Back in December, I sent off the story below to a Flash Fiction competition, the winning 20 entries of which would be published in an anthology entitled "Thieves and Scoundrels". The stories all had to be 1,000 words or less and had to be SciFi, Horror or Fantasy.
This is the same competition that Don't Feed the Pixies entered and wrote about here. He was not successful and, gues what? Neither was I.
Anyhoo, here's the one they didn't want....
Nature Abhors a Vacuum
Hello, Padre. Is it that time already? My, how time flies when you're having fun. Sorry, that's just my little joke. The condemned man can have a little joke, can't he, Padre?
No? Oh, well.
I know I'm supposed to confess all right about now and seek redemption or something, but I have to tell you Padre, I'm not about to do that. I've lied, cheated, stolen, fornicated and murdered my way around the Ninety Worlds all my life, and if that slimeball Soleki hadn't ratted me out, I'd still be out there doing it right now.
I won't lie to you, Padre, I've done nothing good with my life - and I don't regret it.
That's not what you wanted to hear, is it? That's not how the script goes. Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, Padre, but I've loved every minute of my life!
Okay, I can see you're not buying the bravado and the bullshit, that's very perceptive of you.
There is one thing I did – a theft, actually - that I would undo if I could. Just one, mind, I'm not going soft or anything just because it's my last day.
I just need someone to know this one thing before I go. It's the least I can do.
I once worked aboard Premier Spaceways' holiday ship, Vivace.
Ah, I see you remember what happened aboard that ship. Well, that's the thing, Padre, the authorities never did work out what caused all those deaths, but I know.
It was me.
Don't look so shocked, I never killed those people, they died just the way the Tri-Dee news reported it. It was my fault is all I'm saying.
I was flat broke and in debt up to my eyeballs with all the wrong people. Back then, I had a lousy poker face, an addiction to gambling, and a misplaced belief in my own luck – a most unfortunate combination, I'm sure you'll agree.
Anyway, there was a pair of plasticrete overshoes or an involuntary stroll out of an airlock sans spacesuit in my near future when Temple Jai offered me enough money to get clear and, like a fool, I jumped at it.
Jai said the device was harmless, just some piece of alien tech-junk he'd picked up offworld. I should have known better than to believe anything Temple Jai said, the rat-bastard. I heard he once sold two of his own mothers just for beer money.
Anyway, all I had to do was get a job on a certain ship, using the fake ID Jai gave me, and take this little thing aboard with me. Each day, I was to hide it in a different passenger's cabin, then at the end of the trip, give it back to him. That was all.
It sounded like easy money.
Did I ask him what the device was? Of course I did, but he point-blank refused to tell me and threatened to call off the deal if I didn't shut my yap.
It was a funny-looking thing, about the size and shape of an egg, but very heavy with a kind of translucent pearly shell. The innards - what you could see of them through the shell – were always slowly swirling around. There was a hint of wiring in there too if you looked real close, and a couple of button-like studs on the outside that you could press with your finger.
Maybe that's where it all went wrong. Maybe I fiddled with the thing a bit, I don't remember for sure anymore. Or maybe Temple Jai knew exactly what the thing did and didn't give a shit - I wouldn't put it past him. He's dead now though, so I guess we'll never know.
We were about a week out from Lumiere when the killings began. One morning, Mrs Soraya Ahmed stabbed her husband to death over breakfast. Sarr T'kel bludgeoned his new Sarra to a pulp the next day, then the day after that, Ikk 'ut set fire to the cabin it was sharing with its mates, killing all eight of them.
Now, I'm no genius, but even I managed to work it out. All the passengers that were doing the killing and those that died were ones in whose cabin I had hidden the egg-thing. Now, I've done some killing in my time, but only people who crossed me, only people who deserved it. Killing strangers for no reason has never been my bag, so you better believe I quickly put the egg-thing back into its box and hid it in the ship's hold, well away from people.
There were fifteen more deaths after that, all from the rest of the cabins where I had hidden the egg-thing before I realised what was going on. The captain put us back to port immediately and there was a massive investigation, but no-one ever figured out what had happened.
I heard they had to scrap the Vivace not long after that: no-one wanted to travel in a boat where so many newlyweds met such a tragic end.
You see, Padre, that was the saddest part. As luck - or Temple Jai, maybe - would have it, I'd been assigned to work on the deck where all the honeymoon suites were - where the love was strongest and freshest.
The egg-thing was some kind of syphon: it just drank up all that love, every last drop. Temple Jai had an eager market for that rarest of commodity and stood to get very rich selling the love I stole for him.
The thing is, Padre, nature abhors a vacuum. When all that love got sucked out of those people, something else rushed in to fill the void, something as fierce and strong as the love had been – except it was the exact opposite of that love.
So there it is - the one thing I ever regret stealing.
You can tell the guards I'm ready to go now.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Saturday Wordzzle 98
What a week! I didn't think I'd get time to take part this week and those words....! Go to Raven's Nest to get the poop on how to play this great game.
Worst words: laundry list, pantry.
The mini (risque, radish, ring tone, ravishing, ruler)
This is part of of an ongoing story. A blind seer has had a vision about a young man coming to some as yet unspecified harm from an old man living in a tower. To try to avert this fate, she has anonymously paid for him to take a holiday somewhere far away. The young man has arrived at the holiday town and has noticed an interesting tower, which he plans to investigate the next day. The seer has a nightmare which she believes is connected to the young man's fate and resolves to go after him. She finds herself in the holiday town and realises this is the very place the tower is located. She gets lost trying to locate it and hears footsteps approaching. The young, on his way to the tower sees a blind ladt trying to cross the road. The man approaches her and they talk. The seer soon discovers that this is the very man from her vision and bursts into relieved tears....
The seer speaks...
Oh my goodness! Whatever can this young man think of me, bursting out crying like that? I bet I’m as red as a radish – no, it’s ‘as red as a beetroot’, a beetroot, for goodness’ sake! I do feel really stupid now though. What on Earth am I going to tell him to explain my bizarre behaviour? My emotions have always been my ruler and one of these days it’s going to get me into serious trouble. I suppose I should tell him the truth, as far-fetched as it is. I wish I could see his face! He knows I’m telling the truth, though, how else would I know about Mr Merryman the solicitor? It’s lot to take in for him, so I suggest we go somewhere quiet for drink and a proper talk.He seems a bit hesitant, as though I’ve just suggested something risque. I assure him he’s in no danger of me ravishing him and he laughs, breaking the tension a little. Suddenly, manic laughter starts up from somewhere and he apologises, explaining that it’s the ring tone on his mobile. He excuses himself and steps away to take the call. I can wait, of course, but oh dear, now he’s having an argument with the person on the other end, getting quite heated in fact, and his voice carries in the quiet lane, almost blotting out the sound of a car appraching.
The 10-worder (treasure chest, idiom, pantry, crippled, baying wolf, wind chill, time, angel, salamander, laundry list)
New to Harold? Click here to catch up.
They were gathered in the Salamader room - one of the oddly-named conference rooms at OGS. Mercury was running the meeting. Othello had his laptop open on the table in front of him connected to a projector. It was currently displaying his screensaver – animated fishes swimming all over a coral reef complete with overflowing pirate treasure chest. Prada looked bored already and was doodling on her notepad. Harold could make out the words “pantry” and “laundry list” in amongst a growing number of cartoon flowers, hearts and spirals. India, on the other hand, was leaning forward, pencil poised, all alert attentivemess.
Harold himself was quite interested in the proceedings. There were no briefing sessions in the Basement, although Harold had heard humans claiming that they thought they had died and gone there after a particularly long and boring meeting up here. Teatime sat quietly on the table in front of Harold.
“OK, I think it’s safe to assume that since both sides have lost –er – people then neither side is responsible for what’s happening. Agreed?”
A murmur of assent ran round the table.
Othello tapped his keyboard and a neat bullet point appeared on the whiteboard.
“So who does that leave?” continued Mercury.
“Humans,” suggested Teatime. India tutted and shot him a look with a wind chill factor strong enough to freeze a small bird to death.
“Well, who else is there?” he continued, unperturbed.
“Aliens?” Prada didn’t even look up from her dodles. “Vampires? Dragons?”
This was greeted with a chorus of general disagreement.
“Perhaps we should shelve that point for the moment, pending more information.” said Othello as his fingers danced on the keyboard once more.
“OK,” agreed Mercury, “Let’s record such information as we do have. Mr Teatime, I believe you have the details of the Fallen that have disappeared. Would you care to share them with us?”
“Yes, of course” Teatime assumed his schoolmasterly tone, “The Basement has lost touch with five demons
thus far. The most recent was Baron Samedi. Before that there was Crippled Tom, then Akim, a.k.a Baying Wolf, Michael Everest and Susan.”
Prada let out a giggle.
“Susan?” she said, “Seriously? There’s a demon called Susan? What is she, the spirit of extreme bossiness? ‘Cos if she is, then you’ve just described my little sister.”
“Very funny, Prada,” said Othello, “Now, on our side, we’ve lost three: Territhiel, Auriel and Illyriel, according to the information given us by the Penthouse.”
Harold started at that last name. He and Illyriel, while not exactly BFFs or whtever the human idiom was, had nevertheless been quite close before the Great War, and it was shocking to imagine that he might be
gone for good. Even though he had been banished from the Penthouse along with all the other Fallen, Harold had, in those first terrifying dark days, taken a little comfort in knowing that former friends were still there, safe and happy.
“How can an angel or a Fallen just disappear, though?” asked India. “They can’t be killed, can they?”
“That’s right,” agreed Harold, “Our vessels are pretty much indestructible.”
“But vulnerable to electricity, or our tasers wouldn’t work.” observed Othello. “In all our dealings with Fallen, we’ve never found any other practical way of restraining them – apart from Binding, and only a few of us can do that.” He looked at Harold, “in the interests of solving this mystery for both our sides, do you have any other weaknesses we should know about, that might have been exploited by whoever is behind this?”
Yeah, like I’d tell you if I had, thought Harold. “Not unless you count trad. Jazz.” He said. “I’m a real sucker for that.”
“We’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.” said Mercury drily.
It was going to be a long meeting.
Worst words: laundry list, pantry.
The mini (risque, radish, ring tone, ravishing, ruler)
This is part of of an ongoing story. A blind seer has had a vision about a young man coming to some as yet unspecified harm from an old man living in a tower. To try to avert this fate, she has anonymously paid for him to take a holiday somewhere far away. The young man has arrived at the holiday town and has noticed an interesting tower, which he plans to investigate the next day. The seer has a nightmare which she believes is connected to the young man's fate and resolves to go after him. She finds herself in the holiday town and realises this is the very place the tower is located. She gets lost trying to locate it and hears footsteps approaching. The young, on his way to the tower sees a blind ladt trying to cross the road. The man approaches her and they talk. The seer soon discovers that this is the very man from her vision and bursts into relieved tears....
The seer speaks...
Oh my goodness! Whatever can this young man think of me, bursting out crying like that? I bet I’m as red as a radish – no, it’s ‘as red as a beetroot’, a beetroot, for goodness’ sake! I do feel really stupid now though. What on Earth am I going to tell him to explain my bizarre behaviour? My emotions have always been my ruler and one of these days it’s going to get me into serious trouble. I suppose I should tell him the truth, as far-fetched as it is. I wish I could see his face! He knows I’m telling the truth, though, how else would I know about Mr Merryman the solicitor? It’s lot to take in for him, so I suggest we go somewhere quiet for drink and a proper talk.He seems a bit hesitant, as though I’ve just suggested something risque. I assure him he’s in no danger of me ravishing him and he laughs, breaking the tension a little. Suddenly, manic laughter starts up from somewhere and he apologises, explaining that it’s the ring tone on his mobile. He excuses himself and steps away to take the call. I can wait, of course, but oh dear, now he’s having an argument with the person on the other end, getting quite heated in fact, and his voice carries in the quiet lane, almost blotting out the sound of a car appraching.
The 10-worder (treasure chest, idiom, pantry, crippled, baying wolf, wind chill, time, angel, salamander, laundry list)
New to Harold? Click here to catch up.
They were gathered in the Salamader room - one of the oddly-named conference rooms at OGS. Mercury was running the meeting. Othello had his laptop open on the table in front of him connected to a projector. It was currently displaying his screensaver – animated fishes swimming all over a coral reef complete with overflowing pirate treasure chest. Prada looked bored already and was doodling on her notepad. Harold could make out the words “pantry” and “laundry list” in amongst a growing number of cartoon flowers, hearts and spirals. India, on the other hand, was leaning forward, pencil poised, all alert attentivemess.
Harold himself was quite interested in the proceedings. There were no briefing sessions in the Basement, although Harold had heard humans claiming that they thought they had died and gone there after a particularly long and boring meeting up here. Teatime sat quietly on the table in front of Harold.
“OK, I think it’s safe to assume that since both sides have lost –er – people then neither side is responsible for what’s happening. Agreed?”
A murmur of assent ran round the table.
Othello tapped his keyboard and a neat bullet point appeared on the whiteboard.
“So who does that leave?” continued Mercury.
“Humans,” suggested Teatime. India tutted and shot him a look with a wind chill factor strong enough to freeze a small bird to death.
“Well, who else is there?” he continued, unperturbed.
“Aliens?” Prada didn’t even look up from her dodles. “Vampires? Dragons?”
This was greeted with a chorus of general disagreement.
“Perhaps we should shelve that point for the moment, pending more information.” said Othello as his fingers danced on the keyboard once more.
“OK,” agreed Mercury, “Let’s record such information as we do have. Mr Teatime, I believe you have the details of the Fallen that have disappeared. Would you care to share them with us?”
“Yes, of course” Teatime assumed his schoolmasterly tone, “The Basement has lost touch with five demons
thus far. The most recent was Baron Samedi. Before that there was Crippled Tom, then Akim, a.k.a Baying Wolf, Michael Everest and Susan.”
Prada let out a giggle.
“Susan?” she said, “Seriously? There’s a demon called Susan? What is she, the spirit of extreme bossiness? ‘Cos if she is, then you’ve just described my little sister.”
“Very funny, Prada,” said Othello, “Now, on our side, we’ve lost three: Territhiel, Auriel and Illyriel, according to the information given us by the Penthouse.”
Harold started at that last name. He and Illyriel, while not exactly BFFs or whtever the human idiom was, had nevertheless been quite close before the Great War, and it was shocking to imagine that he might be
gone for good. Even though he had been banished from the Penthouse along with all the other Fallen, Harold had, in those first terrifying dark days, taken a little comfort in knowing that former friends were still there, safe and happy.
“How can an angel or a Fallen just disappear, though?” asked India. “They can’t be killed, can they?”
“That’s right,” agreed Harold, “Our vessels are pretty much indestructible.”
“But vulnerable to electricity, or our tasers wouldn’t work.” observed Othello. “In all our dealings with Fallen, we’ve never found any other practical way of restraining them – apart from Binding, and only a few of us can do that.” He looked at Harold, “in the interests of solving this mystery for both our sides, do you have any other weaknesses we should know about, that might have been exploited by whoever is behind this?”
Yeah, like I’d tell you if I had, thought Harold. “Not unless you count trad. Jazz.” He said. “I’m a real sucker for that.”
“We’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.” said Mercury drily.
It was going to be a long meeting.
Friday, 5 February 2010
If we made cars....
I work in the department responsible for keeping our Business Intelligence (oxymoron there if ever there was one) computer systems running. From time to time, our programmers give us new versions of software to install or brand new software to set up when a new BI client comes along. This does not always go smoothly...
You’ve probably all seen the internet joke about what it would be like if Microsoft made cars…
Well here’s my take on it for our department.
I present for your amusement a series of fictionalised but not untypical exchanges between me (SUPPORT) and our programmers (DEV), along with a comparable set between a motorist and a car maker, so you can see what we have to put up with.
SUPPORT: We can’t install the new version of the Klooluss X-5000 Decision Support System because there are no table definitions in the database for it.
DEV: Don’t worry, they’re being developed now and we will deliver them on Monday.
MOTORIST: My car has been delivered with no wheels and won’t run.
CARMAKER: Don’t worry, we’re manufacturing the wheels now and we’ll deliver them on Monday.
Monday…
SUPPORT: OK, we’ve got the table definitions, but when we run the code, the program is expecting a different set of column names from those defined in the database.
DEV: Log a case in QC and we’ll look into it.
MOTORIST: OK, I’ve got the wheels now, but they're square. I was kind of expecting round ones.
CARMAKER: Please contact your dealer, have him call us and we’ll get back to you.
Later that day...
DEV: We've looked into this and it’s your fault. We think you’re running the code against the wrong database.
SUPPORT: We’re using the one that we have been assured is the correct one.
CARMAKER: We've looked into this and it’s your fault. We think you’re trying to fit the wheels in the wrong place.
MOTORIST: I’m fitting a wheel to each of the four corners of the car - where else would I fit them?.
DEV: Would you like a web conference with one of our team to talk you through where you’re going wrong?
SUPPORT: No need for a web conference. The definitions are wrong (see the screenshot I'm emailing).
CARMAKER: Would you like to set up a webcam and film yourself attempting to fit the wheels and one of our mechanics will talk you through where you’re going wrong.
MOTORIST: No need for a web cam. The wheels are definitely wrong (see the photo I'm emailing)
Much later that day...
DEV: Oh, it turns out that we’re developing off an out-of-date schema, we’ll need to impact this and get a new version of the code written..
SUPPORT: Hmmm, it’s due to go live tomorrow.
CARMAKER: Oh, turns out wheels are round now! Who knew? Square ones were phased out some time ago, apparently, hehe. We’ll need to go back to the drawing board on this one.
MOTORIST: Hmmm. I need to use the car tomorrow.
DEV: Sorry, we’re maxed out and have no resource to complete the work by then.
SUPPORT: Well, I’m sure the client will understand, and won’t be at all interested in demanding their money back..
CARMAKER: Sorry, there’s no way we can retool for round wheels by Tuesday.
MOTORIST: Fine, I’m sure my great aunt Aggie will understand why she can’t go to her life-saving kidney dialysis session.
Trying to get round the problem...
SUPPORT: Look, we can see the problem and can easily fix it ….
DEV: Sorry, that’s not your job. We can’t have people changing the code or we can’t guarantee our releases contain the most correct version of the code.
MOTORIST: I can see the problem and I have a spare set of wheels here that will fit…
CARMAKER: Sorry, that’s not your job. We can’t have people using wheels we have not manufactured or we couldn’t guarantee the car will work.
SUPPORT: But it doesn’t work now.
DEV: Sorry, there’s a process…..
MOTORIST: But my car doesn’t work now.
CARMAKER: Sorry, there’s a process….
There’s always a frickin’ process!
I love my job - it's the people.....!!
You’ve probably all seen the internet joke about what it would be like if Microsoft made cars…
Well here’s my take on it for our department.
I present for your amusement a series of fictionalised but not untypical exchanges between me (SUPPORT) and our programmers (DEV), along with a comparable set between a motorist and a car maker, so you can see what we have to put up with.
SUPPORT: We can’t install the new version of the Klooluss X-5000 Decision Support System because there are no table definitions in the database for it.
DEV: Don’t worry, they’re being developed now and we will deliver them on Monday.
MOTORIST: My car has been delivered with no wheels and won’t run.
CARMAKER: Don’t worry, we’re manufacturing the wheels now and we’ll deliver them on Monday.
Monday…
SUPPORT: OK, we’ve got the table definitions, but when we run the code, the program is expecting a different set of column names from those defined in the database.
DEV: Log a case in QC and we’ll look into it.
MOTORIST: OK, I’ve got the wheels now, but they're square. I was kind of expecting round ones.
CARMAKER: Please contact your dealer, have him call us and we’ll get back to you.
Later that day...
DEV: We've looked into this and it’s your fault. We think you’re running the code against the wrong database.
SUPPORT: We’re using the one that we have been assured is the correct one.
CARMAKER: We've looked into this and it’s your fault. We think you’re trying to fit the wheels in the wrong place.
MOTORIST: I’m fitting a wheel to each of the four corners of the car - where else would I fit them?.
DEV: Would you like a web conference with one of our team to talk you through where you’re going wrong?
SUPPORT: No need for a web conference. The definitions are wrong (see the screenshot I'm emailing).
CARMAKER: Would you like to set up a webcam and film yourself attempting to fit the wheels and one of our mechanics will talk you through where you’re going wrong.
MOTORIST: No need for a web cam. The wheels are definitely wrong (see the photo I'm emailing)
Much later that day...
DEV: Oh, it turns out that we’re developing off an out-of-date schema, we’ll need to impact this and get a new version of the code written..
SUPPORT: Hmmm, it’s due to go live tomorrow.
CARMAKER: Oh, turns out wheels are round now! Who knew? Square ones were phased out some time ago, apparently, hehe. We’ll need to go back to the drawing board on this one.
MOTORIST: Hmmm. I need to use the car tomorrow.
DEV: Sorry, we’re maxed out and have no resource to complete the work by then.
SUPPORT: Well, I’m sure the client will understand, and won’t be at all interested in demanding their money back..
CARMAKER: Sorry, there’s no way we can retool for round wheels by Tuesday.
MOTORIST: Fine, I’m sure my great aunt Aggie will understand why she can’t go to her life-saving kidney dialysis session.
Trying to get round the problem...
SUPPORT: Look, we can see the problem and can easily fix it ….
DEV: Sorry, that’s not your job. We can’t have people changing the code or we can’t guarantee our releases contain the most correct version of the code.
MOTORIST: I can see the problem and I have a spare set of wheels here that will fit…
CARMAKER: Sorry, that’s not your job. We can’t have people using wheels we have not manufactured or we couldn’t guarantee the car will work.
SUPPORT: But it doesn’t work now.
DEV: Sorry, there’s a process…..
MOTORIST: But my car doesn’t work now.
CARMAKER: Sorry, there’s a process….
There’s always a frickin’ process!
I love my job - it's the people.....!!
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
I'm running late for the bus!
This weeks sees the return of Eej's Poetry Bus, as driven by the extravagantly talented Mr Dominic Rivron.
This week's challenge was to go to the website of one Simon Fisher Turner, listen to his music and write a piece whilst listening.
The music is here. The track Ghost Road Berlin is the one to listen to.
Here's my take on it. I have to say that this piece, whilst relatively inoffensive to the lugholes would not normally be my personal cup of Earl Grey, but kudos to Dominic for getting me to listen outside my comfort zone.
Ghost Road
These diaphamous ribbons of sound
Elude the ear,
Wafting near
Then far
Then near again.
Come with us, they say.
But I can't
My feet are leaden
And this body of heavy clay
Is anchored still to Earth
And the cold, cold wind
blows and blows.
This week's challenge was to go to the website of one Simon Fisher Turner, listen to his music and write a piece whilst listening.
The music is here. The track Ghost Road Berlin is the one to listen to.
Here's my take on it. I have to say that this piece, whilst relatively inoffensive to the lugholes would not normally be my personal cup of Earl Grey, but kudos to Dominic for getting me to listen outside my comfort zone.
Ghost Road
These diaphamous ribbons of sound
Elude the ear,
Wafting near
Then far
Then near again.
Come with us, they say.
But I can't
My feet are leaden
And this body of heavy clay
Is anchored still to Earth
And the cold, cold wind
blows and blows.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Must the Show Go On? Yes, Apparently.
Followers of Don’t Feed the Pixies will have probably read by now his account of the panto-related shenannigans last Saturday night at a certain village hall near us (You can catch up on it here if you need to).
He spoke eloquently there of the pantomimes staged by our Toastmasters club and another one from some distance away, so I won’t go over all that again. I’ll just add that, not being pretty enough to actually be in the panto (it wasn’t Cinderella, so no ugly sisters needed), I was drafted in at the last minute to do the incredibly difficult and complex job of Lighting Technician. OK, I just had to turn off the stage lights at the proper time and turn them back on again… and then off again…. and then on again. OK, enough of that. That was my one contribution to the panto, big whoop.
No, I was there to form a kind of musical comedy double-act with DFTP. That’s how it ended up anyway. We originally volunteered our miscal services ages ago, but only found out relatively recently how much time we would be allotted. We were, we were told, to be the “middle bit” between the pantos, and needed to come up with 10-15 minutes of material.
What to do, what to do?
We did consider performing a few of our own songs but hadn’t got enough funny to last that long and this was definitely not the occasion for songs about drowning ourselves or feeling p$ssed off at work. We needed funny and we needed it fast - we only had a couple of chances to get together and rehearse before the Big Day.
The we came upon the idea of presenting a series of snippets of famous songs with lyrics re-written to poke gentle fun at Toastmasters and public-speaking – a subject familiar and dear to the hearts of our audience. The theme would be that we had discovered in the Toastmasters’ archive (the bins round the back of the village hall) the lost lyrics of some famous musicians who had once partaken of the Toasties experience. Having got our theme sorted out, our pencils began to scribble furiously and we managed to get something together .
When we came onstage, the running order had been changed. so we were at the end of the two pantos, not the middle. Mind you, this was good as the audience was well warmed up by this time and determined to have a good time.
It was just as well they were!
When we started our skit on Paul Simon’s Sounds of Silence, (Hello, lecturn my old friend/I’ve come to stand up here again…) I managed to somehow mess up one of the chord changes and basically ruined the whole thing so we started over, to much merriment. Sounds of Silence is a b$gger to sing, by the way, with a wide pitch range. My voice was quite tired from practising like a looney earlier in the day in a desparate last-ditch effort to learn the pieces by heart (my sight’s not good enough to read from a cue sheet like lucky old DFTP). Anyway we got though without much further mishap and no vocal collapses, and the audience was having such fun with/at us – even laughing in the right places at the jokes – that we both began to relax a bit.
Then came the lost Cat Stevens song, The First Speech is the Hardest (I had it perfectly planned from the start/But when I stood up it all fell apart…) which we got through without undue boo-boos (or if there were any, my aging brain has blotted them out behind the pink fluffy clouds of pre-senile dementia).
Then it was on to Sting with Every Speech You make (Every speech you make/Every role you take…). According to DFTP, Sting was actually thrown out of Toastmasters for Tantric Speaking – just going on and on and never reaching a climax (bah-dum, ching!). This was one of the few jokes we actually remembered to do on the night. We had roughed out a kind of script and had put (what we thought were) funny little interludes between the songs, but on the night, the applause was very generous and in all the excitement, we forgot most of it. *Sigh* Comedy Gold, lost forever.
Then came the Great Capo Incident of 2010. For those of you who have never used them, Capos are a ingenious device for making your guitar go completely out of tune. Apparently, the inventors originally intended them to just raise the pitch of all the strings, allowing musicians and singers of relatively indifferent accomplishment (like me) to change the key of a song without all that messy business of knowing loads of more complicated and hard-to-play chords. Anyway, I took about 4 goes to get mine fitted properly and DFTP swears his made his guitar sound wonky (although I didn’t notice it). We then went for Bob Marley’s I Joined Toastmasters (to the tune of I Shot the Sherrif) which DFTP, being a much better guitarist than me accompanied really well with a nice reggae beat while I sort of fiddled around a bit, trying to keep up (practeeeeeeesss!!).
Next up was Green Day and Wake Me Up When the Speeches End (the track that never quite made it to their American Idiot album). Again DFTP came up with the goods on the guitar, reproducing quite neatly, the riff that GD play – singing all the while too. Impressive.
Our final hurrah was a song to the tune of I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing (the old Coca Cola advert from years ago). This was the longest one and had the least funny in it, but was probably one of the best received for all that. We even got the audience waving their hands in the air at the end, which was terrific!.
This was my first public performance since 1990 and I had been a bit anxious about messing up and forgetting the words. In the end though, it was not too bad and the audience, being so determined to have fun, really made it a lot easier than it might have been. Sadly, no record remains of this performance and perhaps that’s just as well.
DFTP and I are now looking to do some less “safe” venues, like open mic nights or the like. Also available for Weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs….
PS: Watercats have nothing to fear from us!
He spoke eloquently there of the pantomimes staged by our Toastmasters club and another one from some distance away, so I won’t go over all that again. I’ll just add that, not being pretty enough to actually be in the panto (it wasn’t Cinderella, so no ugly sisters needed), I was drafted in at the last minute to do the incredibly difficult and complex job of Lighting Technician. OK, I just had to turn off the stage lights at the proper time and turn them back on again… and then off again…. and then on again. OK, enough of that. That was my one contribution to the panto, big whoop.
No, I was there to form a kind of musical comedy double-act with DFTP. That’s how it ended up anyway. We originally volunteered our miscal services ages ago, but only found out relatively recently how much time we would be allotted. We were, we were told, to be the “middle bit” between the pantos, and needed to come up with 10-15 minutes of material.
What to do, what to do?
We did consider performing a few of our own songs but hadn’t got enough funny to last that long and this was definitely not the occasion for songs about drowning ourselves or feeling p$ssed off at work. We needed funny and we needed it fast - we only had a couple of chances to get together and rehearse before the Big Day.
The we came upon the idea of presenting a series of snippets of famous songs with lyrics re-written to poke gentle fun at Toastmasters and public-speaking – a subject familiar and dear to the hearts of our audience. The theme would be that we had discovered in the Toastmasters’ archive (the bins round the back of the village hall) the lost lyrics of some famous musicians who had once partaken of the Toasties experience. Having got our theme sorted out, our pencils began to scribble furiously and we managed to get something together .
When we came onstage, the running order had been changed. so we were at the end of the two pantos, not the middle. Mind you, this was good as the audience was well warmed up by this time and determined to have a good time.
It was just as well they were!
When we started our skit on Paul Simon’s Sounds of Silence, (Hello, lecturn my old friend/I’ve come to stand up here again…) I managed to somehow mess up one of the chord changes and basically ruined the whole thing so we started over, to much merriment. Sounds of Silence is a b$gger to sing, by the way, with a wide pitch range. My voice was quite tired from practising like a looney earlier in the day in a desparate last-ditch effort to learn the pieces by heart (my sight’s not good enough to read from a cue sheet like lucky old DFTP). Anyway we got though without much further mishap and no vocal collapses, and the audience was having such fun with/at us – even laughing in the right places at the jokes – that we both began to relax a bit.
Then came the lost Cat Stevens song, The First Speech is the Hardest (I had it perfectly planned from the start/But when I stood up it all fell apart…) which we got through without undue boo-boos (or if there were any, my aging brain has blotted them out behind the pink fluffy clouds of pre-senile dementia).
Then it was on to Sting with Every Speech You make (Every speech you make/Every role you take…). According to DFTP, Sting was actually thrown out of Toastmasters for Tantric Speaking – just going on and on and never reaching a climax (bah-dum, ching!). This was one of the few jokes we actually remembered to do on the night. We had roughed out a kind of script and had put (what we thought were) funny little interludes between the songs, but on the night, the applause was very generous and in all the excitement, we forgot most of it. *Sigh* Comedy Gold, lost forever.
Then came the Great Capo Incident of 2010. For those of you who have never used them, Capos are a ingenious device for making your guitar go completely out of tune. Apparently, the inventors originally intended them to just raise the pitch of all the strings, allowing musicians and singers of relatively indifferent accomplishment (like me) to change the key of a song without all that messy business of knowing loads of more complicated and hard-to-play chords. Anyway, I took about 4 goes to get mine fitted properly and DFTP swears his made his guitar sound wonky (although I didn’t notice it). We then went for Bob Marley’s I Joined Toastmasters (to the tune of I Shot the Sherrif) which DFTP, being a much better guitarist than me accompanied really well with a nice reggae beat while I sort of fiddled around a bit, trying to keep up (practeeeeeeesss!!).
Next up was Green Day and Wake Me Up When the Speeches End (the track that never quite made it to their American Idiot album). Again DFTP came up with the goods on the guitar, reproducing quite neatly, the riff that GD play – singing all the while too. Impressive.
Our final hurrah was a song to the tune of I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing (the old Coca Cola advert from years ago). This was the longest one and had the least funny in it, but was probably one of the best received for all that. We even got the audience waving their hands in the air at the end, which was terrific!.
This was my first public performance since 1990 and I had been a bit anxious about messing up and forgetting the words. In the end though, it was not too bad and the audience, being so determined to have fun, really made it a lot easier than it might have been. Sadly, no record remains of this performance and perhaps that’s just as well.
DFTP and I are now looking to do some less “safe” venues, like open mic nights or the like. Also available for Weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs….
PS: Watercats have nothing to fear from us!
Saturday Wordzzle 97
Saturday again so soon? Must be Wordzzle time then! Go to Raven's Nest to get the poop on how to play this game.
I chose this week's words and I apologise if they were annoyingly hard - I struggled with marshmallow and Telfon.
The mini (ripen, shelve, laminate, goofy, Siamese)
This is part of of an ongoing story. A blind seer has had a vision about a young man coming to some as yet unspecified harm from an old man living in a tower. To try to avert this fate, she has anonymously paid for him to take a holiday somewhere far away. The young man has arrived at the holiday town and has noticed an interesting tower, which he plans to investigate the next day. The seer has a nightmare which she believes is connected to the young man's fate and resolves to go after him. She finds herself in the holiday town and realises this is the very place the tower is located. She gets lost trying to locate it and hears footsteps approaching. The young man, on his way to the tower sees a blind lady trying to cross the road...
The young man speaks...
I am thinking I should shelve my idea of helping the blind lady across the road before it can ripen into an embarrassing encounter. What if she‘s insulted by my offer to help, my implied view of her as incapable? It’s a goofy idea, surely. She’s still hesitating though. What to do, what to do? Oh, get on with it man! What’s the worst that could happen? She might tell you to get lost is all. She starts at my hand on her arm and I apologise and explain that I’ll help her if she’s willing. She wants to go to the tower. That’s handy for me, I tell her. We can go together. I wrap her arm over mine and we set off. I’m quite tall and she is very short, so we must look like a set of bizarrely mis-matched Siamese twins. We chat a bit as we go and soon a thin laminate of friendship is laid over our initial shyness with each other. She’s actually quite pretty behind the dark glasses. I tell her about my windfall anonymously-donated holiday. Oh, no! What did I say? She’s like a woman possessed, she’s throwing her arms around me and crying. What’s that all about?
The 10-worder (Teflon, idealistic, marshmallow, opportunistic, kittens, beef, sawing logs, slapped, tickled, scissors)
New to Harold? Click here to catch up.
The phone rang . Mr Teeth set down the scissors he had been using to open his morning sachet of protein drink (beef flavour today) and picked it up.
“This is Peck. “ came the cultured voice of the private investigator . “Your boy is back in town. He was seen hanging around the club last night. Unfortunately, he left there in the company of some others – two men, two women. We have a licence plate though and my contacts are tracing the owners.”
“Thanks,” grunted Mr Teeth, “I still want to speak to that boy, so keep on it, will you?”
“Of course,” came the smooth reply, “I’ll let you know if anything changes.” The phone went dead. For 1500 dollars a day, the man might at least say goodbye occasionally, thought Mr Teeth.
They had given Harold a tiny, hastily emptied-out office with no windows (to prevent opportunistic escape attempts, presumably). Someone had rustled up a camp bed and they had left a desk and chair in there too. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was better than nothing.
Teatime was still delicately sawing logs when Harold woke from a pleasant night of quiescence, wondering what the day would bring. He dressed, opened the door and stepped out into the main operations room of OGS. This place had fascinated him on his last visit but he had not exactly had a chance to explore.
Even at this early hour, the place was far from deserted: there were agents tapping reports into computers, agents on the phone, agents scouring the internet for information – a veritable hive of activity. A fresh-faced young agent at a nearby desk noticed Harold.
“I don’t think you’re meant to be wandering about out here.” He said, rather timidly. Harold guessed that he had probably not been in the job long. It was wrong of him, he knew, but he could not resist having a little fun. He placed his hands on the desk in front of the agent and leaned over him, forcing him to lean back to maintain eye contact.
“I was just looking for something to eat,” he said, bestowing upon the agent his most friendly grin. “Know where I can get hold of some nice fluffy kittens?”
The young agent looked horrified.
“Err, I don’t think we can do that.” He stammered, “I can get you something from the canteen. Will that do?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Stop that!” India snapped, having just arrived.
“I’m sorry,” Harold said to the young agent, “I was just having a little fun. Some food would be nice though. Teatime will be hungry by now and he gets really grouchy when he’s hungry.”
Relieved, the young agent scuttled off.
“Do anything like that again and there’ll be trouble.” India said angrily, looking like she could have slapped him.
Harold held up his palms apologetically, “I’m sorry. You idealistic types have a certain stereotypical view of us demons, so I was just living up to it. Won’t happen again.”
The fried egg of his apology splatted against the Teflon coating of her cool stare and slid off, leaving no trace of humour in her eyes. Mind you, when Harold thought about it, he had been a bit mean to torment the young agent like that. The young fellow had been about as tough as a marshmallow and not really fair game. He sighed. Guess it was just his wicked fallen nature coming out.
“Get your monkey-thing and come with me.” India ordered.
She was back to being dark-haired again today for some reason which tickled Harold’s curiosity somewhat. He’d have to ask her about that at some point – after making sure her taser was well out of reach first, of course.
I chose this week's words and I apologise if they were annoyingly hard - I struggled with marshmallow and Telfon.
The mini (ripen, shelve, laminate, goofy, Siamese)
This is part of of an ongoing story. A blind seer has had a vision about a young man coming to some as yet unspecified harm from an old man living in a tower. To try to avert this fate, she has anonymously paid for him to take a holiday somewhere far away. The young man has arrived at the holiday town and has noticed an interesting tower, which he plans to investigate the next day. The seer has a nightmare which she believes is connected to the young man's fate and resolves to go after him. She finds herself in the holiday town and realises this is the very place the tower is located. She gets lost trying to locate it and hears footsteps approaching. The young man, on his way to the tower sees a blind lady trying to cross the road...
The young man speaks...
I am thinking I should shelve my idea of helping the blind lady across the road before it can ripen into an embarrassing encounter. What if she‘s insulted by my offer to help, my implied view of her as incapable? It’s a goofy idea, surely. She’s still hesitating though. What to do, what to do? Oh, get on with it man! What’s the worst that could happen? She might tell you to get lost is all. She starts at my hand on her arm and I apologise and explain that I’ll help her if she’s willing. She wants to go to the tower. That’s handy for me, I tell her. We can go together. I wrap her arm over mine and we set off. I’m quite tall and she is very short, so we must look like a set of bizarrely mis-matched Siamese twins. We chat a bit as we go and soon a thin laminate of friendship is laid over our initial shyness with each other. She’s actually quite pretty behind the dark glasses. I tell her about my windfall anonymously-donated holiday. Oh, no! What did I say? She’s like a woman possessed, she’s throwing her arms around me and crying. What’s that all about?
The 10-worder (Teflon, idealistic, marshmallow, opportunistic, kittens, beef, sawing logs, slapped, tickled, scissors)
New to Harold? Click here to catch up.
The phone rang . Mr Teeth set down the scissors he had been using to open his morning sachet of protein drink (beef flavour today) and picked it up.
“This is Peck. “ came the cultured voice of the private investigator . “Your boy is back in town. He was seen hanging around the club last night. Unfortunately, he left there in the company of some others – two men, two women. We have a licence plate though and my contacts are tracing the owners.”
“Thanks,” grunted Mr Teeth, “I still want to speak to that boy, so keep on it, will you?”
“Of course,” came the smooth reply, “I’ll let you know if anything changes.” The phone went dead. For 1500 dollars a day, the man might at least say goodbye occasionally, thought Mr Teeth.
They had given Harold a tiny, hastily emptied-out office with no windows (to prevent opportunistic escape attempts, presumably). Someone had rustled up a camp bed and they had left a desk and chair in there too. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was better than nothing.
Teatime was still delicately sawing logs when Harold woke from a pleasant night of quiescence, wondering what the day would bring. He dressed, opened the door and stepped out into the main operations room of OGS. This place had fascinated him on his last visit but he had not exactly had a chance to explore.
Even at this early hour, the place was far from deserted: there were agents tapping reports into computers, agents on the phone, agents scouring the internet for information – a veritable hive of activity. A fresh-faced young agent at a nearby desk noticed Harold.
“I don’t think you’re meant to be wandering about out here.” He said, rather timidly. Harold guessed that he had probably not been in the job long. It was wrong of him, he knew, but he could not resist having a little fun. He placed his hands on the desk in front of the agent and leaned over him, forcing him to lean back to maintain eye contact.
“I was just looking for something to eat,” he said, bestowing upon the agent his most friendly grin. “Know where I can get hold of some nice fluffy kittens?”
The young agent looked horrified.
“Err, I don’t think we can do that.” He stammered, “I can get you something from the canteen. Will that do?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Stop that!” India snapped, having just arrived.
“I’m sorry,” Harold said to the young agent, “I was just having a little fun. Some food would be nice though. Teatime will be hungry by now and he gets really grouchy when he’s hungry.”
Relieved, the young agent scuttled off.
“Do anything like that again and there’ll be trouble.” India said angrily, looking like she could have slapped him.
Harold held up his palms apologetically, “I’m sorry. You idealistic types have a certain stereotypical view of us demons, so I was just living up to it. Won’t happen again.”
The fried egg of his apology splatted against the Teflon coating of her cool stare and slid off, leaving no trace of humour in her eyes. Mind you, when Harold thought about it, he had been a bit mean to torment the young agent like that. The young fellow had been about as tough as a marshmallow and not really fair game. He sighed. Guess it was just his wicked fallen nature coming out.
“Get your monkey-thing and come with me.” India ordered.
She was back to being dark-haired again today for some reason which tickled Harold’s curiosity somewhat. He’d have to ask her about that at some point – after making sure her taser was well out of reach first, of course.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Get in da red car and follow that bus!
The Lord of all Eejit has got the Poetry Bus all fixed up again, Hooray! This week's trip involves writing a poem which includes the words RED CAR in it.
This is my feeble, get-aboard-the-bus-at-any-price effort. It has the virtue of being short.
Wishing I could be in Wicklow on Friday....
This is my feeble, get-aboard-the-bus-at-any-price effort. It has the virtue of being short.
This red car has seen better days.
Once, it would have slipped out of the garage
Like a shiny red tongue, stuck defiantly out at the world.
The tongue's lolling listlessly now, though
And cannot so much as muster a feeble raspberry.
Wishing I could be in Wicklow on Friday....
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