Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Posts tagged ‘Humour’

Free writing + Too much Zombie fic = Da hell?

Be still my heart.

I always thought the apocalypse would start with a bang. Brought on by some trigger-happy politician too long mired in a corrupt office to see the world as it could be.  The signs were all there; our historical decent into madness. The world wars, the horrors of the atom bomb; the desire for bigger, better weapons of mass destruction that hinted humankind had learn nothing. Then there’s recent war against ‘terror’ that seemed to fight terror with terror… But my point evades me. Let’s just say, if the planet turned to a thermonuclear wasteland over night I would not be the least bit surprised.  Instead we have… drum roll please… Zombies. Rambling hordes of the undead with an insatiable desire for flesh. A geeks paradise. And my, Susan McCloud, that’s me, personal hell.

So, there we have it, it’s hell on earth. And what am I doing at this very moment? Helping the panicked gits whom brought this doom upon us by being a lab-rat for the ‘cure’. Admirable, right? I wish. Truth is I’m because I have to be.  Found a lump on my breast half a year back, and well you can guess from there.  By the time I had started chemo it was already wrecking my organs. So what’s a girl to do when she’s dying and desperate? Sign up for medical experimentation, apparently.  Ended up on the ‘Fountain’ project with the aforementioned gits too busy playing god to recognise potential disaster staring them in the face.  How were they playing god? Haha… The fountain As in the Fountain of Youth. I know, right? Trying to cure death… Experiments which my wrecked body was perfect for. If it worked, it showed the value of such a product, and if it failed… Well, I wouldn’t be a liability for very long.

Of course, it all went horribly wrong.  There was an accident with one of the early serums.  It had been injected into a chimpanzee, Z, whom promptly became a rabid terror. Didn’t die though, oddly enough.  Something in the small margin of DNA difference protected the shit-flinging bastard from the biggest side effect of the scrapped drug.  Then Some radical animal rights activist, with delusions of grandeur, broke in with the intent of sabotaging the project in a publicly humiliating fashion by releasing all test subjects into the streets. Insert some Z face-munching and a impromptu escape into the night and you have the idea.  Authorities had Z and the others test subjects rounded up by the following day; but by that point the damage was done.  The real panic started when the activist’s shambling corpse was found in an abandoned warehouse downtown. It hit the news like a flash bang and then the arse-covering began… as did the human trials for a cure.  Bringing us full circle to me, egomaniac extraordinaire, the crash-test dummy.

I was not eager, to put it mildly.  There I was, hooked up to medical equipment getting the run down on procedures from the one man on the premises I could remotely stand by that point, (infecting the local population did nothing for my level of trust in their competency) trying not to ponder the irony of trading one horrible death for another.  Matt must have caught on to it too, because his final words were, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.” Said with that care-free smile too. Sweet, adorable, nerdy liar. We both knew he was mucking about in uncharted waters, but I swallowed my inner cynic.  Matt had been a great source of support during my time with the project; I would allow him some trust.  Putting on an air of false perkiness, I replied “How could I be worried when I’m in such capable hands,” then swung my legs in the sterile, medical bed. I proceeded to make myself comfortable, (because I was going to die comfy, god damn it), only to be startled by his warm hand on my shoulder.  My gaze met his, and I’d like to say it was electric but Matt’s smile was only there for professional necessity.  Those beautiful green eye spoke volumes of gratitude and… regret? Sorrow?  With my face straining under the first genuine smile I had managed since the C-word, I said, “I’m a tough cookie. Besides how could I have been go could I put anything but smile on such a handsome face.” Smooth, real smooth. Flirting on my death bed.  One thing about the shadow of death, it removes your inhibitions and at least I was flirting and not downing, snorting or injecting illicit substances; well medical ‘miracle’ serums excluded.  Of course, my ill-timed flirting failed.  It was in his eyes.  Whatever else he was feeling had only been reinforced by my words.  I swiftly placed my hand over his, filled with sudden determination to live in spite of everything.  Matt was always good at reading my posture, I noted a spark of hope in his expression as a response.  Then, because death waits for no one we were interrupted by one his colleagues via the intercom.  “If you’re just about done, perhaps we could be getting this procedure under way.”  I rolled my eyes at the reproach in the feminine voice. God, of all people to oversee this, they had to pick her. In better times I would have called her my rival but with the differences in out position she more like a callous boss whom is intent on quashing me like a bug.  Today she might well succeed.  Matt removed his hand to activate his mic.  “Hold your horses, Louise, must I remind on the particulars on human dignity that we must maintain?” Ah-ha, there’s another reason I liked him. Matt put the humane in human experimentation. Strict moral compass, god-complex aside. Louise’s response was venomous, “I’m fairly certain the codes of conduct outline the difference between humane treatment of subjects and unprofessional relationships.” I repressed a snicker, I knew the shrew was just jealous, but the slightly embarrassed look on Matt face was priceless. And interesting. And worrying. All at the same time. Had I had more of an affect with my mostly harmless flirting then I realised? If so, this was a bugger of a time to find out. The expression was gone before I could ponder it. “I’m starting now. Start quantine lockdown on this room. Set to my access code,” Matt stated in an eerily cold tone.  I’d never seen him look so… hard.  The intercom crackled, the pause ominous.  “… Are you certain? If something goes wrong only you will be able to get in or out.”  I froze, as the awareness of the danger Matt was putting himself in hit me.  Before I could protest Matt commanded, “Do it.  If something goes wrong follow quarantine procedures. I recommend the same for other subjects. This thing is too dangerous to allow to spread any further.”

“… Understood. I relay that to other personnel.  But… No… Never mind, I’ll be here to run any tests you need.” Matt swirled back towards me, face unrecognizable under to grim mask of professionalism. This was a side of him I never liked; that part of him that made him exactly like git-clones he worked with; but, hey, it takes bees to make honey.  I refused to let my resolve waiver as he prepared his syringes. Kill or cure. 50/50. At least that’s what I told myself.  Pro: might live. Con: spend after life brain-munching. Pro: saviour of the know world. Con: death, deathy, death, death. Trepidation’s a bitch, but hey I have nothing to loose; I’m dying anyway.  “Susan, are you ready?” Matt asked, depositing his payload on the steel table next to the bed and leaned in to meet my gaze.  I resisted the urge to jump up right there, it would dishonest to ignore the fear coiling in my belly. I tilted my head, smart-arse, knee-jerk reaction ready, “Sure, darlin’, just don’t mistake the poison for the placebo. I’d hate to get all melodramatic for no reason.” My smirk threatened to injure my cheek muscles.  Then I noticed how watery Matt’s eye appeared. Crap.  You idiot, Susan.  Matt, you bigger idiot, you should have passed my case too someone else if it affected you this much.  Instinctively my hand found it’s way to his cheek.  “Matt… are you sure you want to be here?” Matt gently removed my hand, aware as I was of the cameras, and gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it. I pulled it back almost defensively, though god knows who I was defending. Him? My own pride? I was never good with displaying emotion and as necessary as his actions were, the slight rejection hurt.  Not that I’d let that show. The smirk was back, bigger then ever.  Matt looked away, slouching ever so slightly. “… No one should go through this alone… And I…. … Let’s begin. We covered the drug earlier, but first things first I’m going to give you a sedative, okay?”

“Hmmmmm, a sedative, I think I can li… deal with that.” I replied as he lined up the syringe with the drip connection and pushed the plunger.  I felt his hand on mine, “Really… Matt you are too kind for this… line of… work…” There was the brief sensation of pressure on my lips. What a nice last thought….

 

Author Notes: Sooo one hand I’m really pleased with how this turned out given it started as a free writing exercise.  But I have too say: What the hell is this?!  It starts out as a zombie fic, easily explained by the time I spend on the zombie genre, but then… Romance?  What in the world brought that on?  Is it a compatible mix?

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Trickster: Friday Fictioneers

Little bit of Flash Fiction inspired by photo promt provided by Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers. For other Friday Fictioneers fics please head over to her blog and click on the blue frog under photo prompt to see other links. I was going to try and embed the code here but I’m too tired to remember my account details without resetting them.

 

Time.

Chime. Chime. Chime.

Engines spark; sputters, rumbles, and roars.

Stately procession purrs along tarmac.

Dusty relics? Vintage? Classics?

Terms don’t matter to onlookers; admiring invention, progress and change.

Unwittingly worshipping time.

At the head of the procession – Chronos: slurping in belief.

Wily Bastard – Surviving the fall of the pantheons.

Should have known the Old Man had a trick up his sleeves.

Loki smirked. It had been soo very long since he had greeted another god. How could he not say ‘Hello?’

The Trickster dealt wild cards, the pranksters in the parade.

Loki skipped, chaos where he tread.

For anyone needing a giggle

Gary Stu, the GremlinTonight I happened across what could be a useful writing tool, if used correctly that is… 😉 Plot generator relies on key words submitted by the writer to create a working plot from which to work.  Instead I entered random suggestions.  This is what I ended up with:

A Fantasy Novel

In a cave there lived a warped, ruddy gremlin named Gary Stu. Not a giant sizzling, magical cave, filled with potions and a silver smell, nor yet a brunette, sweltering, charming cave with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a gremlin-cave, and that means comfort.

One day, after a troubling visit from the elf Mary Sue, Gary leaves his cave and sets out in search of three squat sausages. A quest undertaken in the company of robots, trolls and pointy teens.

In the search for the elf-guarded sausages, Gary Stu surprises even himself with his resourcefulness and skill as a computer programmer.

During his travels, Gary rescues a ruler, an heirloom belonging to Mary. But when Mary refuses to try laughing, their friendship is over.

However, Mary is wounded at the Battle of Hastings and the two reconcile just before Gary engages in some serious laughing.

Gary accepts one of the three squat sausages and returns home to his cave a very wealthy gremlin.

Three little kittens

attentive

Practice run at a new piece of flash fiction using last weeks VisDare, the buzz word of which was attentive. I really like these kitties. The cross looking one, in particular.

“Looks like scraps again,” Streak commented with a twitch of her nose, contentedly watching swallows in the birdbath.
“Not touching scraps,” Smudge growled, his claws unsheathing.
“Might be lucky; might get squidgy or crunchy stuff,” said Stripe, drooling slightly.
“Stuff they won’t eat? Foisted on us?!” Smudge scratched the window sill feriouciously.
“Not so bad,” Streak replied.
“Taste goes away with a bit of cleaning,” added Stripe.
Smudge leapt of the sill with a snarl. Within moments all birdlife in the vicinity was dead or flapping for it’s life.
Streak’s tail twitched with amusment.
“He really is easy,” Stripe commented as she licked a paw and washed her ears. The pair lazily stalked over to stake their claims.

Writing process; you know you have one.

Cloze eys and throw Tablets down thrat.

… …
Smck self awake.
Guzle coffee.
Stair at papier.
Play wth omputer.
Sheepard thoughts.
Draino more cooffee.
Run Spellchecker.
Panic at red underlines.
Engage Insane Streak
Mwhahahahahahahahahahahaha
Baaaaaa
Free Write Any Outrageous Thought That Enters Mind.
Begin thought processing
Sip coffee; guzzle water.
Re-read.
Horrible Realization.
Re-write.
Re-write again with smidgen of sanity.
Put Away before ruining Re-written version by re-writing again.

I suspect that in itself proves my creativity streak and my insane streak are one and the same.  I’m still alive, settled in in my new living circumstances; though I suspect it will be a long time till it feels normal.  But that’s a state I’m now adjusted too since normality keeps spooking like a chicken when a hungry fox appears.

I’m hoping to get back to semi-regular posts now. But I’m in no rush.  I’ve let myself get out of practice with writing so I will have to get back into practice first. Start slowly I think

Pen. Shift. Now!

aussienothing I’m back to understanding the literal meaning of my writing handle! Recently I’ve made the mistake of attempting to write just before I go to bed. This plan resulted in absolute failure. The moment I remove my glasses and shut of the light the power of my brain seems to go with it.  I have been doing so much recently that I’m becoming very aware of my body will and won’t let me do.  Apparently I should not attempt to write before bed; amongst other things. -_-

In about a week I fly back to England.  This time I will be flying back to say goodbye to Britain. (Yes, Pommies! I called it Britain 😛 Whatcha going to do about it, huh?) I am migrating back permanently (for now, as I live in hope). This means a speedy Clean out session of my possessions, (Just picture my face contorted in horror)  I’m suddenly glad I’ve had a cleansing session before every move and had a clean out just over a month ago.  By early July I will be in Australia and thanking the sliver of luck I have had at migrating back during WINTER.

soakedkoalamagpiepatrick Stewart

Exhibit A: Soaked Koala – The very reason for the existence of the Drop Bear myth.  They may look cute and cuddly.  They may sleep up to 18 hours a day.  Don’t let that fool you; they are vicious.

Exhibit B: Magpie – The actual inspiration for the ‘Angry Birds’ franchise. Magpies may warble beautifully but take cover during hatching season.  These little buggers are out for blood.  A common Australian defense tactic is to paint eyes on an ice cream bucket and wear it like a helmet.  Fierce as they are, Magpies spook if you look directly at them.  Why not use a helmet? That would require sanity!

Exhibit C: Starfleets response to the WW2 Japanese invasion of Northern Australia. Some defense force they turned out to be.  All we got was some hogwash about the ‘Temporal Prime Directive’. We know how much effort they put into upholding that particular directive. >.>

aussiesheep

Despite all our deadlies this is a far more likely crew to run across.  They may look like they have stepped off a page of the long-running New Zealand comic ‘Footrot Flats’ but in outback farm country similar scenes are not unlikely.

Annnd there you have it, my dose of semi-fiction for the day.  Nothing like a bit of satire to start the morning. 😀

Inspiration mechanics

fishyA fish

A deep sea mission
A leviathan
A sapient species born of water
A coral sea expedition
A reef exploration
A thriller with piranhas

But sometimes
A fish is a fish.

It’s been a quiet few weeks from me, I know.  Usually it’s 5-8 posts a week based on various prompts I’ve seen but I’ve felt somewhat uninspired lately.  I took that feeling a produced a poem.  Where there’s a will there’s a way.  I think it’s time to cut back on postage so I don’t burn myself out this way.

Vanish: Get’s out even pride.

tie

This one inspired by the photo prompt from Picture It and Write.  I was trying a completely different character from usual – self-absorbed, narcissist with a fixation on clothes I could never comprehend.  Not sure how well I’ve done. It’s weird what fundamentals you find are basic to your own character while writing others.

Conway liked clothes. The sensation of fabrics, the fit of perfectly tailored outfits; the enhancement of his image through careful selection. Conway had a look for every occasion and for each a selection of fashionable attire. Today he wore a suit that reflected the themes of his sister’s, Candice, nuptials. Conway straightened his tie examining a job well done; given the dull attire he was forced to work with. He fancied himself the perfect Venus fly trap; Candice’s wedding wouldn’t be too boring. Then his older sister, Constance, messaged him.

Constance: Ex bailed. Need u 2 watch kids 4 ceremony.

Conway: No. Get mum 2.

Constance: u r only 1 not in ceremony. B gud uncle 4 once!

Conway: Not gud with kids.

Constance: keep them aliv + out of trouble

Conway’s personal hell broke loose the moment he entered the church. Co-opted into childrearing, he was at a loss to deal with a devious three year old while a baby left drool and spit-up over everything in range. By the end of the evening he ended up covered in conspicuous and offensive stains that not even the most skill dry-cleaner could remove.

Occupational hazards

Microsoft Word - Supernatural Survival Skills

This one is based on the prompt from Mayhem Monday.

There was a time when Camilla thought the luminous, full moon was beautiful. It felt graceful and mysterious. Then she saw what lay on the dark side of the moon, and Now it made her twitchy. Camilla paced; fortieth security check of the night now complete and heading for her forty-first. If the neighbours chanced to look in her barred windows when the moon was full they would no longer wonder if she were crazy. They would know. If they saw how Camilla rocketed into her closet, bolted it shut at the mere clang of a garbage can hitting the pavement they would have her committed. She clutched at crosses and rummaged through her arsenal for every silver bullet she owned. There was only one neighbour she could trust at times like these. Justin Bateman.

Justin lived to her right. He was a staunch non-believer in the supernatural. At least until she set a starving succubus on him for hanging inverted crosses on her door. She had rescued him from his willing entanglement with the demon when he admitted there was a slim possibility the demon would, indeed, suck out his soul. From that point on he acted as an unwilling lackey rather then risk any other encounters with Camilla’s ire. Camilla slammed herself into a chair she had stored in the closet for occasions such as these, pulled a gun across her lap, and dialled his number. Wedging the phone between her shoulder and cheek, she methodically loaded her gun while she listed a string of names she wanted to call Justin as he took his sweet time to answer the phone.

“My God! What the hell do you want?!” Camilla was too focused on her task to care about the grating tone of his voice. “You need to check outside my house. Something knocked over the garbage cans.”

“Why would I do that? Surely you can manage something so simple on your own.” Camilla cocked her gun, imagining it was aimed at Justin’s head. “Tell me, Justin, what happened the last time I did an external perimeter check on a full moon?” Justin let out an exasperated sigh.

“You became a lunatic, filled a stray dog full of silver bullets, and set Mrs. Crabsky’s cat on fire. Why the hell did you do that, I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Never trust a black cat on a full moon. As for the dog? Full moon – shoot first, confirm later. Now, then, who would you rather face: a) a werewolf or b) an irate monster hunter with an itchy trigger-finger who lives next door?”

“…I’ll take my chances with the strays.” A few minutes of tense silence later, he was back on the line. “Camilla, are you sure you killed the old bat’s cat?” Fear had knocked the annoyance out of his voice. “Yes; ethanol and flames tend to be quite efficient.”

“Then why is it in your trash nibbling on rotting chicken?” Camilla dropped the crosses in surprise.

“…I’ll be out in a minute. Seems the old crone really is an Old Crone.”

‘Shrooms

mushrooms

Copyright to Erin Leary

Friday Fictioneer post. 🙂

“There’s Mushrooms in the soup. I’ve disguised a few in the salad, so No picking them out. I’m talking to you, Jerome. We have mushroom and chicken pie for mains. There’s even some left over for tomorrow to have lightly fried with bacon and eggs.”

Nate furrowed his brow. There had been no mushrooms in the shopping.

“Mum, where did you get the mushrooms?”

“They were growing wild behind the barn.” Nate dropped his fork. This would be fun to watch but he decided to move his farm further away from sight.

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