all shift into fighting stance, but none move.
FINESSE: Your call, Jom.
NARRATOR: Not that I mind helping you out with a few titbits here and there, of course. After all, you are essentially a tradesman in talent. Good at making things, you see. Personally, I’m more cerebral. I govern countries, Jomas, make whole worlds out of words. What, at the end of the day, can you make?
JOM: ROPE.
Ropes fly out of the air and bind up the Narrator.
JOM: GAG.
A gag attaches itself to the Narrator’s mouth.
JOM: Point one, a Prime Minister’s brother would never, under any circumstances, interrupt a session at the House of Commons to ask for a personal loan. Point two, how can a ward possibly be older than her warders? Point three, women were allowed to enter the House, just not to participate. And point four, “old boy” is a 20th century colloquialism, you ignoramus.
The NARRATOR fights to get free of his bonds, but he can’t.
JOM: Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve altered people’s minds. You’ve given them whole alternative lives. How many marriages have you broken up, do you think? How many jobs lost? This is a work shop, isn’t it? All this is basically because you’re doing your homework. GAGS, RELEASE.
The gag comes off of the NARRATOR, who looks quite ashamed of himself.
JOM: You are 21 years old. I am staggered that you can be this self-centred, and to top it all off, also this ignorant of Victorian literature. How arrogant to do so much damage you can’t even undo.
NARRATOR: I can undo it.
JOM: Of course you can’t. You’ll get it wrong. You’ll remember how things were badly, put things back in the wrong places.
NARRATOR: You think I have to do it from memory? I’m a lot more powerful than you think, Jomas. AND THEN EVERYTHING RETURNED TO THE WAY IT WAS BEFORE THE NARRATOR BEGAN THE CHANGE.
JOM: GAG.
The SCRIBBLERS are walking away through the now normal streets back to their base.
LYRIC: We’ve got to find a better way than that. He’s not going to listen to me again.
FINESSE: We’ll think of something, when we have to.
They walk past the GIRL from the vampire scene. She’s in modern clothes now, and talking to a very nice looking chap, who couldn’t look more delighted at what she’s saying.
GIRL: I’m sorry I said no before. I was just scared, I suppose. Of course I want to go out with you, if you still want to...
The SCRIBBLERS walk off, the couple are kissing in the background.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Scribblers go Victorian!
Lyric and Amity are chatting in the base. Wraith is flickering in and out of reality.
LYRIC: OK, let’s start again. Right, can you remember what I was feeling after the 8th round of “Is It a Food” on the coach yesterday?
AMITY: Yes, of course. You were very frustrated and a bit bored.
LYRIC: Right, and why do you think that was?
AMITY: Because we’d been on the coach for ages and you’d lost the last round of “Is it a Food.”
LYRIC: OK. It wasn’t that. How can I put this? Sometimes after the 8th or 9th round of something, or when they’re very tired...
AMITY: Um...are you saying that sometimes other people don’t want to play a game?
LYRIC: Yes!
AMITY: Oh.
CHRONAL enters.
CHRONAL: Hi guys. Amity, want to play a game?
AMITY: Really?
FINESSE enters from the control room.
FINESSE: No time for that.
(CHRONAL beams)
FINESSE: Something’s very wrong. We need to do some damage control on your little brother’s games, Lyric.
LYRIC: What’s he been doing?
WRAITH: Window.
They all go to look.
Here’s what they can see, possibly over a series of panels.
The street immediately in front of the Scribble Pit looks normal - beautiful, green, eco-friendly etc. There’s a letter box on every corner, a few electric cars and plenty of bus stops. The street is clean. Then as they look further away, they’re looking into Dickens’ London. It’s cobbled streets, horse and carts, and people in Victorian clothes walking around.
In between the two towns, there’s a transition space. A modern letter box is half-transformed into an old-fashioned one, a modern woman is looking perplexedly at an old-fashioned man who is offering her his arm from slightly further away.
SHIFT is leafing frantically through a Scheme of Work for the Narrator’s writing course.
SHIFT: Week 17: Historical Fiction.
Back in the street, the Victoriana has now reached the edge of the Scribble Pit. The perplexed modern woman from the previous shot is now in a bustle and walking happily off on the arm of the man.
AMITY (to FINESSE): Will we keep our powers?
FINESSE: I’ll make sure of it.
FINESSE begins to create a protection around the Scribblers.
LYRIC: No need. He can’t take things out of the universe. I can’t.
WRAITH: It’s coming.
SHIFT: Feels different this time.
A wave of movement and reality washes over them, and suddenly the Scribble Pit has been transformed into a Victorian living room.
The Scribblers are now appropriately dressed.
FINESSE looks somewhat matronly, even a little severe. Chronal looks significantly more respectable than the other men - sombre colours, well-cut suit.
Lyric looks younger. Frankly, the only appropriate word is ‘dapper’.
Shift is dressed like a society beauty, in blue.
Wraith is wearing the most nondescript, appropriate suit imaginable. In a Victorian gathering, he would be about as close to invisible as it is possible to be without his unique abilities.
Amity is wearing a red dress that, while appropriate, just verges on gaudy.
SHIFT (who is much less phased by physical change): Oh, blue.
FINESSE: Hmmm, suits you. What am I..? Hold on, why are you dressed for a party and I’m wearing the worst dress I’ve seen this side of the millennium?
AMITY giggles.
AMITY: Check your new memory. You’re married.
CHRONAL: Oh yes, so we are.
SHIFT: Ah. So the boring clothes because Lyric’s illiterate little brother thinks that’s how married people dressed.
LYRIC: You realise this means it’s much worse than we thought?
Everyone looks at him.
LYRIC: We’re not in Victorian London, we’re in my illiterate little brother’s idea of what Victorian London was like.
LYRIC: OK, let’s start again. Right, can you remember what I was feeling after the 8th round of “Is It a Food” on the coach yesterday?
AMITY: Yes, of course. You were very frustrated and a bit bored.
LYRIC: Right, and why do you think that was?
AMITY: Because we’d been on the coach for ages and you’d lost the last round of “Is it a Food.”
LYRIC: OK. It wasn’t that. How can I put this? Sometimes after the 8th or 9th round of something, or when they’re very tired...
AMITY: Um...are you saying that sometimes other people don’t want to play a game?
LYRIC: Yes!
AMITY: Oh.
CHRONAL enters.
CHRONAL: Hi guys. Amity, want to play a game?
AMITY: Really?
FINESSE enters from the control room.
FINESSE: No time for that.
(CHRONAL beams)
FINESSE: Something’s very wrong. We need to do some damage control on your little brother’s games, Lyric.
LYRIC: What’s he been doing?
WRAITH: Window.
They all go to look.
Here’s what they can see, possibly over a series of panels.
The street immediately in front of the Scribble Pit looks normal - beautiful, green, eco-friendly etc. There’s a letter box on every corner, a few electric cars and plenty of bus stops. The street is clean. Then as they look further away, they’re looking into Dickens’ London. It’s cobbled streets, horse and carts, and people in Victorian clothes walking around.
In between the two towns, there’s a transition space. A modern letter box is half-transformed into an old-fashioned one, a modern woman is looking perplexedly at an old-fashioned man who is offering her his arm from slightly further away.
SHIFT is leafing frantically through a Scheme of Work for the Narrator’s writing course.
SHIFT: Week 17: Historical Fiction.
Back in the street, the Victoriana has now reached the edge of the Scribble Pit. The perplexed modern woman from the previous shot is now in a bustle and walking happily off on the arm of the man.
AMITY (to FINESSE): Will we keep our powers?
FINESSE: I’ll make sure of it.
FINESSE begins to create a protection around the Scribblers.
LYRIC: No need. He can’t take things out of the universe. I can’t.
WRAITH: It’s coming.
SHIFT: Feels different this time.
A wave of movement and reality washes over them, and suddenly the Scribble Pit has been transformed into a Victorian living room.
The Scribblers are now appropriately dressed.
FINESSE looks somewhat matronly, even a little severe. Chronal looks significantly more respectable than the other men - sombre colours, well-cut suit.
Lyric looks younger. Frankly, the only appropriate word is ‘dapper’.
Shift is dressed like a society beauty, in blue.
Wraith is wearing the most nondescript, appropriate suit imaginable. In a Victorian gathering, he would be about as close to invisible as it is possible to be without his unique abilities.
Amity is wearing a red dress that, while appropriate, just verges on gaudy.
SHIFT (who is much less phased by physical change): Oh, blue.
FINESSE: Hmmm, suits you. What am I..? Hold on, why are you dressed for a party and I’m wearing the worst dress I’ve seen this side of the millennium?
AMITY giggles.
AMITY: Check your new memory. You’re married.
CHRONAL: Oh yes, so we are.
SHIFT: Ah. So the boring clothes because Lyric’s illiterate little brother thinks that’s how married people dressed.
LYRIC: You realise this means it’s much worse than we thought?
Everyone looks at him.
LYRIC: We’re not in Victorian London, we’re in my illiterate little brother’s idea of what Victorian London was like.
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