Harvey's Thoughterfall

A potentially regular insight into everything that matters to no one else but me

[thethoughterfall]

Poem: Those that remain Unseen

Amongst the leaves

They hold their breath

Eyes glint, grins twitch

Every hushed giggle

A secret kept

Every whisper

Tender malice

As the forest sleeps

Drowning in quiet

Submerged in a peace

Broken only by the sounds

You’d pretend not to hear

Their laughter is the wind

Cold and biting

Mockery blowing through the leaves

Their breathe is autumn

Before it, all life withers

All heat drains

Summer ends

On nimble wings

And fleeting wishes

They move amongst the trees

Blurred to the eyes of men

Darting from shadow to shadow

Making games of the lives

Of those caught in between

All things are their toys

They delight in their play

Fearful of only boredom

They play alone, or as a swarm

Moving as one mind

Stalking amongst stoic trees

Hunting those

That they sense in the wind

Silent feet, filed nails

No reason amongst them

Just joyous wrath

Creeping, sneering

Revelling in the sport

Their prey unaware

To all but the feeling

That nothing is as it should be

Danger is all around

Ever closer

But out of sight

Every instinct begging them to run

Just as those that remain unseen

Beg them to make it a game

[thethoughterfall]

The Zone

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have quite a story to tell. Buckle up.

So, my dad and my brother are currently away on holiday, on a cruise to New York for around two weeks. Being the helpful soul that I am, I decided to venture home for the time being and look after our dogs, or to have them look after me, as they would probably have you believe. Believe me when I say that nothing destroys your confidence quite like a black Labrador looking at you as if you're doing nothing but endangering yourself. All the time. 

Anyway, this altruistic plan on mine involved me journeying home from Glasgow back down to the south west of Scotland, a journey I have done so many times now that I could do it in my sleep. I thought.

Since I was going down for the best part of a week, I had to take two suitcases. Being a student, I don't consider myself truly unpacked until I've filled the washing machine with my laundry. Two cases of it may seem excessive, I grant you, but clearly you've never seen the price of washing at student halls. 

My friend went with me to the station and we sat and waited for the platform announcement together. The 1627 for Ayr was soon revealed to be leaving from platform 11. So off I skipped, suitcases in tow, beyond the ticket barriers and outside the awaiting carriages as they were readied for their next journey. As a habit, I tend to ask another passenger if I'm at the right train. "I hope it's the train for Ayr," the kindly woman I asked replied, "because that's where I'm going." We chuckled about that and then lapsed into silence. The chances that we had both shown up at the wrong platform were highly unlikely. I thought.

So I get on the train, find a seat and put in my head phones. I watch the first few stops pass by, the same ones as usual. Only, once I look up and see that I'm at an unfamiliar place. One called Stevenston. That's not on the route home. Why was I doing there? I mean, what are any of us doing anywhere? 

Petrol was poured on the needlessly existential fire when the next stop was Saltcoats, another unfamiliar station. At this station I was in time to take out my earphones and hear that this train I was on was not bond for Ayr, but rather Largs.

Stress ensued.

My train ticket seemed to take the brunt of it, my agitated hands scrunching up the piece of papery plasticy stuff.

Upon arriving in Largs, in the rain, with two suitcases and a potentially very limited time to get to where I needed to go, I raced to the ticket booth to ask for advice. I was referred back to the train that I had just gotten off, and told to get a connection at a town called Kilwinning, the last stop that I had recognised before my life was ruined.

Managing to sort everything out with the person meant to be meeting me at the other end through hurried and panicked phone calls relieved a lot of the stress, so I was able to calm down mostly.

Then the train pulled into the chaos storm that is Kilwinning Station. Now, this is not a big station, it has only four platforms, and nor does it get particularly busy. The problem was very much in the timing of the arrivals of the trains.

My train pulled into platform 1, and I stepped onto the platform with all my luggage and looked off into the direction of Glasgow and saw the headlights of a train approaching. I felt in my guts, in the very depths of my stomach, that that was the train I needed to be on. Luckily I only needed to cross the bridge above me and get onto platform 2. I thought.

Now, I'm not particularly strong, but I managed to heft all of my luggage across the bridge without dropping anything or having to slow down. Although, I'm not strong enough that it didn't hurt a bit when I dropped everything when I got down to platform 2. You could search far and wide, but I doubt you would ever be able to find someone as scrawny as me.

So, with aching arms and no breath, I landed on platform 2, in time to see the train I was getting swing round and pull into platform 4. I died inside.

Grasping up my suitcases, I charged across to platform 3, my heart telling me to give up the second it took into account the second bridge that I would have to cross to make it to 4. My arms quivered like pathetic twigs in a strong wind, my breathing burned. I was going to miss this train.

Then I entered "The Zone".

The Zone is a magical place (and a pretty obscure reference). When within the Zone, a person can push aside every single distraction and allow their body to achieve 100% of their physical potential. I decided I was getting on that train, or I was at least going to die in the process of trying.

With all my pain and wimpishness forgotten for the moment, I hefted up my cases once more and charged up the bridge. Half way across, I met the people that had just disembarked from the train I was intending to get on. Being a nice guy I would normally slow down and make sure I didn't hit anyone with my cases. This was not that day. I moved through the crowd, shouting a couple of apologies over my shoulder as I went. I charged back down the stairs and landed on platform 4...

...just as the train doors started to close.

With one last burst of strength, I leapt for the door, throwing the larger of my suitcases into the closing gap. Somehow, my case bounced off the door, causing it to begin to open again and giving me just enough time to slip inside.

And that was that. I was on the right train. Never had I been gladder for a sit down in my entire life. The ticket inspector passed through my carriage and did a double take when he saw mine, peering closer to look at the dates.

"It looks pretty old for one that was bought today," he mentioned, apologising for doubting me. I couldn't blame him, I had tortured it so much with my nervous hands I was surprised that it was still in one piece.

"Yeah," I replied, "We've been through a lot together."

Thanks for reading! See you next time! 

[thethoughterfall]

Short Story: Trouble

It was scary just how often history was willing to repeat itself.

            Meredith was six. Very young, but very bright. She sang well, her high voice gentle and soothing. Her auburn hair fell in untamed ringlets to her shoulders. Her smile made the sun seem dim and summer seem cold. She loved to dance more than anything. She even attended a dancing class in the town hall every fourteenth day. Her mother was shot and killed by a stranger, one of many raiding Springwell.

The cycle began.

            Meredith was seven and a half, one of the youngest survivors of the second raid. The other children her age that weren’t killed were stolen. Nobody attended her dancing class anymore, now they taught self-defence. Once, she was good at dancing. Now she was good at hiding. She practised hiding more than anything else, especially when her father was drinking. He said it was the only way he could forget about her mother. He used to tell Meredith that she had her mother’s hair and eyes. He said it with a sneer.

            Meredith was ten and her eyes were blackened by bruises. The third raid had been months before, but the flu that had crept in after had sapped the remaining strength out of Springwell. Her father had survived the raid and the flu, but was taken by his own rebelling liver. He remained spiteful up until the very last breath. Meredith found that, as she stood beside his grave in the ever expanding cemetery, no tears were falling from her bruised eyes.

            Meredith was sixteen and had watched her hometown crumbled after decades of torment. A veteran of the raids that plagued Springwell, she barely gave each stolen life a moment of grief. The town was hardening, storing itself within its shell like a tortoise. The raids were regular now, but they no longer took it with bowed heads. The people of Springwell, the few that remained, fought back. Like cornered animals they snapped and clawed at the invaders. Sometimes, they even won.

            Meredith was eighteen and the town of Springwell was finally broken. A raid had come, far larger than any faced before. Those that battled against it were cut down by rifle fire and cutlass. The cemetery was long since full. The corpses left to rot in the desert sun. Vultures circled overhead, knowing it was only a matter of time before a meal would be presented to them. For the first time in years, Meredith cried. Not tears of sadness, tears of anger.

            Meredith was twenty-six and found a job as a bar maid in the Springwell Tavern. She counted the days in between each raid on her fingers, each new one causing her to clench her fists and restart the count. The cycle was nearing full circle. One afternoon, she heard the approaching engines of the men she had been raised to fear. She cleaned a tankard with a dirty cloth but put aside her work for the time being. Casting her eyes around the dark tavern she saw beaten old men, sagging shoulders and quaking bones. The saloon doors were pushed open, and in the raiders walked.

            The cycle was nearing full circle.

            It was scary just how often history was willing to repeat itself.

              “First, empty your pockets,” a gold tooth glinted in the shafts of arid sunlight that reached through the smoke-fogged windows, “and nobody try anything stupid, alright?”

            At his command the patrons of the Springwell tavern began to put their belongings in front of them on the table, never raising their eyes. Eye contact was a challenge. The only people who won challenges were the ones with their fingers curled around triggers.

            Five had entered the tavern. Gold Tooth was almost a regular, although his true name was yet to be discovered. If the glinting metal in his mouth wasn’t enough to identify him, his trademark behaviour of sadism and torture would soon enough mark him. The four others were just nameless gun barrels. They swung their shotguns in all directions, hurrying already shaking hands. Outside, the first shots were fired, accompanied by screams. Meredith breathed slowly, supressing the fear. It could only be summer for so long before winter returned. In truth, she had felt this coming.

            “The pretty girl behind the bar,” her breathing caught in her throat as Gold Tooth spoke directly to her, “How do you fancy leaving this shallow grave and spending your life as my bed-warmer?” The other four men laughed. Vomit rose in the back of Meredith’s throat. She swallowed it and remained quiet. A minute’s more warning and she could have hidden herself. She was getting slower.

            “Are you refusing my generous offer?” Gold Tooth asked, pulling a revolver from a holster on his belt, “Don’t worry, I understand. I’m not a monster. I see that you’re just loyal to your current employer. I’ll take care of all that right now.” There was a bang. Beside her, Gerard, the owner of the tavern, fell like dirt dropped on a funeral casket. His face still showed fear. It was not a look that anybody should die with. “What do you say now, barmaid?”

            A fleck of blood had landed on her cheek. Strangely, it helped her find her voice, “I would rather that you killed me now.” She raised her eyes to look straight at his. She noticed that she was taller than him.

            The need to fight back rose in her once again, something that she hadn’t felt for years. She saw the outrage in his eyes. The glinting of his metal tooth stopped as his smile receded and his lips covered it once again. He had an ugly face. Unshaven and scarred. His nose was broken and half of his left ear was missing. Such injuries were common in the dessert. He wore heavy clothes, faded by the strong sunlight. His boots thudded on the creaking floorboards of the tavern as he strode forward.

            Meredith didn’t wait for him. She moved calmly from behind the bar. Everyone was quiet now, but not a soul was staring at their own feet. She felt their fear for her. These were the people that had watched out for her since she was a little girl. Since before even the raids had begun. Her actions here might get them all killed. Still, as much as they feared, they had started to hope as well. She could feel it in the air. If Gold Tooth couldn’t it would be his undoing.

            “What makes you think that you can talk to your betters like that, girl?” He barked, standing so that his rancid breath assaulted her face.

            “I see no man in here better than the one that was just pointlessly killed,” she said.

            Gold Tooth laughed, “Women are such sentimental creatures. So caring and maternal. It really makes me sick. Still, I know how to knock it out of you. I’ve done it before, you know. I don’t know for sure where you mean it when you asked me to kill you, but you will wish I had by the time I’ve had my way with you.”

            “You’re not laying a hand on me,” her fingers twitched, readying.

            “Not just me,” Gold Tooth sneered, “my men as well.”

            He lashed out with his hand, but Meredith grabbed it at the wrist and sidestepped. Once, she had loved to dance. She had even attended lessons in the town hall with other girls her age. When the raids started, the dance lessons were replaced by self-defence. She had never missed a single lesson. Strangely, she found the two biggest loves of her life to be quite similar.

            She spun, light on her feet, and pulled Gold Tooth with her. He was heavier, so overbalancing him required a kick to his ankles. He let go of his revolver to break his fall with his free hand. The heel of her boot broke his fingers as she twisted his captive arm upwards and behind his back. She picked up the revolver and pulled him up, exulting in his gasps of pain. She pressed the barrel against his skull.

            “Make one mover and I…” She was about to ransom off Gold Tooth, but as she turned to the rest of the tavern she saw that everything had changed. There had been at least three times as many patrons as there had been raiders. They had seen her attack and used it as a distraction. The practice of fighting back had been stopped, but the methods remembered. The raiders fell one after the other, none of the four pulling their triggers in time to save themselves.

            “You’re climbing into your own casket,” Gold Tooth’s tone had lost a lot of its confidence, “I promise you trouble for this. More than you thought possible. You’ll die, girl. And you wrinkled men.”

            Meredith laughed as the patrons turned to her, “You promise me trouble? I promise you ruin.”

            She pulled the trigger and felt his body go limp as her arm was pulled by the recoil of the pistol. She dropped his body and searched the pockets. She took every scrap of weaponry, ammunition and anything she considered valuable. When she was done she saw that the patrons has scavenged what they could from the other gunners.

            “Do we go out and fight?” One asked, the gunshots from outside punctuating his question.

            Meredith sighed, “Not this time. From now on, we only fight battles that we can win. We sit this one out in here, then we assemble whoever is left and prepare them for the next time. Agreed?”

            “Agreed,” they said as one, with heavy hearts. Meredith wanted nothing more than to rush out and help the good people of Wellspring, but knew it would be throwing her life away. Life had taught her that nobody could be saved. Now, she was ready to try teaching a few lessons of her own.

            The cycle was broken.

              It was scary just how often history was willing to repeat itself.

            Meredith was fifty-six, cleaning the dust off the tavern with a clean white rag. The tavern was full past capacity. The seats had ran out long before the patrons had stopped coming in. Springwell celebrated with music and laughter. Meredith’s grandchildren danced on a specially built stage, while her first son played fiddle for them.

            Three men strode in through the saloon doors, silencing the music. The leader drew out a gun and shouted to the assembled town, “Alright folks, this town belongs to me now. Anyone who says otherwise is going to trouble that we brought with us.”

            Everyone looked to Meredith, who drew out a revolver that had belonged to the last man that truly threatened her and clicked off the safety, “Sorry dear, but trouble was here a long time before you were.”  

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Thanks for reading! 

See ya next time!!!!

[thethoughterfall]

The Inevitable Steven Moffat Rant

Before I start, I suppose I should make some concessions so I don't seem like some sort of unjustified jerk.

First of all, I realise that being the head writer for a show like doctor who must be a highly pressurized work environment and the need to keep a fifty year old show new and interesting must be fairly difficult.

I'm not speaking as an expert in this, just an avid fan. My opinion is just that. Opinion. Conjecture. Maybe even pointless. But still, here we go.

Dear Steve,

I would like it to be known that this rant wasn't a recent idea of mine. It's been in the background for a while, churning and boiling like molten jam made out of venom and contrived plots. Every time you've done something to make me feel the need to write this, I've suppressed it and kept my opinions to myself. Why? Because every so often, you are an amazing writer. You have written some of my favourite episodes and done the show proud on so many occasions. Here's the thing, though. Because of this, I was prepared to never write this rant.

Then you not only wrote, not only produced, but actually AIRED the episode that you called 'Listen'.

I realise of course that in every series it is necessary to have an episode that can be produced in a very low budget in order to ensure the other episodes can all take up as much money as they want. Clearly, that was this episode, and I have no problem with small scale episodes. They can be refreshing and fun. You chose to make this one scary, which was perfectly acceptable. You spent the first half of the episode building up a brilliant atmosphere and creating one of the scariest moments of Doctor Who that I have ever seen. Where your logic starts to fail, at least in my eyes, is in your decision to abandon every plot line that you started half way through and drastically change the plot of the episode. You had a scary location (the orphanage), you had a scary setting (night time) and you had a terrifying monster (whatever was hiding underneath the blanket). You had all the makings of a brilliant episode, but you didn't need those, did you? Why not just change it all, although throw in enough tenuous connections so that it seems as if it's still the same episode. Better yet, why not make one of the show's best moments, not just of this particular series but possibly ever, and make it into the biggest gaping plot hole ever? How could a script have gotten past the first draft without such a glaring fault being noticed and taken out? If there was never anything to be afraid of, what was hiding underneath the blanket. (I'm well aware that this makes no sense unless you've seen the episode but bare with me.) I'm well aware of the fact that you're probably going to turn around at the season finale and have a perfectly good reason to fill in the plot hole and patch up all the cracks, but if the singular episodes have to suffer for the sake of the over-arcing plot line then that's a sign that your over-arcing plot line isn't that good. It's great to have a mystery in each series, but it's better to be able to watch every episode and get a complete story from each one.

This is just one of many examples how I feel that Moffat falls down as head writer. He sets up these incredible and ingenious mysteries that are so intriguing that the fans can't help but be drawn in, before never revealing the answer to these mysteries. Case and point, the Doctor's name. Such a big deal was made about what the name of the doctor really was, when it was never particularly important to the show. It was only important, because it was made to seem important, blown well out of proportion to the point where nothing would be a good enough answer. By the end of that plot, no name that was given to the Doctor would have been good enough to satisfy the audience or justify all the noise that was being made. The mystery of the name was built up to be some sort of massive impassable wall that the plot kept running into, but at the end they just tunnelled under it and the mystery was 'solved' purely because the plot had progressed. Another example of this is Moffat's other highly popular TV show, Sherlock. The second season ended with Sherlock's apparent suicide (symbolic for him falling over the Reichenbach falls) but as it turned out he was so clever that he had managed to trick everyone and survive. The fan base nearly drove themselves insane trying to think up the method he used to fake his death. The third series started with him resuming his life from where it left off, giving multiple possible tricks he could have pulled in order to survive, all of which were discredited while the true manoeuvre is still unknown. At times within the show, the fan base were openly mocked and depicted as conspiracy theorists. As you might expect, how Sherlock survived his seemingly perilous but temporary suicide is still unknown. The mystery was merely 'solved' because Sherlock was back and there was a new mystery to solve.

I realise that I'm coming across as the world's biggest nerd, it's just that I feel very strongly about Doctor Who (not so much Sherlock after season 3). It's one of my favourite things and you systematically ruin it.

Still, I feel my blood no longer boiling, so I'll stop this. I never really wanted to write anything like this, writing is a tough job and I don't even do it professionally.

Still, let's just all count ourselves lucky that I didn't get started on 'Deep Breath.'

Until next time, see ya! 

[thethoughterfall]

Short Story: The Graveyard Shift

"Good evening, sir," the waitress chirped like a dying bird, eyes focused solely on the notepad in her hands and never straying, "What can I do for you?"

"What's the coffee here like?" Vence asked.

She looked up from her notepad and shrugged, "Warm," she said neutrally

"Just warm?" He screwed up his face, "that's a shame, I was really looking for something in the scalding vicinity."

"Are you going to order, or..." She let the question trail off, pencil still poised at the top of the pad.

"My apologies I'll have some of that coffee. Extra warm, if you can muster the enthusiasm," Vence smiled as she scribbled down his order, spun on her heel and walked back behind the diner's counter.

Outside, the rain still fell, distorting the light from from the street lamps outside. At the border of the diner's car park, a tall neon sign flashed brightly, declaring twenty-four hours of service a day and a warm welcome. The car park was empty, as was the diner bar Vence and the waitress. Perhaps she had been disappointed that someone had interrupted an otherwise silent shift. Vence's unrelenting cheerful disposition didn't seem to be catching on.

He watched with an amused grin as she wrestled with a monstrous coffee machine. It groaned and shuddered as the tepid beverage leaked through the filters and into the mug at the bottom of the machine. When the mug was full she took it dutifully, albeit begrudgingly, back to Vence's table. She offered it to him, holding it by the handle. He put his hand around the circumference of the mug, the coffee barely warm enough to let off steam, never mind burn him.

"In all my years, I have never encountered a machine that makes exclusively cold cups of coffee," he said as he took the first sip.

"The machine's broken," she spoke with an almost forceful apathy.

"You don't say," he remembered he was yet to pay," How much will this set me back?"

"Three dollars," her voice was blunt and unapologetic.

"For a cold cup of coffee?" He was momentarily incredulous, a departure from his usual relaxed demeanour.

"For a cold cup of coffee," she agreed, holding out a hand to take his money. A smile returned to his face as he passed over the change from his pocket. "Why do you do that?" The sudden question caught him off guard. 

"Do what?"

"Smile. At everything," having to explain herself only seemed to worsen her mood.

His grin grew as it was mentioned, his white teeth flashing in the light of the diner's power saving bulbs, "This smile," he momentarily widened it for emphasis, "is the common cold of smiles. It's highly contagious and there is no known cure. I am yet to smile at someone and have them not smile back. I count it as a personal duty of mine to spread happiness and make the world a better place."

"You're not making me any happier," she commented dryly.

His mood shifted suddenly, the smile remained, but a glimmer darker than before, "Well that's because you're dead inside. Rotten to the core. Like an apple being eaten by worms. Actually, not an apple, but still dead inside. It thought it was a natural evolution of the 'rotten to the core' line, but now I wish I'd never said it. Sorry, I'm waffling."

The waitress' body language changed suddenly. Now alert, her eye's narrowed, "What are you saying?"

"Just that you're not as good at hiding as you would like to think," his smile deepened as he said the following words, her name, although they had never been introduced, "Lireen, the poisoner."

Curiously, she didn't run, "That's strange, I didn't catch your name."

"Didn't mean to be rude," he extended a hand that she refused to shake, "My name is Lyall Howard, although ever since I was graced they call me Vence, the Favoured."

Lireen sat down in the chair on the other side of the table, studying him with new interest, "Have they honestly stooped so low that they've graced some hapless moron and tricked him into doing their bidding?" She gave a small laugh, one of very few signs that she actually felt emotion. 

He joined in with her amusement, before cutting it short by saying, "Actually, I graced to take care of Shazar the Corrupter. Since then I've dealt with Tol the Uncivil, Grolton Blueblood, Silent Biran, and Jisdrae the Stalker. In truth, the list goes on and on. Don't worry, I wont bore you with all of them. In truth, I've probably started to forget most of them."

"So then, what am I?" She seemed personally offended that he hadn't been graced specifically to kill her.

"You're the graveyard shift,," he smiled apologetically, "I'm here, because no one more dangerous is taking up this slot in my schedule."

"So, Lyall," she said his true  name with enough venom to justify her namesake, "You're here to kill me, a refugee, in cold blood?"

"Please ma'am," his tone was even and polite, "While I'm on duty my name is Vence. Also, we both know that 'refugee' isn't quite right. More like fugitive. Finally, to answer your question, yes I am here to kill you."

"You may find that difficult, since you'll be the first to die."

Vence frowned, perplexed, "How are you going to kill me? All you've done is..." he turned his gaze to the cup of stone cold coffee resting on the table between them, remembering the single sip he had taken, "serve me coffee. Of course, poison from Lireen the poisoner. Let's just hope I live long enough to applaud your originality."

"I would have though a man that prided himself on wearing a smile would be more gracious in the face of defeat. And imminent death," she sat back, basking in her victory.

"Why don't we wait until I'm defeated before we go making assumptions?" Vence suggested, noting an insidious numbness within his joints. The temperature in the diner had seemed to drop drastically.

She laughed, "Here is the truth of the matter, Vence the Favoured.  You are of this world, I am of my own. I have at my disposal an arsenal of substances designed for no other purpose than to cause agony and then death. Not one of them is from your pitiful, cotton-wool wrapped hell-hole and no amount of research could lead you to make a diagnosis in time for you to-"

"Soul Freeze," he interjected.

"Her monologue stumbled to a stop, "I beg your pardon?"

"Soul Freeze. It's what you poisoned me with," he informed her as if she didn't already know. 

Lireen was dumbfounded, "I have one thousand and eighty-four unique poisons."

"Indeed you do," he agreed, "maybe it would be harder to tell which was which if they weren't quite so unique." The numbness was apparent all over his body now, the cold that he was feeling seizing up his joints. Still, he endeavoured to maintain a pleasant smile.

"How could you tell so quickly?"

Summoning great effort, he shrugged, "The coffee machine isn't broken, Soul Freeze just saps the heat from whatever you put it in. The fact you put it in a hot drink was a complete give away. Next time, put it in a milkshake or something. Oh wait, there won't be a next time."

She raised an eyebrow, "You realise that you've still ingested highly toxic coffee, right?"

He nodded once, "An oversight on my part, I'll admit. My hopes are resting on you reciting the antidote enchantment. If my facts are straight the only cure is for you to do some sort of magic chant. Then, presto! My life is saved."

"And why would I do that for-" As she spoke, he rallied the last of his strength  from his paralysed arms and snatched up his mug, throwing the coffee all over Lireen. The dark brown liquid splashed all over her body, staining her uniform and splattering her face and exposed skin. For a moment they were both silent, Vence trying to ignore the pain in his arm. 

"Would I be right in thinking that exposing your skin to Soul Freeze is just as bad as drinking it?" His was the voice of innocence, "And that you have an awful lot more of it on your body than I have in my stomach. Now, I'm no expert, but I would say you've got barely a minute before your jaw freezes shut and you can't say the antidote."

Lireen fell silent for a second, her mind trying to find a solution that would cure her but leave Vence poisoned. Because the antidote was administered verbally, it worked on anyone that could hear. Even if she whispered, at this distance he would still be able to make out every word she said. She had underestimated him considerably. The hundreds of years that she had spent trying to teach her art, not one of her disciples had grown to half the skill of this obnoxious mortal. Without knowing her life depended on it, she had been beaten at her own game. Already her body was cold and numb, ice crystals forming on her skin as the Soul Freeze advanced to its final stage.

Through gritted teeth and a seizing jaw she said, "Poison within, my word is law, flesh shall heal, soul shall thaw." 

Immediately the cold fell away from them both, the effects of the Soul Freeze melting away like ice in boiling water. Now that their bodies were cured they slumped back in their chairs.

"That was a nice antidote," complimented Vence, "I like how it rhymed."

"Spare me your gloating," Lireen spat, "You won. Now kill me. Show me the gift that you were given to hunt me down with."

"Show you the gift? That's actually a funny story. As I'm sure you know, when people like me get graced, as a reward we get one wish granted. I was told that most people used their wish to ensure their survival, they would ask for a weapon or power or something like that. But I thought to myself, 'When am I ever going to get a chance like this ever again?' So I wished for the one thing that I ever really wanted. I wished to be happy. Hence the common cold smile."

"So how do you plan on killing me?" Lireen folded her arms defensively and narrowed her eyes.

"Nothing simpler. When you came from your world to mine you made yourself mortal. Now, although that's a foreign concept you should have had time to familiarise yourself with it. Why would I wish for some mystical weapon to kill you, when there were plenty I could use already in my possession?" From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a revolver.

"That's how you're going to do it?" She asked, incredulous, "I poison you with an ancient venom made to freeze you from the inside out and you're just going to shoot me?"

He ignored her protests, clicking off the pistol's safety, raising it to point the barrel at her and smiling all the while, "Thanks for the coffee, but I'm going to go ahead and keep the tip."

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Thanks for reading!

See you next time!

[angsfordays]

Logo I did for my friend’s facebook page project, check him out yo :D https://www.facebook.com/readingretreat?fref=ts

[thethoughterfall]

Another piece of beautiful work that's good friend made for me as help for a college product. It's awesome :)

[thethoughterfall]

Fringe: Feel-good Nightmare Fuel

When I first subscribed to the life swallowing service of Netflix, one of the first shows that I discovered was Fringe. A show that seamlessly blended the conventional crime drama that is highly popular today (things like CSI and NCIS and Law and order and the list that just seems to go on and on) with pretty much every horror movie ever. 

I've spent my life avoiding horror, based on the fact that they tend to be what I would refer to as, 'spooky scary'. Some people take immense enjoyment in being scared. I don't. I take immense enjoyment from not being scared. As far as I'm concerned, not being scared is pretty much the best thing ever. So, even I was surprised when I took a liking to this show. 

Fringe centres around an FBI agent named Olivia Dunham, who is called in to investigate a series of mysterious incidents that usually involve some mentally scarring anomalous mystery. What kind of mystery, you ask? Well, it ranges from, "Why did all of these people just sort of... melt?" to "How did this man get stuck in a wall?" and let's not forget "Dear lord, how many animal species just sort of stitched together IS that?" It tends to be things that logic can't explain, but science can. One particular field of science. Fringe science.

Yes, the more astute of you readers will have worked out where the show gets its title from. Fringe science, or at least my understanding of fringe science, is formed of concepts that in theory are possible, but just not possible yet. That sounds confusing, but its pretty much just ideas that have featured in science fiction throughout the years, achieved through conventional science methods. As with all scientific developments, it takes a great amount of testing to ensure that the research can progress correctly, and it's in these early, unpredictable stages, that things usually go wrong and awful, AWFUL things happen. These incidents that are subject to investigation all connected by what is referred to cryptically as the Pattern. It just so happens that Olivia has to solve the puzzle of the Pattern and save the world. Fringe is awesome, guys.

So, how does she do it? With help, of course, but first let me tell you more about Olivia. Olivia Dunham is an accomplished FBI agent, with a photographic memory and a shining record. With a tortured childhood secretly haunting her, she strives to enforce the law and ensure justice is dealt. She is strong, capable, and just generally kicks ass.

In order to help identify each of the fringe events, she gets help from the leading expert. The literally mad scientist, Walter Bishop. Back before being confined to an asylum, Walter had his fingers dipped in many controversial and scientifically sketchy pies. In an unfortunate twist of fate, these experiments would come back to haunt him, the nature of the fringe events often seems centred around work that he did back in his darker glory days.

Keeping his insane, self medicating father in check, Peter Bishop also takes a part in the team. A prodigal son with an intellect almost as vast as his father, he lead a life of mild crime before helping with the events. With a shady past, and plenty of reasons to run from it, he takes the role of reluctant hero more often than not. Peter is pretty awesome too. 

The final member is Astrid, a government assigned lab assistant who has a particular flare for code breaking. Overworked and under appreciated, she is my favourite character. 

They also have a cow called Gene. For milk. And experiments. 

Although the plot of the show is tied together with horrific freak accidents and grotesque deaths, it's the relationships between the characters that seem to push it all to the side and make it not seem so bad. Well, most of it. The bat/tiger/worm/wasp monster is pretty hard to push to the side. What with its sting and all. But still, the scariness of the show is combated and kept at bay by the genuinely hilarious banter and antics that the four of them, although mostly Walter, get up to. 

The show seems to run the danger of becoming fairly formulaic, although the plots tend to differ largely from one episode to the next. The only part that could be considered predictable is the opening scenes, and that's only because you just know that something horrendous is about to happen. If it didn't, there wouldn't be an episode. 

There is no doubt that this show is nightmare fuel, but its very difficult to deny that it is also very quirky and charming. Although, I would also have to admit that the humour is probably an acquired taste, but the darkness just sort of tickles me. 

I would recommend this show to most people. Hey, if you can make it through the opening scene, you've usually made it through the worst of it. 

Until next time, see you later!

[thethoughterfall]

Poem: Currently Unnamed :(

I’m born in the most

Unexpected of moments,

Sometimes in the midst of a fight,

In the moment when all hatred

Dissolves like salt in pure water,

I’ve been known to appear

In the eye of storms

Where the world shrinks

To the eye of a needle

And I am the thread of hope

That holds against the winds,

You may have seen me

On heart monitor screens,

Punctuating the unknown

And beating with enough intensity

To hurl blood through

A body worth of veins,

So what am I to you?

Perhaps nothing at all,

More than likely unfamiliar,

But I’m there

And you know me

Better than you think,

There are worlds between us

But you still hear my whispers,

There are walls around us

But you still feel my light

As it falls on your skin,

I am the fresh winter air

You suck in through your teeth

On the coldest morning you remember,

I’m the blue behind the overcast,

I don’t rain down

Until the clouds finally part,

I’m the echoes that follow the roar

Of the crowd that surround you

As you roar with them,

I’m the step you thought was there

As you climbed the stairs in the dark,

I’m the heart beat that skips

When your lover holds out their hand,

The second glance

At an old friend on the street,

The hushed giggles

With your childhood sweetheart,

The revving of the engine

As you floor the accelerator,

The flight path of the cork

As it sails from the champagne bottle,

I am the first domino to fall

And the last one to be knocked over,

The chain reactions in between

Rush over my skin

Like joyous lightening

And bring the shine to my eyes,

Sometimes you may feel

As though you’ve burned out

Or lost your way,

But I’ve seen sparks far dimmer

Spread like embers over kindling,

Every atom in your body,

Every molecule that completes you,

Travelled millions of years

To be a part of yourself,

Within you are the elements of a sun,

So don’t look up at the stars

And wish your life away to be one,

Because you already have been,

So now you can go on

And do far greater things,

If you ever feel extinguished

Strike the phosphorous once more

And marvel as the life flares

At the tip of your fingers,

When you worry about what has been,

Think back instead

On the intense warmth,

The journey that it took,

For all the pieces of the puzzle

To fall into place perfectly

Wonderfully

Inevitably

To make you,

And know that everything from now on

Is just a bonus.

[angsfordays]

Commission for my chum Harvey at http://thethoughterfall.tumblr.com/

[thethoughterfall]

pretty snappy if I do say so myself

[thethoughterfall]

This Past Year

So I find myself at the bottom of a deep spiral comprised of boredom and a complete lack of productivity. It must be time for a blog post. 

As well as the bottom of that nasty sounding spiral, I also find myself at the end of my first year of college, the start of the summer break. A year ago I had just finished school, exams and a generally wasted year due to illness. Looking back over the time since then is like trying to pick out details in a blurred image. It only feels like a week since I moved up to Glasgow and sat in my first class of college. Although it all seems to have taken place within a matter of hours, I've probably developed more as a person than I ever have in the rest of my life. 

I mean, I've done things that I never really thought I would do. I spent a year cooking for myself without giving myself food poisoning, although there was one incident with a piece of chicken that could only be considered a near miss. True to my second blog post, I'm still too scared to (knowingly) tackle raw poultry. My culinary skills are still very much undeveloped, though. Most of the recipes that I follow start with, "Remove cardboard sleeve and pierce film lid." Still though, I'm (sort of) healthy and not skin and bones. I'll learn to cook properly when pizza and ready meals go extinct. 

I've been lucky enough to discover my pure passion for writing. I've always wanted to be a writer, but its only in this past year that I've created a story that I have become completely dedicated to. Characters that I love and a plot that surprises me every time I think up a new detail. For the first time in my life I have written for a prolonged period that could almost be called 'disciplined'. That's sort of gone to hell recently, but that's why I'm not a professional, yet. For the first time in my life I have seen the ambition and the dream that I have been chasing lain out before me, practically within arms reach. Writing thrills me, but the idea that it could be shared with other people thrills me even more. I've met other writers, both enthusiastic amateurs and published professionals, and learn about the industry that I desperately want to be a part of. On occasion I've written short stories, based on flashes of inspiration I would normally dismiss or snap shots of larger works that I look forward to expanding upon in the future. Something I've always wanted to do is have a little notebook full of stories and ideas, a creative space where I would be able to jot anything down. I have that now, although its only a third of the way through. The short stories that you've read on here were all born in those A5 lined pages. It's gotten to a point where I can now confidently say that "I am a writer" when asked and feel no intimidation when entering into competitions, which I have recently done for the first time. 

This blog (the Thoughterfall as I now regret calling it when I people ask me what its called and they never hear properly and then give me a strange look and I have to explain and why couldn't I have just given it a real name?) is another product of this year. Although I don't think I use it enough, I love having a space where I can rave about absolutely anything and write literally what comes to mind at the time. When I sat down to write this, I was going to write another review of something or other, but then this happened instead. In particular, I love writing the pseudo-not-quite-reviews on TV shows and Anime. It feels great to be able to give a (kind of) structured analysis on what makes me love something and then getting to shout it out across the internet. It doesn't matter to me whether anyone acts based on my recommendations, the fact that how I feel about someone is universally documented amuses me. I like to think in a few millennia, some sort of internet archaeologist will find my post about Emmerdale and just be really confused.

So, that's pretty much it. I felt like I would have more to write about, but here we are. At the end. It's been fun, but the spiral has ended and I feel productive again. The first of the dominoes has fallen... and now I want pizza why did I mention dominoes?

Who am I kidding? I always want pizza.

Now the first year of my true independence is over, there is nothing to do now but enjoy the heavy and freezing summer rain and move back home. Shit.

There's more stuff on the way, I'm just not sure what about and I'm not sure when it will happen. Trust me, I live in Scotland. There's always clouds on the horizon.

Until next time guys, be seeing you!

[thethoughterfall]

Short Story: Lucid

           There would come a time when it stopped being a dream and started being a problem, but for now it was sweet enough to relax and enjoy. The brief time where everything was a pleasant blur. How could anything sinister lurk in an impressionist world of rounded edges? It was always as things gained definition that horror began to seep in.

            This wasn’t a new dream, either. He had been here before, sat at the head of his dining room table with his family seated around him. On the table in between them lay a roasted turkey, carving fork stabbed into the meat. Everyone wore their finest clothes and brightest smiles. This wasn’t his family as he knew them now, this was as he had known them then. His parents were depicted as they were seen in his earliest memories.

            “Why save the girl?”

            The voice didn’t come from any of his family. It echoed around the dining room, although nobody else seemed to hear it. Their jokes and giggles went on uninterrupted but he couldn’t quite catch what they were laughing about. They seemed as if they were talking in slow motion.

            The voice was coming from over his shoulder, he could sense a shadow creeping at the very periphery of his senses. There, but invisible. As hidden as it was completely obvious.

            His father turned to face him, his head blurring in the motion but regaining its features as it grew still.

            “…Hector…”

            Among the garbled mess of what was spoken, the only one of his father’s words that he could make out was his own name. His father motioned towards the turkey (Or was it some other kind of bird? Perhaps a goose?) and Hector knew that he was meant to carve it.

            He reached out with his right hand, but it was the arm of a young child. It was too small to reach the roast in the middle of the table. He tried reaching out with his left hand, but it was wrinkled and frail, barely strong enough to lift.

            “Don’t save the girl,” the dark voice and the sense of foreboding that it instilled were the only clear things in the dreamscape.

            The pleasant blurriness was starting to fade, a serrated knife slowly being drawn from a sheath of cotton wool. Detail began to flood the scene around him, bringing with it a feeling of deep, dark unease.

            “Your food is getting cold,” said his father. Dark hair, dark eyes and an earnest smile. All features that he had passed down to his son.

            “I can’t reach,” Hector held up his unmatched arms that looked like they belonged to a grandfather and grandson.

            “Just dream. Dream forever,” the darkness was now encroaching on the very edges of his periphery vision. It must have been right behind him, “Save yourself, not the girl.”

            The food was stone cold. His dinner plate had a crack running straight through the middle. His father still smiled, eve as frustration blossomed I his eyes. His mother’s hands clutched each other and shook fearfully. His sisters, one older and one younger, exchanged nervous glances. The dog whined beneath the table. The bulbs flickered in their fittings overhead. Floorboards elsewhere in the house creaked, despite the fact that everyone that should have been in the home was seated around the table. Everything was wrong now. What had been so familiar a moment ago was now unknown and hostile. An explosion slowed down so that the pattern of the flames could be watched as the bloomed.

            “Something is wrong,” his voice sounded small, even to him. Of course, nothing was right.

            “Dinner is over,” his father’s voice announced the disappearance of the food from the table, the room feeling colder without it. “Go to your room,” his family stood up and turned their back on him. No matter how loud he called they wouldn’t turn back.

            He had known this would happen. It was always just like this. Everyone was happy so long as the details were kept at bay. He had to go to his room now, but to do that he had to turn and look into the darkness. It was all part of the process that took him closer to waking up.

            He stood up with a feeling of detachment and queasiness. The world lurched around him as he rose, a lightness in his head taking over as the darkness reached beyond the edge of his vision. As one, without a word of farewell, his family left the room, not by any door, however. They just vanished, leaving him alone with the unknown threat that was looming behind him. His hands, one young and one old, trembled.

            “You can call them back. Keep dreaming. Dream forever,” was it a hand that Hector felt on his shoulder, or a clawed talon?

            “I can’t,” fear built up inside of Hector like a blocked hose, “I need to wake up. I always need to wake up.”

            “Then you must face me,” came the reply, each word draining a little more light from the room.

            With every instinct screaming not to, but with no choice in the matter, Hector turned around.

            He had known what he would see. He never turned in time to see it properly, he just got glances through the open dining room door of a shifting shadow fleeing up the stairs. He knew without a trace of doubt that the shadow was heading for his bedroom. He would find it just within the door, a pool of darkness clinging to the ceiling. Before that, though, he would have to go through the hall.

            He found himself at the top of the stairs, his mind lacking the memory of climbing them. Ahead of him the hall extended, the nightmare stretching it. Opposite him, his bedroom door diminished in size as it was dragged away. It wasn’t the hallway that he knew anymore. The walls were lined with windows, although it was more like a reptile house than his home.

            At the first window, he saw a metal tree, reaching up from a landscape of riveted brass. The bronzed tree had only one branch, from which a tyre swing swayed in whatever wind blew beyond the glass. In the distance, monolithic gears turned, their noise muted by distance.

            The next showed the inside of a mag-train, although it had been torn apart by some accident. The middle portion of the roof had been torn away, revealing a brown dust cloud that hovered above. The train was deserted, without any sign that a person had been anywhere near it.

            This was followed by a view of how the dream had started, his family sitting around a table laden with an opulent feast of roasted turkey, potatoes and vegetables. The only thing missing from the scene was Hector himself, but the expressions of pure happiness on his family’s faces eluded to the fact that they didn’t miss him. They all laughed at something, the sound muted by the window between them. Despite the smiles that they wore, the sight made him deeply sad, so he moved on.

            The final window showed the happiest day of Hector Killigan’s life. A dusty old chapel found deep within the claustrophobic confines of the Lazarium Automaton, hidden at the bottom of a labyrinth of metal halls. But here, here there was stone and glass and wood. The cold slabs that covered the floor and lined walls managing to cancel out the rumbling of engines, a normally omniscient noise throughout the automaton. The pews were mostly empty, the only ones to witness the wedding were the five witnesses, the masked priest and the motes of dust that glided through the rays of light shining through the windows. As a matter of pride, the chapel had paid to make sure the sunlight was real, just as all chapels within the automaton had done. Although the outer shell of the machine was many miles away, the ventilation shafts contained mirrors in order for the light to be reflected to the very innards of Lazarium. As well as the air that allowed the inhabitants to breath, it also provided the natural light that not all would be lucky enough to feel on their skin. From his position on the other side of the window, Hector watched as he and the love of his life entered from opposite sides of the chapel, both wearing similar masks  to the priest and wearing flowing white robes. The priest stood in his pulpit, rotating a handle round in circles. In turn, this caused a set of gears to turn around, the largest of which formed the front of the pulpit. As te cogs ground together the ray of light shining through the window behind the pulpit moved across the chapel, the gears connecting to a mechanism that altered the angle of the mirror. When the light had travelled from the left of the room to the right, he then pulled a lever that was almost taller than he was. One by one, the shafts of light shining through the side windows all changed direction as well, starting at the back and moving forward. Each one was accompanied by a heavy ‘thunk’, although the scene took place beyond the silent window Hector could remember every moment with perfect clarity. When the light had finally gathered into one pool and even the dust in the air had seemed to grow still, the ceremony started.

            “You can dream like this forever,” the voice returned now that Hector was near his bedroom. It emanated from beyond the flimsy wooden blockade of the door, a malevolent flood being held back by ever thinning barriers, “You can be happy. The girl can die.”

            “If she dies, I die with her,” replied Hector, just as unsure of what the words truly meant as why he was saying them.

            “And lose everything in the process? Save her, and fall to nothing. Just sleep. Let it all blur. You need never wake up.”

            Hector’s right hand wrapped around the door knob, noticing how darkness oozed from the gaps in the frame like a festered wound. He noticed now that his hand was back to how it was in reality. The marriage seal tattooed across its back and his pinky finger an abrupt stump. He checked his left arm and saw that it was no longer old and wrinkled. It was just as he knew it, unblemished compered to its right counterpart, the amber hemisphere of his glass Faith Core glinting from where it was fused into his wrist. Within, clouds of wispy smoke floated, the usual flow of information formless within the dream.

            To wake up, all he had to do was open the door. The darkness was growing aware of this, becoming desperate as its existence was threatened.

            “Don’t open the door,” it screamed, “Let the girl die. Let them all die!” Its voice, which had once seemed to manifest every kind of fear, now sounded scared itself. This turned to anger as Hector’s hand lingered on the door knob, “You fool! You could live like this forever if you left it all alone! You will die at my hand. As will she. As will they all. You had your chance and you chose to ignore it. I can already taste your blood!”

            But suddenly, carving its way from the depths of the tirade like the purest of arrows, came a voice.

            “Help me!” It called, delicate and despairing, uttering the two words that Hector knew he would never be able to refuse.

            He opened the door, finding only a veil of the darkest black where his room should have been. It sucked the air around him inwards, an all-consuming vacuum that made him grasp for the door way to steady himself. The door itself was ripped violently from its hinges and sucked into the dark.

            “You should have kept the door closed!” Called the voice, although it had lost all qualities of intimidation and threat now that Hector was facing it.

            But Hector was no longer paying attention to it, his entire being was focused instead on the tiny shard of light amongst the whirlpool of shadows and disaster.

            “Help me!” She called again.

            “LEAVE HER!” Commanded the voice in the dark.

            Hector took a step back and a deep breath. He felt his breathing restricted and realised for the first time that he was dressed in a dark suit, the tie wrapped too tightly around his neck. He loosened it, pulled it over his head and let it get pulled into the vacuum.

            He was dressed for a funeral.

            Perhaps his own.

            “I’m coming for you!” He shouted as he charged through the doorway, hoping against hope that this really was all just a dream but knowing in his heart that waking up would only be the start of whatever nightmare awaited him in the real world. Still, he couldn’t dream forever. Whatever it was that wanted him to remain asleep forever; whoever was threatening his life and the lives of those he held dear; whoever this girl was that he was throwing himself into an infinite abyss to save…

            He was waking up.

            And he was ready for them all.  

(Note: I don't think this is the last any of us have heard of Hector Killigan or the Lazarium Automaton.)

Thanks for reading! See ya!

[thethoughterfall]

Cake and Salad

So aside from throwing the occasional short story at you its been pretty much radio silence on the old Thoughterfall. That's partially down to my own laziness, but also due to the fact that one story in particular that I'm writing couldn't really be considered a short one. Indeed, some would call it a novel. I spent the month of April writing furiously every day (okay fine NEARLY every day geez get off my back it's hard work) to get to a target that I had set myself and I did and I felt great. But unfortunately my target wasn't to actually finish the thing. Still, I got past the beginning and well into the middle and now I think I might even be getting closer to the end. Which is a scary thought. Realistically, if I worked the same amount as I did last month, finishing would probably be a piece of cake. But the thing about cake is that it's fattening and the best part is the icing. Remember when my blogs used to make sense? Nope, me neither. 

Continuing the food analogies, though, because I want to, I think the reason behind the sudden appeal of short stories to me (I'm currently writing my third, I even dabbled in awkward poetry) is because of how easy they are compared to my larger work. I didn't make as good a job of explaining that as I thought. So, I'll rely on more food analogies.

My novel is cake. It's self-indulgence objectified and I spend all of my free time thinking about it. But this isn't any cake. This is a cake that I made myself, albeit the recipe was made up as I went along. I know every ingredient that I put in there. I studied each one to make sure it would fit in its rightful place within the mix. I sieved the flower so there wouldn't be clumps after baking. I fished out the awkward bits of eggshell that fell in when I cracked them.  When everything was assembled I slid it into the over, then watched as it baked, fretting about bringing it out to soon or leaving it in to long to burn. Currently, and professionally, I'm still making sure that the cake isn't burning, but I'm now passed the stage of worrying about it being raw. 

In stark comparison, short stories are salads. They're light, quick to eat and I feel really virtuous once I've eaten one. As far as making one goes, I tend to go for the bags that you get from the supermarket. When I feel like it, I pop open the bag and eat. I'm aware that some people plant their own leaves, nurture them, cultivate them meticulously before chopping them up and feasting themselves. I imagine that is much more satisfying, but as of yet I haven't really put much effort into my short stories. Or my salads. That's not a boast or anything like that, I just honestly haven't been thinking further ahead than the next sentence while writing. My head works like that. I happen to quite like it. 

So, putting the weird cookery class behind us, it all comes down to the reward. The satisfaction. I have been working on my novel since July. I can only imagine how amazing it is going to feel to write the last line and know that (at least in the sense of a first draft) it is finished and I can move to the next step with it. Short stories take me around two hours, so the satisfaction is (hopefully) infinitesimally smaller but practically immediate. An idea can pop into my head and a matter of hours later I can have it written down and finished. I write my short stories by hand for some reason, it handily gives me the chance to correct my mistakes and make small adjustments when I type them up, so as soon as they are typed up I am done with them. The ideas are out of my mind. I realise that these stories aren't particularly amazing, but writing short fiction is really tough. Ask anyone. That's why I have to do the whole 'living-in-the-sentence' thing, because if I think too far ahead then it turns into something I start in July and finish... who knows when? I also realise that (paradoxically) they aren't very long for short stories. Some would even label them as Flash Fiction, which sounds much cooler. At the moment I've only had a few tentative attempts and one thing I know about my writing is that the next thing is always better. 

My main problem with them is that out of the two that I've written, and the one I've got on the go just now, none of them follow the standard beginning, middle and end. I realise that that's a pretty clichéd structure, but it would be nice if I could tell an entire story within the literary confines. The way I see it, the ones that I've written are just excerpts from the character's lives. No great amount of drama happens, at least in the sense that there doesn't tend to be much conflict, but it's difficult to try and find the exact point where you will be able to reign it in before it goes on for too long. I don't think they're boring, although that's obviously open to interpretation, but I'd rather have the next one feel complete and rounded off.

I'm babbling. I'll stop.

For the novel, though, it's gotten to the point where writing it is the purest of joy for me. Writing scenes that I've had in the back of my head for the best part of a year is the weirdest feeling. These moments could consume my thoughts for weeks, but once they're written, they just disappear out my mind, leaving space for more stuff to be created. Since I knew what was going to happen at the start of the story so clearly (I had a three month period to think about it while I tried to work out how to start chapter 2), when I started moving on in the progression of the story, it came to my attention that I had no idea how certain events ended, or what certain chapters were going to be called. These are fairly minor things but it brought my attention to one question in particular.

The end.

I heard on a radio show once, when an author was being interviewed, that when he was writing a large scale work, the first thing he did was plan out the last sentence. Nothing more. Once he had refined and perfected it, he stored it in the back of his mind and never ever wrote it down. When the time finally came to add in that last sentence, it was like bringing the whole experience full circle, ending it with the very first thing that he thought up. That brings it back to what I said earlier, about the postponed satisfaction of a larger work. Leaving it open like that is pretty much the writer equivalent of a savings account. Over time it generates interest and the sum gets bigger and bigger. Money analogies aren't nearly as fun as food ones. Or maybe I'm just hungry.

Still, the idea that one day, this story will be forced out of my head and into the physical world sort of terrifies me. I meant it when I said that it occupies my mind at every free moment. Once I write something, I no longer carry it around with me, and as much as I want to get this written, another part of me wants to be able to imagine it as I walk around town with my earphones in indefinitely. Still, once it's gone, it'll leave plenty of room for the next thing.

And I make a point of ensuring that the next thing is always better.

And I can't wait.

Until next time, see you around!

[thethoughterfall]

Short Story: Seashells and Dust and Nails

(Note: I wrote this after holding pistachio shells in my hand. I know, right? Pistachios are awesome. It was just sort of made up as I went along.)

A bowl of shells of all kinds, rattling together as the invading fingers rummaged through them. Although formed in some distant ocean, and all oceans were distant nowadays, they had long since become bone dry, the creature that they had hosted having withered into the great and endless dust along with most other things. They said that the shells could be read, the order and formation of the pattern in which they fell holding information that only those touched by the divine could interpret. Like most precious objects they were praised and revered by those who were lucky enough to see them. Of course, that wasn't based on knowledge of what they were, even so much as a river was beyond the wildest dreams of most of those who remained, rather the intrigue grew from what was unknown, what couldn't be imagined and what was beyond comprehension.

As the hag drew her wizened hands out of the ceramic bowl, the amazing shells tumbling into the space left by her digits, she smiled to herself.

"The winds bring its grains and with its grains, so comes its sight," her dry gums held only a fraction of the teeth she had grown with, but after all of the things her life had forced her to bid farewell, the loss of her teeth bothered her very little. "The shells remain ever pensive, youngling. After all these years they still cling to the dust from the bottom of the ocean's floor. Their wisdom is old, child, far older than I. You need not ask your question, I have already been told the answer."

Chellice's breath caught in her throat, the gasp coming out as a crackle through her mask, the filters around her mouth catching the dust that sought passage to her lungs. All knowing and omnipresent it certainly was, but merciful it certainly was not. Without the mask it would be mere minutes before the choking began. 

"Chellice," began the hag, announcing the name despite the fact she had never introduced herself, "the answer that you are looking for may bring you to harm. You must be sure that this is what you want."

Chellice grunted, "I paid for my fortune, prophetess, I would very much like it." Knowledge on what was to come could be bought with no man made currency. Those who were seeking knowledge were to bring what they thought was adequate payment. Chellice had thought long and hard about what to bring to pay for her questions. Eventually she had decided on giving the nails that had held her family's cart together a decade after it should have rightfully fallen apart. When the wheels would finally no longer turn she had torn it apart, each scrap to be recycled. The wood was stripped away, donated to settlements they passed through so that shelters could be patched back together. The wheels had been to worn to use again, but the spokes at one end could be whittled into rudimentary spears. The metal frame had to be left, although the iron had succumbed to rust long ago they lacked the tools strong enough to cut through it. Now, the nails were all that were left of it.

The fortune-teller had shaken the small box, her face lighting up at the noise within, and Chellice had known she had chosen wisely.

The prophetess was clearly a collector of the rare, the strange and the occult. From the jewellery draped over her body that was slowly decaying to the ever encroaching rust to the animal bones and vulture feathers in her hair. Her robes were tattered, faded through hours in the harsh sunlight and far to big for her. Her skin was scorched, blistered and peeling from exposure to the same sun that had coaxed the colour from her robes.

"I am yet to tell a single person a future that they have 'liked', youngling," the robes rustled as the fortune-teller stood to her full height, or as close as she could manage since her age ensured her posture was crooked. She walked to the right of the tent, where a small dish of water lay out in the open. As Chellice looked closer she saw that the dish had been attracting the tiny lizards that could be found anywhere in the dust, always tunneling just below the surface of each dune. The tiny amount of liquid left out in the open would be attracting them from miles away.

 Chellice conceded, "I suppose liking it is far from my main concern, but still, I want to hear it."

The hag chuckled, "Girl, what can you tell me of the future?"

Chellice was momentarily struck silent, "I came to you for answers," she complained, impatience angering her voice.

"Why would I give you such precious answers if you could not possibly hope to understand the very nature of them?" The hag wasn't even looking at her any more, instead running a wrinkled finger through the water. When she left it still for a second, perhaps enjoying the feeling of the tepid water on her finger, one of the lizards, no bigger than her finger nail, took the chance to bite her. The prophetess quickly snatched her hand away, the tiny drop of blood polluting the water. The blood drove the lizards into a frenzy, each rushing to lap up the spilled plasma. The old hag chuckled as she watched. Chellice realised that she would have to play along if she wanted to make her trip worth while.

"The future... is what is ahead of us," her phrasing was awkward, her description spoken without an ounce of certainty, "it is what's going to happen, no matter what we do. It cant be stopped, or put off. It is our death, but also the birth of whoever will come next. It is uncertain and terrifying, but definite and soothing all at once."

"What a beautiful answer," crowed the prophetess, "but what if I told you that there was not just one future for you, but one for every grain of dust?"

"I don't understand," in matters like this Chellice remained completely honest in her lack of understanding.

"No one does at first, dear one," smiled the hag, "let me put it a different way. For every decision that you will ever make and have ever made, there is a future for that you. For the you that thought better of entering my tent and the you that walked in despite your fear. The you that brought me the nails and the you that brought a lock of her own hair. Do you understand yet, youngling?"

"I think I do," as she said it Chellice was wondering what would befall the her that had said, "I do not."

"Then you must know the nature of your request. You can't learn the future, you can only learn a future. What do you say to that?"

"I should have brought more nails," Chellice said with a shrug, making the prophetess laugh.

"Child, you are better with answers than I ever was," she wiped a tear away from her eye, "but an answer to my next question may prove too difficult for you. Knowing what you now know, do you still want the answer I have for you?"

It wasn't difficult to answer at all, "I need to know how to cure my parents," Chellice's voice no longer contained a shred of doubt, "They have been sick for so long. I have been trying to save them. Any answer would be enough."

The prophetess wiped another tear away from her eye, only now she was truly crying. She walked over and stood in front of Chellice, gazing up into the tinted visor oh her helmet.

"Child," she said softly, "show me your face."

In one fluid motion the curved black shield that protected her from the sun slid back round into the dome of her helmet. What was revealed was a young face, aged by exhaustion, sunken cheeks and so many tears.

"Child, oh brave little child, your parents are not ill. You are not making this hellish trek to save them. You are grieving, and I fear you have been for far too long. Perhaps they were ill once, but that time was long ago. It may be painful and lonely, but remember now what is true and what you constructed to protect you."

Her hand, gnarled and damaged by too long a life spent under the deadly sun, reached down and stroked the face of the prophetess. The old woman returned the favour, reaching up and tenderly caressing Chellice's cheek.

"They... can't be dead," Chellice could hardly manage the words, "I brought them with me. They;re asleep on the cart outside."

The prophetess held up the small box that Chellice had presented as payment, "Then how could you give me the nails?"

Chellice covered her mouth with her hand and backed through the entrance of the tent, the animal hide doorway falling back around her. From within the prophetess called after her.

"Go now, beautiful child! Know that the deception pained me, but this was the answer you were seeking!"

Chellice looked around her. Sure enough, there was no cart in sight. Just the tent of the prophetess and the endless dunes of dust.

She turned her back on the tent and walked away, aware for the first time that although it had been a long time since she had stopped pulling the cart, the weight of it had only just left her...

Thanks for reading!

Until Next time!

[thethoughterfall]

Endings.

You know the phrase "you don't know what you've got until its gone?", I'm sure almost everyone has. But I don't think that's true. The idea that we can't truly appreciate something until we no longer have it, that may apply to some things, but not all. No, I think something different.

You don't know what you've got until its going.

Nothing is more awful than realising just how finite something we have grown attached to is. Everyone says that the last piece of chocolate tastes the sweetest, and I'm inclined to agree.

I can't be the only one that puts off reading the end of a book when I know its the last in a series. Maybe I'm just sentimental, but when I find out that my time with characters that I truly love is limited I find it really hard to read, watch, or hear about that ending. The idea that one chapter or episode could be the last time you hear about a person, the last chance you get to enjoy their personality. The final time that whatever they are doing will be new and unpredictable. 

That's the thing about fictional stories, they end. 

And endings are always hard, whether its real or not. If you grow a strong attachment to something, whether it be a book or author, the ending is always something that is hiding in the back of your mind. The knowledge that this adventure, this romance, this laughter can not go on forever because its the third part of the trilogy and every page you turn brings you closer to the climax that you're just not sure you can face. Every episode advances you further towards the finale. I hate doing it, but sometimes I just cant help but countdown the scenes until the curtain falls. 

But then sometimes, just sometimes, endings are beyond magnificent. More than you could have hoped they would be . Paying off even the smallest details that you may have glazed over the first time you saw it. Bringing the plot full circle and tying up every single loose end into the neatest of bows. The characters may not be happy, they may not completely prevail over whatever adversity, but if an ending is truly great then it should feel like that's how it should have ended. 

An ending of a show that has really stuck with me as 'the best possible ending for the show' is the final few minutes of the BBC show Hustle. If you've never heard of it, it was a show that revolved around a team of con artists that lived in fancy hotels in London and did Robin Hood style deeds... only instead of giving to the poor they bought really fancy clothes. It was awesome. The thing about Hustle, the absolutely best thing about Hustle, was that it was written to always make the watcher feel as if they were in on the 'joke'. There would be a one-liner, or the bad-guy would do something that the team had already predicted, or something completely out of the blue and outrageous would happen and the main character would just stare into the camera. They would lock eyes with whoever was watching. Then they would raise an eye-brow and smirk, acknowledging the reaction the viewer would be having to whatever had just happened, and then return to the scene. Flawless. The ending took it  a whole extra step with the team walking past the camera, leaving the bar they haunted one by one, only before they left they paused to give the viewers some life advice. Then the camera panned round and they weren't walking out of the bar, but out of the set. 

It was wonderful. Mind-blowing, but still the best way to really hammer home the idea that the viewer was just as much a part of their crazy schemes as they were. 

The best ending to any show, or any fictional narrative for that matter, is the anime Fullmetal Alchemist (Brotherhood for anime but just Fullmetal Alchemist for the manga). The series had a wide cast of fantastic characters and a really engrossing, fast paced plot. To this day it is a show that I can sit down and happily watch for hours on end, not even realising the plot is ending. The finale of the series was granted fourteen entire episodes, the series as a whole ran for sixty-four episodes, and it was... perfect. The plot was so well rounded that it was impossible for it not to come full circle. If anybody reading this happens to be watching the show for the first time, you have no idea how envious I am of you.

The final show I'm going to talk about, and the reason behind this slightly melancholy and overly sentimental blog post, is Fringe. A show that I finished watching around about an hour ago. A truly terrifying mash-up between horror movie and detective drama... that made me cry out of the pure beauty of the relationships between the characters. And yes, it sounds ridiculous that I grew so attached to a television series where most of the plots revolve around massive parasites and telekinetic fungus (I swear to god I'm barely even exaggerating) but that's just it, its... almost impossible to explain. The events of the plot are like a storm at sea. You can never predict where the lightning will strike, or how high the waves will rise, but the characters within the show are so lovable and real (albeit eccentric) that they appear as dry land and shelter. You fix yourself to them and focus on them because even though there may be a scientific explanation for the flu virus that has been enlarged to the size of a cat (Again, not exaggerating) it makes as little sense to them as it does to us. But because they're the ones in the show and we're not (thank goodness), they're the ones that are in the position to deal with it and you just cant help but will them on. You exalt when they succeed, and cry with them when something goes wrong. Simple as that. Brilliant. 

So, despite any hard feelings that I have towards endings, I never stop reading the books or watching the episodes. Because endings may be wonderfully awful in their own way, but they are always the part that I look forward to the most. The part that stays with me, that I usually define the story as a whole by. 

But now its time to begin something new...

Until next time, bye!

[thethoughterfall]

Short Story: The Sculpture

Before I begin, I should explain a little. Earlier on today I wrote my first short story. It was an exercise in a creative writing book that I recently bought where I had to write a story based on a picture. This picture:

So, here's what I wrote:

Truth be told, it wasn't the finest specimen that he had ever seen. He stroked his beard and scrutinised every aspect of the creature in front of him with narrowed eyes and his usual unforgiving expectations.

Failing temporarily to form a coherent criticism he turned his gaze to the young sculptor, who flinched comically under his gaze, and delivered a line set to pick apart the poor young man's notion of art.

"So... what is this?" His question was accompanied by a sweeping gesture with his hands to encapsulate the piece in question.

It was a monstrosity shaped out of hardened clay, a horrific vision of some aquatic creature (although truthfully it appeared just as much bat as it was fish). As if swimming up to breach the surface of the ocean, or flying to pierce through clouds, the tail end of its flat and thin body was fixed to a wide ceramic plate in order to keep it balanced. Along the ridge of the spine a row of jagged spikes punctuated the clay scales, announcing the presence of where the vertebrae would be found if the creature appeared in nature. At the peak of the sculpture was the head of the beast, similar in every way to any other fish head. It stared upwards with dead eyes and gaped its ungainly mouth. Set halfway up its body were a pair of badly proportioned wings, the breadth of their true span deceived by how the arced inwards, as if to either streamline the beast or to tuck them away. The sculpture had been painted in a limited spectrum that could only be described as tacky. he majority of the scaly skin was a deep purple highlighted by splotches of yellow. The spikes, eyes and the inside of the mouth had been painted black, turning the facial features into abysmal voids. It was a well known fact that vast amounts of sea-life were undiscovered, but if nature created with any amount of rhyme or reason then nothing this ugly would exist.  

"W-well, Mr Strettenous, sir, it's a-a vision I saw in a dream one night," it occurred to Mr Strettenous that he had already forgotten the sculptor's name, a detail that appealed to his sense of humour.

He took a moment to ponder this, "Hmm... a dream, you say?" He chuckled, "Perhaps you mean a nightmare."

A flutter of wings announced the return of Quarell, his ageing and  temperamental parakeet. Considering the bird's small brain and simplistic thought processes, it was incredible that Quarell had such a capacity for cruel and vindictive behaviour. He was well known within the halls of Strettenous Manor to peck and claw at any unfortunate enough to get in his way. As he had grown older, and he had reached a considerable age for a parakeet, his rebellious fits had become more frequent until they were practically constant. These fits were never greater than when he was confined to his cage. On such occasions his squawking and flailing would overbalance the cage in a matter of seconds. The closest he ever came to happiness was when he was perched on the shoulder of his master. Perhaps because they shared such similar dispositions.

For a moment, Quarell seemed content to rest his old wings and stare at the hideous statue with uncomprehending eyes. The same level of comprehension that Mr Strettenous felt as well.

"I worked for months on your orders, sir. You said that you preferred more... unusual things, so I though this would fit the bill. In truth, I thought it might be how a dragon would look," with the last statement his voice suddenly quietened and his gaze turned down towards his feet. Seemingly he had embarrassed himself.

The mention of dragons conjured up old memories from beside a glowing hearth and at the feet of grandparents long dead now. The had indulged him in recounting stories of the winged, fire breathing beasts. At the time he had enjoyed the prospect of one day sitting where they sat, telling those stories to descendants of his own. Although the path he had chosen to travel down had not even led to marriage, let alone grandchildren. 

"A dragon? I fear you may be using the term a bit loosely. Dragons are magnificent, fierce and powerful, not stunted and ugly like... this," he waved his hand towards the sculpture again, "It doesn't even have legs to roost with!"

The sculptor shrugged, the finer points of his creation's biology clearly never having occurred to him, "I suppose it could go into water to sleep," he mumbled to his feet.

"Don't be ridiculous! Fish don't sleep, they don't even have eyelids!" Mr Strettenous was well aware that the main purpose of the argument had shifted drastically, but he was never one to stay silent when somebody needed correcting.

The poor sculptor had finally had enough of the undeserved punishment and some anger of his own cancelled out his sheepish fear.

"I'm sorry, Mr Strettenous, but are you going to pay for this sculpture or not?" His miniature outburst was met by a moment of silence. Mr Strettenous was far from accustomed to being scolded.

"Am I going to pay? Bah! Only to have it destroyed! I don't want this in my home. I asked you for art, but this is nothing short of disturbing! I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it being on the same plane of existence as I am!" In a moment of synchronicity it occurred to both participants of the conversation that, while it was debatable whether the sculpture resembled a dragon or not, if dragons existed at all the most fearful form they could take would be that of Mr Strettenous. 

It was at that moment that Qaurell the cantankerous parakeet launched from his master's shoulder and found a new perch on the edge of the sculpture's gaping mouth. As if eager to bring the matter to a close and continue on to other business he emptied his bowels over the sculpture, the black of the painted eyes staining white with his shit. It was that, accompanied by the booming laugh emanating from Mr Strettenous, that signalled the demise of any hope that the sculpture had of ever being sold, regardless of the fact that he himself had commissioned it. 

*

And that's it. My first ever short story. I realise that it was sort of peculiar, but then again it was sort of a peculiar picture. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

Until next time, bye for now!

[thethoughterfall]

Shiny

As big a fan of science fiction as I am, there are a few shows that, up until recently, I had no interest in and avoided because people wouldn't shut up about them. For years I had heard conversations between my friends delving into the intricacies and politics of universes that had no meaning to me and recounting the tales of characters that I had no interest in. I used to have quite a narrow mind when it came to watching new shows, whether they be TV or anime or anything else. I always preferred to discover them for myself, being more reluctant to watch something based solely on other's recommendations. I have no idea why that was, but it was just me.

For this reason, I have recently begun to discover shows that I've spent the last ten years of my life missing out on. I've discovered the most amazing stories, the most touching characters and the most brilliant of universes, all of which has taught me a very valuable lesson: If something is generating a lot of hype and a large, enthusiastic fan-base, then that is a good enough reason to invest the time in the first couple of episodes. Sometimes it doesn't even take the first few episodes, sometimes all you need are the first few scenes.

Case and point: Firefly. 

For those of you that haven't heard, Firefly is the best thing ever and you need to stop reading this and find a way to watch it. Like seriously, go. I wont be offended. 

Oh okay then, a little bit of context.

Firefly is a short lived series that follows the exploits of an unlikely collection of scoundrels that form the crew of the starship Serenity. Set roughly five-hundred years in the future, the story takes the captain, Malcolm Reynolds, and his crew through the various solar systems full of newly terraformed planets. Six years prior to the events of the first episode, Malcolm and his partner-in-crime Zoe were commanding officers in a rebellion against the Alliance, who were trying to unify all of the planets under one government while leaving those on the outskirts of the chartered districts to die. So far it just sounds like a standard science-fiction plot, right? Why is this different? Because the 'science' part could hardly play a smaller part in the show. Despite the fact it is set centuries in the future, the various worlds are built in a way that makes it seem like they come from centuries ago. With resources stretched thin across the new planets, the vast majority are left with only the most rudimentary supplies. A fledgling colony is considered lucky if it is given more than a small herd of cattle and a few rusty hoes to build itself up from. As a result, the vast majority of the show feels like you're watching a wild western rather than a science fiction. There are no laser gun battles, only good ol' fashioned duels out in sandy planes. No high speed chases on hover-crafts, only horses. No large scale wars waged over money or religion, only battles fought for basic commodities like food and medicine. Firefly paints a picture of a very harrowing future in which humanity turns its back on itself time and again, where the wealthy have grossly over-privileged lives and the poor are simply left to starve.

Because of this, Firefly breaks away from the standard sci-fi plots and tropes that are over used and forges interesting plot lines that scrutinise the relationships between each character and helps bring each of their obscure talents to light. This isn't a 'getting-marooned-on-a-planet-full-of-plant-aliens' type of show, this is more 'earning-a-dishonest-living-and-bar-brawls' adventure, which is absurdly refreshing.

So, despite the interesting world that it builds around itself, it isn't the setting that sets Firefly out against most other science fiction shows that I've watched. It's the charm. THE CHARM.

When I was told by a friend that I wouldn't be able to help falling in love with the show I was sceptical. It wasn't until I was halfway through the first episode, when one of the characters I had only known for half an hour was put in imminent peril, that I noticed tears welling in my eyes at the thought of her dying. I paused the show, sat back from the computer and thought for a moment. I wasn't just captivated, I was beyond engrossed. I cared more about the well being of everybody on Serenity more than I would ever have thought possible. The idea of any harm coming to them wrenched my soul. 

As far as I'm concerned, the characters are perfect. The nine members of Serenity's crew make up the majority of the cast, as would be expected, and each one has a highly refined and engaging relationship with the other eight. Let's start with the Captain, Malcolm Reynolds. Cool-headed, charismatic and sly, he governs over his ship with a kind smile and iron fist. He is highly civil and respectful of everyone else on board, but wont tolerate being given orders on his own ship. He runs Serenity as a small-scale criminal business, whether the job be stealing or smuggling, he'll take it on. Zoe, his long-suffering subordinate is a pillar of loyalty and support, even if she does tend to roll her eyes when he gives an odd order. Her husband, Wash, pilots Serenity and is always waiting to deliver a witticism or make a joke. Kaylee, the mechanic, is the most ridiculously happy character that has ever been created and I defy anybody not to immediately fall in love with her. Then there's Jayne, the dumb muscle, the hired gun waiting for someone to offer him enough money so he has a valid excuse for turning on the crew, not that anybody expects anything else (he was holding the crew at gun-point when they hired him). Shepherd Book is a mysterious priest with a shady past and suspicious connections to the Alliance. Inara... Inara is a Companion, which is basically a fancy name for 'Space-Prostitute'. Although being a Companion is seen as a highly respectable profession, it also means that she's the only one aboard Serenity that earns a legal wage. Getting close to the end, Simon is a doctor who had to cut off his assets and flee his home when he rescued his sister from a sinister school that was keeping her captive for experiments. River, his sister, is mentally damaged due to the experiments that were performed on her, but is being pursued by terrifying agents of the Alliance that are hell-bent on her capture.

I realise that that was probably a lot of information to dump on you, but I can't help myself talking about this.

Firefly has perhaps the strongest and most memorable cast of any show that I've ever seen. Each personality clearly defined and completely unique. There are no stereo-types or unimportant characters at all in the show. The dialogue and relationships between the cast are what make the show as engaging and charming as it is, although one detail in particular completes it perfectly for me. Aboard Serenity, as if to emphasize and hammer home the family dynamic, the communal dining area is built like farm-house kitchen. They sit on rickety stools around a long wooden table, the walls are covered in floral wall-paper and against one wall sits a dresser full of china plates. It's small stuff like that that adds so much to the character of the show.

I couldn't write a post about Firefly without mentioning the Reavers. In my opinion, these are some of the most terrifying and well written monsters I've ever experienced. They are almost a constant threat, everybody is terrified to death of them, and just one of them is an insane killing machine. And yet, we never properly see one in the show. Once human, the Reavers are a race of insane cannibals that raid planets and kill absolutely everyone they find. They are introduced in the first episode and described by Zoe with the legendary quote, "If they take the ship, they'll rape us to death, eat our flesh, and sew our skins into their clothing. And, if we're very, very lucky, they'll do it in that order." I mean, it literally doesn't get much more terrifying than that, does it? This may seem to counter all the points I made earlier about the show being charming, but I think they might just be some sort of symbolism for the harshness of life out in space. Or something. They're probably just scary cannibals, truth be told.

Firefly is a wonderful show, it's just that simple. It's the type of thing that sucks everybody in, despite how they feel about science-fiction or space cowboys. Despite the absolutely terrifying universe that it creates, its relentless charm and lovable characters just seems to make the harshness dissolve away. If you feel even the slightest bit of interest in the show, go watch it. If you couldn't care less, still go and watch it. Don't worry, you can thank me later.

Also, if you get why I called this post 'Shiny' then you're awesome.

Until next time, keep soaring!

[thethoughterfall]

Let's just talk for a minute about Kuroko no Basuke

I've always endeavoured to make this blog accessible to everyone reading it, only extending the conversation into extremely niche nerdy topics to explain things have had a drastic effect on my life. Remember, doctor who? And to a lesser extent Emmerdale. Who am I kidding, to a far greater extent, Emmerdale. The only time that I've struggled to decide whether or not to make a blog post is when I wrote about Anime. It's something that is a big part of my life and I hold very dear to me, but I realise that I'm one of a select few. So for that reason, rather than try and cram it down everyone's throat I decided that one post, a cursory glance over the subject, would be enough.

Then I thought, "screw you, this is my blog", so here's is my Kuroko no Basuke review. 

So, why am I doing a review from a genre that I never wanted to do in the first place? Well, this is my favourite anime. And I'm not the type of guy that picks favourites. I don't have a favourite food, book or movie. For each I have a group of things that I consider to be contenders, but I can never bring myself to choose between them. I've spent years falling in and out of watching series, not just anime but TV in general, and I don't remember the last time I was ever so excited by the wait for a weekly episode. I mean, I get excited on Mondays for the coming Saturday. Every time I hear the intro music this stupid grin spreads across my face. Every time an episode ends my world is momentarily over when I realise I can't just watch the next one. It is one of the few anime that has made jump out of my seat, screaming with joy or crying out. It is the only anime that has made my chair fall over from me launching myself to my feet. And here's the strange thing. It's about basketball.

Yeah, the name Kuroko no Basuke literally translates into "The Basketball which Kuroko plays", a brilliant example of how sometimes languages don't translate perfectly into one another.  

The plot is centred around a middle school basketball team that was formed of five ridiculously talented prodigies. Their skill was so great that they never lost a match and became known as the Generation of Miracles. However, when the time came to graduate from middle school into high school the Generation of Miracles disbanded, each one attending a different high school in the hopes that they would be forced to face each other in later tournaments. Because of their talent they had each developed a selfish way of playing, preferring to win the game themselves rather than rely on their team. However, there was a few records of a phantom sixth member of the generation of miracles, despite the fact that he had never gained any of the attention from their victories, nor did he appear in any records of the games. 

This phantom sixth member just happens to be the eponymous hero, Kuroko. When he enrols at Seiren high school in Tokyo he joins the school's basketball team along with his polar opposite Kagami. Where Kuroko is short, Kagami is tall. Kuroko is cool headed, Kagami has red hair. You get the idea. Although a strange quirk of Kuroko's is his abnormal lack of presence. He can literally be in a room and you wouldn't even notice despite his bright blue hair (oh, anime). Through the team's practice it is quickly determined that Kuroko is awful at basketball. He can't dribble or shoot or do any other basketball words. However, what he excels at is passing. Like, he's super good. You can't even imagine how good he is at passing. Using his lack of presence he somehow incorporates misdirection into his play style, allowing him to steal the ball and basically confuse the hell out of the other team. He teams up with Kagami, claiming that he will make him the best player in Japan. The light to his shadow. By the way, Kagami is good at jumping. That's his thing. His jam. Doesn't seem as cool.

 And so begins Seiren high school's journey to becoming the best team in Japan, facing off against other high school teams, and inevitably the awesomely powerful members of the generation of miracles.

I feel that it's practically impossible to get a decent feel for the anime by reading a block of words, so I'll put in a link to one of the openings to the show.  

Roll Intro!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrO54Ak1YtE

And you thought it wouldn't be cool. Shame on you.

Anyone that knows me I don't doubt is shocked that of all possible things, my favourite anime is based on basketball. To be honest, I'm just as shocked. I never expected to like this. I had gone to great lengths to avoid sports anime before, but I took a chance, and one episode in I was absolutely hooked. 

You see, the thing about Kuroko no Basuke is that there are no high stakes. It's a basketball games between high school teams, it has no great impact on anything. But that's the thing, the weird anomaly that occurs in every single game. There are no stakes, and yet the stakes couldn't be higher. There is such a palpable tension in every match, a tension which is infectious. Whenever the clock starts counting down to the final minutes of a match my heart races. And that is because it matters to the characters. They really want to win. It's that simple and it's impossible not to root for them. 

Considering the stigma that is attached to anime, that of people with ridiculously coloured hair swinging swords at each other with superpowers, I should take a moment to make something clear. It may be about a sport, but that does not mean it is grounded in reality. Let's analyse the statement I made up above and see how much of it is true to Kuroko. There may not be any swords featured, but you can put a great big tick beside crazy hair colours and superpowers. Well, not superpowers technically. Remember I said that the Generation of Miracles were all crazy talented? Well each member had a specific talent. There is one guy (green haired Midorima) who can shoot from anywhere on the court and never miss. Another member can perfectly copy the moves of his opponent. And then there's Aomine, who can just beat anyone simply because he is Aomine and perhaps satan incarnate . It sounds silly, and believe me it is, but because everything else is so far grounded these 'talents' seem so out of place. But they don't detract anything, or make the show less believable. It's merely just an extreme exaggeration of human ability.

Another thing that surprised me about the show is the cast. The story features around Seiren team: Kuroko, Kagami and the three other team mates who I wont go into because I imagine the Japanese names will be making some heads spin. They're all strong leading characters, having a strong report between them and a good team ethic (it's a pretty forced moral but in Kuroko no Basuke teamwork is the most important thing in the universe.) Other members of the main cast include the Generation of miracles, who are all great characters as well. But what really struck me is the supporting cast. Every member of every team has a distinct and unique character, most of which are developed enough to make them engaging and seem like they add value to the show. The opposing teams aren't just one main bad guy and then four others that fade into the back ground. The generation of miracles are the prodigies, but they're not the only ones that are brilliant. It is a credit to the creator and writer how fantastic his characters are. He clearly loves each and every one of them. As does anybody else who's watched it.

So, I don't really have anything left to say. Just for reference, this entire post was just fuelled by one particularly amazing episode. I would also like to say that I'm not trying to convince anybody to watch something that they don't want to. If it sounds like something you would enjoy then be my guest, I look forward to having many basketball based discussions with you. Otherwise, that's okay. We can still have talks about basketball, but I may not be so engaged if the context isn't anime based.

I'll finish by saying this. Kuroko no Basuke is absurd amounts of fun. As simple as that. Sure, this may not actually be possible:

    or this

but damn, does it look cool.

Until next time, never give up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!