Journal Entries
Oh Little Town of (insert name here)
Posted Dec 21, 2020
Eight hundred years. A long wait by Earth time, a mere blink in the life of the Spiral Architects.
Tonight the planets would align, a new star to follow, a new beginning in the Universe (or this dull part of it anyway).
On a hilltop, three potheads sat, watching their phones by night.
From the southwest, a brilliant double star illuminated the sunset.
*Whoa dudes! You see that plane, freaky or what?*
Her two companions glanced up through the smoke and agreed that the bright plane lights were indeed way freaky.
Their night, however, was about to get a hell of a lot freakier.
Out of the skunk haze appeared a figure, white and rather feathery, huge wings unfolding, as the Starlight seemed to make the figure glow.
*Fear not* said she, (for mighty dreads had slightly obscured their eyes), *Glad tidings of great joy I bring.. *
Claire pushed back her pink and green dreadlocks, and squinted at the glowing figure.
*Whoa dudes! That frighteningly large chicken just spoke dudes!* She nodded wisely and lit another joint.
*No, seriously, I bring tidings of the birth of….. *
The stoners leant in closer to the glowing figure,
*.... Bwaaak, bwuuk, bukk, bwakkk… *
Debbie asked (quite seriously) if anyone spoke chicken, and passed the spliff around, holding it out to the Archangel, and making soothing clucking noises.
Eight hundred years!
What a bloody waste of a tea break!
The Spiral Architect screwed up the plans, throwing the future salvation of humankind into a nearby black hole, and went off to do something more worthwhile instead.
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Latest reply: Dec 21, 2020
31....
Posted Dec 1, 2020
It had been a long and frightening journey. Bevan has lost count of the times he believed he would drown, or starve to death, on the vast waters.
Huddled in the keel, trying to keep warm by sleeping in the stinking goat pen, Bevan had been woken by shouts from the bow.
*Land!*
The young boy's heart swelled as he rubbed his eyes, trying to see more than a faint smudge on the horizon. How these Northmen could distinguish anything at sea never failed to amaze him.
But, as the day wore on, he could finally pick out the dark shapes of the strange land growing in the distance. First cliffs, mighty rocks, a few trees breaking the skyline, then his vision was filled, beaches, vegetation, a myriad of strange birds circling in the updrafts between cliffs and shoreline.
Strangely familiar but terrible alien at the same moment.
Bevan knew he was far, far away from home, would probably never see the Wirhael again. One way or another, this strange new world would be his home.
*Come, laddie, help me with the ropes* Conn didn't wait for an answer, striding off towards the square rig, knowing the boy would follow. Since he was rescued from Thurston, Bevan had followed Conn around like a pup.
Aboard the Sí mac Tíre, sailing ever westward, Conn had taught the boy what he could about life at sea, impressed at the lad's willingness to learn and his stubbornness not to admit failure.
*We'll make a Viking out of you yet young Celt!' Conn growled his approval as Bevan set about his task.
Another shout went up, Bevan and his crewmate looked towards shore, six strange boats, little more than a man long, were rowing through the surf.
Conn had never seen the like, he shielded his eyes, trying to identify friend or foe.
The crew ran for swords and axes, stored away against the salt spray, as the hide canoes paddled ever closer, the curiously dark skinned oarsmen shouting out in an unintelligible language.
*Shields to starboard!* Rulf barked the order, the helmsman positioning the knaar for battle.
Rulf prayed to the Gods that they would not need to fight their way ashore.
Oops!
Then I realised November was done and left the travellers to have whatever American adventures they sought fit!
I wish them well.
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Latest reply: Dec 1, 2020
The Greatest Story Never Told.
Posted Nov 27, 2020
*So, let's get this straight… You,.... you want Me to play the Son of God? Actual Jesus? Me, Christ Steve!*
Swann lit another joint, sucking in a huge lungful, as he had since his very first conversation with Henry, and it never got any less confusing talking to the prat.
*It's a Christmas music shoot, two days max, all the crumpets you can eat, a free wig and beard for your collection too! It's a great gig!*
*Crumpets aside, Erm, how do I pit this? No, no, bleedin no way!*
Swann was stunned, he'd never thought Letterbox was remotely religious, he was shocked.
*I never thought you were remotely religious, Henry, I'm shocked!* Swann's mouth caught up with his brain.
*I ain't, not one bit, that's not the bleedin point!*
*Then why are you turning it down?*
*Because I bleedin hate that purple haired bleedin poseur, bleedin Ted bleedin Damson! You can stick his bleedin video, stupid song anyway, Jaffa Cakes and Jesus, Christ!*
*Johnny Cakes and Jesus, no surname * Swann toked hard as Henry glared at him,
*Quick shoot, full hair and wardrobe, bugger around in the kitchen while plum face croons, jobs a guddun!*
Swann didn't know what a guddun was, but he'd heard the Brits saying it and thought Henry may appreciate the effort, he needn't have bothered.
*No, no and bleedin no! Not Ted bleedin Damson!*
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Latest reply: Nov 27, 2020
Meanwhile, at a production meeting near here.
Posted Nov 8, 2020
*No, nope, bleedin dull, not a chance, booooring! '
Steve Swann winced, as yet another few hundred pages of the screenplay were torn out, and fed into the toaster by a very unconvincingly dressed Norse Letterbox.
*But Henry, dude, that's the historical stuff, Erm, that sets the scene, gives the background, keeps the wardrobe peeps in a job? '
*Hysterical stuff is just, well, and here's the important bit Stevie….'
Swann took the bait and leant in towards the fake beards Henry was so proud of.
*... all that, oh the curtains were red bleedin velvet and, the formal buttons glinted crapola… Du. Uh. LLLLLL!*
Henry went on with the edit, smearing the copy with crumpet butter, *Keep. More blood, severed head - nice! Bigger sword, more gore, better gore, kill the dog (arrows maybe?) . Big finish. Bish, bash, bleedin bosh, get the girl, done!*
And so it was 'The Chase' became the shortest movie to ever be nominated for (and win) the Flamin Crumpet Film Award for Best Bleedin Hysterical Movie…. 7 minutes and 27 seconds. (Inc. 3.20 soundtrack)
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Latest reply: Nov 8, 2020
The rAge of Aquarium
Posted Oct 30, 2020
Brett Sheldon unlocked the shutters, entered the brilliantly complex alarm code (1111), walking through the greenly lit shop, he started the coffee machine, walked back through the dimly lit store, and flipped the sign on the door to Open.
The neon 'Tanks for the Memories' sign buzzed into life as Brett prepared to feed his stock.
He loved this time of day, just him and the animals, the gurgle of the aquarium tanks, the lights dancing around the ceiling, and the grateful kisses the fish blew him whilst he sprinkled their food on the glowing water.
Fish fed, and happily blowing kisses, Brett flipped on the fluorescent lighting and strolled over to the large flat, open topped, aquarium on his left.
The water, for some bizarre reason had a slightly reddish tint, maybe too many oxygenators?
From the shallow water, four heads poked, watching their human captor fishing around in the margins, looking puzzled as the plants stained his hands red.
The turtles had fed well that night, devouring all the other, lesser, inhabitants of their tank, but, as Brett's fingers neared, the four realized they were once again ravenous.
Discuss this Journal entry [23]
Latest reply: Oct 30, 2020
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