Back to poetry at long last, albeit a fairly loose and prosey free verse :)
Flash of black
bald head among leaves.
Nible bird dangles
upside down,
sideways
feeding?
Or playing?
Good natured complaint
in rough, coarse voice
A flowing stream
of almost-language
Surely more than song?
More than random chatter?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Have a Goody Christmas
Yes, it's yet another old fanfic of mine - partially because I'm lazy and haven't written anything new, and partially because it's Christmas themed, so this is a good time to recycle it.
Disclaimer: The Goodies belongs to the BBC (mostly) and Tim, Bill and Graeme belong to themselves. I own nothing but a fevered imagination, but the bits that ARE mine are yours under the Creative Commons share alike licence.
Once upon a time, and underneath the couch, there was a beautiful girl called Cinderella. She had flowing blonde hair and eyes as blue and deep as the Pacific, and the fact that she needed a shave and her real name was Timothy is neither here nor there. Cinderella lived deep in the woods in the shadow of the Manchester bypass with two evil stepsisters, and you could tell they were evil because they were very, very ugly. They were so ugly the American economy kept a picture of them under its pillow, and looked at them whenever it wanted some reason to feel good about itself.
Cinderella was very hard working. One day she was washing the floor while her evil stepsister Graerella painted her toenails.
“Where’s Billerella?” asked Tim. (If I have to keep typing out “Cinderella” every time, I’m not going to get this bloody thing done by Christmas.)
“She’s gone into the village to get some little bits and pieces to make her more beautiful,” replied Graeme, leaning back from his easel and sticking a paintbrush behind his ear.
“What on earth for?” asked Tim, getting the floor out of the washing machine.
“The prince is having a Christmas Eve ball, and we all have to look our best.”
“Oi! I’m home! Go and put the kettle on, Tim.” Bill burst in with a frock over the top of his camo gear, carrying a huge box that looked suspiciously like it contained a series of sight gags.
“Put the kettle on what?”
“Cor, you’re not half being difficult today, are you?” Bill turned away from the confused Tim, and started showing his loot to Graeme.
“Now look at this lot, Graybags, this’ll impress him no end. First we have… Fishnets!” Bill hauled the fishnets out of the box, about eighty feet of the stuff.
“Ah, Bill, you do realise there’s a difference between fishnets and fishing nets?”
“What? Oh. Never mind, it’ll come in handy for something. Next, nail polish!’ He hauled out a large bottle of Silvo, “And to go with it…” the bottom of the brown paper bag Bill was holding gave way, showering him with a pointy hail of three-inch flat ended nails. “Not sure what we’re supposed to do with those, but he’s an unusual chap, I‘ve heard. And, because it’s a special occasion, I’ve dyed my hair red.” Bill pulled the scarlet hare out of the box. It hopped off the table as though this sort of thing happened to it all the time, and tripped Tim who was coming back to report that he had put the kettle on. His evil stepgoodies looked him up and down.
“I’m surprised it fits, actually,” Bill said at last.
The night of the ball had arrived. Graeme and Bill tottered out of their little house in the woods, resplendent in such finery as cannot be conveyed in the written word, and saddled up the trandem. They still hadn’t caught whoever kept sneaking into the shed and removing the saddles, despite Graeme’s sophisticated listening equipment. They climbed aboard, and Bill steadied himself against one of the giant ears jutting from the wall. They set off down the motorway towards the palace, stopping only to change places when Graeme figured out that the trip would be smoother if one of them sat in Tim’s usual spot. It was somewhat difficult to steer with the front seat empty, as the lorry driver agreed. Tim wasn’t available to sit there, as he was tied upside down in the chimney by his stepsisters, to stop him getting to the ball.
“Oh, why does this sort of rotten thing always happen to me?” moaned Tim as a load of soot fell up his nose. “I wish I wasn’t in this horrid chimney.”
Tim disappeared, and reappeared three nanoseconds later tied upside down in the septic tank.
“I wish I was back in the chimney! I wish I was back in the chimney!”
Three more nanoseconds later he was back in the chimney. The rope holding him conveniently let go and he landed with a soot-cushioned thud in the fireplace. Someone was watching him.
“Uh, Bill?”
“Nope, I’m your Fairy Billmother, and the wire holding this tinsel halo up is digging into my shoulder, so hurry up and make a decent bloody wish so I can go and get changed again.”
“I wish for world peace.”
“Come off it!”
“OK, I wish for a commercially available series-by-series set of DVDs covering every Goodies episode, remastered with commentaries and special features. And a new CD of previously unreleased Goodies songs, to go with it.”
Bill and Tim looked at each other awkwardly.
“So, this world peace you’re after…”
They met halfway and settled on Tim wishing to go to the Christmas Eve ball, which is just as well for this fairytale. Bill sent Tim off to find six mice, a pumpkin and a big black rat. Tim came back with three dead cockroaches, a root vegetable and a wind-up alarm clock, but it was near enough. The fairy Billmother waved his magic wand over them so hard the batteries fell out the end and the star stopped flashing, but then there was a puff of smoke and the collection of cockies, carrot and clock had been transformed as by magic or trick camerawork into Graeme astride a motorbike with a sidecar. His pirate captain’s hat sat on a jaunty angle.
“Graeme! What are you doing here?”
“Look, you two have had a big long bit on your own. It’s about time I got to do something.” Tim clambered into the sidecar and Graeme revved the engine. They were about to leave when Bill yelled “Oi! Hold it - what about me?
“I give up, what about you?”
Bill huffed and waved his dead wand at the motorcycle. Another sidecar appeared on the other side, and he climbed in.
“To the palace, Greybags! The prince is holding a Christmas Eve ball!”
Graeme adjusted his eye patch, and they drove off through the fourth wall to the palace.
The trio crept quietly into the ballroom. The place was silent, but not deserted. The artist formerly known as Prince was sitting on a beanbag in the middle of the room, meditating deeply on a crystal sphere with “Christmas Eve” engraved on it, which he held reverently.
“Well, that’s a funny sort of ending, isn’t it?” asked Bill.
“Let’s hope so,” replied Graeme.
Disclaimer: The Goodies belongs to the BBC (mostly) and Tim, Bill and Graeme belong to themselves. I own nothing but a fevered imagination, but the bits that ARE mine are yours under the Creative Commons share alike licence.
Once upon a time, and underneath the couch, there was a beautiful girl called Cinderella. She had flowing blonde hair and eyes as blue and deep as the Pacific, and the fact that she needed a shave and her real name was Timothy is neither here nor there. Cinderella lived deep in the woods in the shadow of the Manchester bypass with two evil stepsisters, and you could tell they were evil because they were very, very ugly. They were so ugly the American economy kept a picture of them under its pillow, and looked at them whenever it wanted some reason to feel good about itself.
Cinderella was very hard working. One day she was washing the floor while her evil stepsister Graerella painted her toenails.
“Where’s Billerella?” asked Tim. (If I have to keep typing out “Cinderella” every time, I’m not going to get this bloody thing done by Christmas.)
“She’s gone into the village to get some little bits and pieces to make her more beautiful,” replied Graeme, leaning back from his easel and sticking a paintbrush behind his ear.
“What on earth for?” asked Tim, getting the floor out of the washing machine.
“The prince is having a Christmas Eve ball, and we all have to look our best.”
“Oi! I’m home! Go and put the kettle on, Tim.” Bill burst in with a frock over the top of his camo gear, carrying a huge box that looked suspiciously like it contained a series of sight gags.
“Put the kettle on what?”
“Cor, you’re not half being difficult today, are you?” Bill turned away from the confused Tim, and started showing his loot to Graeme.
“Now look at this lot, Graybags, this’ll impress him no end. First we have… Fishnets!” Bill hauled the fishnets out of the box, about eighty feet of the stuff.
“Ah, Bill, you do realise there’s a difference between fishnets and fishing nets?”
“What? Oh. Never mind, it’ll come in handy for something. Next, nail polish!’ He hauled out a large bottle of Silvo, “And to go with it…” the bottom of the brown paper bag Bill was holding gave way, showering him with a pointy hail of three-inch flat ended nails. “Not sure what we’re supposed to do with those, but he’s an unusual chap, I‘ve heard. And, because it’s a special occasion, I’ve dyed my hair red.” Bill pulled the scarlet hare out of the box. It hopped off the table as though this sort of thing happened to it all the time, and tripped Tim who was coming back to report that he had put the kettle on. His evil stepgoodies looked him up and down.
“I’m surprised it fits, actually,” Bill said at last.
The night of the ball had arrived. Graeme and Bill tottered out of their little house in the woods, resplendent in such finery as cannot be conveyed in the written word, and saddled up the trandem. They still hadn’t caught whoever kept sneaking into the shed and removing the saddles, despite Graeme’s sophisticated listening equipment. They climbed aboard, and Bill steadied himself against one of the giant ears jutting from the wall. They set off down the motorway towards the palace, stopping only to change places when Graeme figured out that the trip would be smoother if one of them sat in Tim’s usual spot. It was somewhat difficult to steer with the front seat empty, as the lorry driver agreed. Tim wasn’t available to sit there, as he was tied upside down in the chimney by his stepsisters, to stop him getting to the ball.
“Oh, why does this sort of rotten thing always happen to me?” moaned Tim as a load of soot fell up his nose. “I wish I wasn’t in this horrid chimney.”
Tim disappeared, and reappeared three nanoseconds later tied upside down in the septic tank.
“I wish I was back in the chimney! I wish I was back in the chimney!”
Three more nanoseconds later he was back in the chimney. The rope holding him conveniently let go and he landed with a soot-cushioned thud in the fireplace. Someone was watching him.
“Uh, Bill?”
“Nope, I’m your Fairy Billmother, and the wire holding this tinsel halo up is digging into my shoulder, so hurry up and make a decent bloody wish so I can go and get changed again.”
“I wish for world peace.”
“Come off it!”
“OK, I wish for a commercially available series-by-series set of DVDs covering every Goodies episode, remastered with commentaries and special features. And a new CD of previously unreleased Goodies songs, to go with it.”
Bill and Tim looked at each other awkwardly.
“So, this world peace you’re after…”
They met halfway and settled on Tim wishing to go to the Christmas Eve ball, which is just as well for this fairytale. Bill sent Tim off to find six mice, a pumpkin and a big black rat. Tim came back with three dead cockroaches, a root vegetable and a wind-up alarm clock, but it was near enough. The fairy Billmother waved his magic wand over them so hard the batteries fell out the end and the star stopped flashing, but then there was a puff of smoke and the collection of cockies, carrot and clock had been transformed as by magic or trick camerawork into Graeme astride a motorbike with a sidecar. His pirate captain’s hat sat on a jaunty angle.
“Graeme! What are you doing here?”
“Look, you two have had a big long bit on your own. It’s about time I got to do something.” Tim clambered into the sidecar and Graeme revved the engine. They were about to leave when Bill yelled “Oi! Hold it - what about me?
“I give up, what about you?”
Bill huffed and waved his dead wand at the motorcycle. Another sidecar appeared on the other side, and he climbed in.
“To the palace, Greybags! The prince is holding a Christmas Eve ball!”
Graeme adjusted his eye patch, and they drove off through the fourth wall to the palace.
The trio crept quietly into the ballroom. The place was silent, but not deserted. The artist formerly known as Prince was sitting on a beanbag in the middle of the room, meditating deeply on a crystal sphere with “Christmas Eve” engraved on it, which he held reverently.
“Well, that’s a funny sort of ending, isn’t it?” asked Bill.
“Let’s hope so,” replied Graeme.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Peeking
Another in the same series - and I use the term loosely - as the previous fanfic. I'm on a roll here!
The usual disclaimer: Cosgrove Hall owns Dangermouse, Penfold, Stilleto and the whole general idea.
"The thing you have to ask yourself is, has he really lost his eye? If he lifts that patch up, is there something else underneath?” - Brian Cosgrove, DVD interview, 2007.
“Now, senor Penfold, you tella me where’sa the medallion, anda the alligator, he’sa stay down ina his pond.”
“I don’t know!” Penfold kicked helplessly at the crow, the shackles on his wrists holding him about two feet from the floor. “I dropped it! It’s out on that ‘orrible planet somewhere with all those creepy crawly things.”
“So! Is-a dinner time for you!” The crow moved over to the lever that would open the cover on the alligator pond.
“Oh crumbs! Oh ‘eck!” Penfold looked up at Dangermouse, but the world’s greatest secret agent was still out cold from the bump of the head he’d sustained in the crash. Just then the mouse shook himself and mumbled something about chocolate digestives.
“Chief! You’re awake!”
Dangermouse looked around, confused, trying to get his bearings. They were somewhere deep in Greenback’s dungeons, chained to the wall and being gloated over by one of the sharpest heels in the business - Stiletto.
“Penfold! Are you alright?”
“Well, chief, that depends on whether the alligator in that pit’s had his breakfast.”
“What charming company. Now look here, you feathered fiend-”
“You have-a the medallion?” Stiletto moved in on the mouse, until his sharp beak was inches from his prisoner’s face.
“You’re never getting your hands on it, Stiletto. Greenback might think he knows what he’s doing, but he couldn't control it. It’s too powerful-
The mouse broke off as Stiletto slapped him in the face. Not hard, just firmly enough to remind him who was in charge.
Good Stiletto, thought the mouse. Concentrate on me, and forget about Penfold. Out of the corner of his good eye, Dangermouse could see the hamster wriggling and kicking, trying to get free. Then he caught a flash of gold in Penfold’s breast pocket. The medallion. Good lad. It would be absorbing the warmth Penfold was generating with all that carrying on, and soon it would be fully charged. Then that avian fiend would be laughing out the other side of his beak.
Dangermouse looked to Stiletto. The bird reached out and touched the black patch covering the mouse’s left eye.
“Actually, I’d rather prefer you didn’t do that, if you don’t mind.”
The crow slipped a feathered finger under the patch and lifted it.
Penfold craned his neck to look up. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see much past the underside of his chief’s white chin, but he caught a brief glimpse of... something. Something metallic. Must have just been a reflection off the wall.
“Santa Maria Cabonara!” The bird made the Sign of the Cross as he backed away.
“I did warn you.” Dangermouse looked at the floor and bit his lip, stung by the look on Stiletto's face. Revulsion. Pity.
Stiletto slammed the door, and his hurried footsteps quickly faded down the corridor.
“What was all that about?”
“It’s nothing, Penfold. Nothing at all.”
The usual disclaimer: Cosgrove Hall owns Dangermouse, Penfold, Stilleto and the whole general idea.
"The thing you have to ask yourself is, has he really lost his eye? If he lifts that patch up, is there something else underneath?” - Brian Cosgrove, DVD interview, 2007.
“Now, senor Penfold, you tella me where’sa the medallion, anda the alligator, he’sa stay down ina his pond.”
“I don’t know!” Penfold kicked helplessly at the crow, the shackles on his wrists holding him about two feet from the floor. “I dropped it! It’s out on that ‘orrible planet somewhere with all those creepy crawly things.”
“So! Is-a dinner time for you!” The crow moved over to the lever that would open the cover on the alligator pond.
“Oh crumbs! Oh ‘eck!” Penfold looked up at Dangermouse, but the world’s greatest secret agent was still out cold from the bump of the head he’d sustained in the crash. Just then the mouse shook himself and mumbled something about chocolate digestives.
“Chief! You’re awake!”
Dangermouse looked around, confused, trying to get his bearings. They were somewhere deep in Greenback’s dungeons, chained to the wall and being gloated over by one of the sharpest heels in the business - Stiletto.
“Penfold! Are you alright?”
“Well, chief, that depends on whether the alligator in that pit’s had his breakfast.”
“What charming company. Now look here, you feathered fiend-”
“You have-a the medallion?” Stiletto moved in on the mouse, until his sharp beak was inches from his prisoner’s face.
“You’re never getting your hands on it, Stiletto. Greenback might think he knows what he’s doing, but he couldn't control it. It’s too powerful-
The mouse broke off as Stiletto slapped him in the face. Not hard, just firmly enough to remind him who was in charge.
Good Stiletto, thought the mouse. Concentrate on me, and forget about Penfold. Out of the corner of his good eye, Dangermouse could see the hamster wriggling and kicking, trying to get free. Then he caught a flash of gold in Penfold’s breast pocket. The medallion. Good lad. It would be absorbing the warmth Penfold was generating with all that carrying on, and soon it would be fully charged. Then that avian fiend would be laughing out the other side of his beak.
Dangermouse looked to Stiletto. The bird reached out and touched the black patch covering the mouse’s left eye.
“Actually, I’d rather prefer you didn’t do that, if you don’t mind.”
The crow slipped a feathered finger under the patch and lifted it.
Penfold craned his neck to look up. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see much past the underside of his chief’s white chin, but he caught a brief glimpse of... something. Something metallic. Must have just been a reflection off the wall.
“Santa Maria Cabonara!” The bird made the Sign of the Cross as he backed away.
“I did warn you.” Dangermouse looked at the floor and bit his lip, stung by the look on Stiletto's face. Revulsion. Pity.
Stiletto slammed the door, and his hurried footsteps quickly faded down the corridor.
“What was all that about?”
“It’s nothing, Penfold. Nothing at all.”
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Assistant
Speaking of fan fiction, here's one of mine. It's not necessarily good, and isn't here as some sort of "this is how it's done" example. It's just here for the laughs, and because I have no new writing to post, but I did have this kicking around on my hard drive.
The usual disclaimer: Cosgrove Hall owns Dangermouse, Penfold, Colonel K, and the whole general idea. I own nothing but a fevered imagination.
“No!”
“But K-” hissed the voice over the viewscreen
“No! I am not working with a mouse! When you said you were sending me an assistant, I assumed you meant someone with some inherent capacity to, as the term would suggest, assist!”
Mouse stared at the floor and chewed the end of his tie, trying to wish himself invisible. He dimly heard Agent K making some comment about the likelihood of an assignment in a cheese factory.
“Look here, K,” boomed the Colonel through the two-way screen, shaking his mane, “Mouse is a good lad. Promising young agent. Did very well on the coursework, now we want to see how he shapes up in the practical.”
“You’ve drafted a MOUSE into Her Majesty’s Secret Service!”
“Yes, we had noticed that, K. Colonel out.”
Special Agent K spun away from the now-dead screen, and surveyed his new ‘assistant’. Little more than a child, he was small even for a mouse, and his thick glasses did nothing to hide the fact that his yellow eyes were permanently fixed on a spot near the end of his nose. His rumpled blue suit was too big and the tip of his striped tie looked suspiciously nibbled.
“So, you’re Mouse.”
“Y-y-yes, Sir.” Mouse hugged his training manual tighter against his chest, as if hoping the words would protect him from the wrath of his new commanding officer. He had thought it would get easier away from the training compound, free of three years sharing barracks with two Persian cats, a terrier and a bald eagle. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Wouldn’t have happened in our day. Rodent-liberationist claptrap. Once they picked agents by their ability - Retrievers, Panthers, Owls - people with potential.” K turned his back on the trembling mouse and gazed out of the pillarbox slot, across London. “Now there are voles in Defence, rabbits in the Ministry and even a ferret running for office in Weston-Super-Mare! They’ll be putting bally hampsters in the Service next thing you know.”
“Y-y-yes, Sir.” Mouse looked up at K. He could see the agent’s fangs glinting beneath his black moustache, muscles rippling beneath the white suit. He wondered if K was going to eat him up and spit out his spectacles. With fifteen littermates, one insignificant little white mouse wouldn’t even be missed.
The viewscreen hissed back into life. Mouse squeaked in alarm and jumped a foot in the air, dropping the manual. He landed in a heap and awkwardly picked up both his book and himself.
“S-s-sorry, Sir.”
“Mouse - shush!” K turned to the Colonel’s leonine face coming into focus on the viewscreen.
“Ah, K - another spot of bother with Greenback, I’m afraid. We need you to to save the world again, old boy.”
“Wilco, Sir.” K lifted an eyebrow at his dishevelled assistant. “Come on then, Mouse, let’s see what you can do.”
Later. Doesn’t matter how much later, time is but an illusion
“Dashed big class this year, DM,” proclaimed Colonel K through his white moustache. “Hundred and seventeen of ‘em. All excellent agent material, trained up and ready to go.”
“We’ll need them, Colonel. Greenback’s schemes are getting more and more devious.”
“Just as well we have the world’s best agent hot on his stumpy tail, then, eh what?”
“Maybe, Colonel, but I’m not sure how much longer even I’m going to be able to keep up with him alone.”
“Yes, well that’s one reason-” they were interrupted by a squeal of laughter from the ranks of newly-graduated agents spilling out of the hall into the grounds. A red fox and a polar bear jostled each other good naturedly down the steps before collapsing into a playful wrestle on the lawn, a blue-suited crowd gathering around them. The Colonel cleared his throat loudly and the gaggle of young agents looked up sheepishly, except the sheep who wore her characteristic dogged expression.
“Hey, that isn’t-
“Colonel K?
“No, the chap he’s talking to-
“White suit? Eyepatch? You don’t think it’s-
“Dangermouse!
“Can’t be!
“Cor, they reckon he’s the best agent in the world -
“Anyway DM, as I was saying, that’s one reason I’ve invited you along to the graduation today.” The Colonel took a swig on his punch. “How do you fancy having an assistant?”
“Well,” the mouse looked across the crowd of young hopefuls. “Have you anyone in mind?”
“Young Renard’s good in a scrap,” the Colonel nodded to the fox, now trying to dust grass stains from his suit. “There’s a Cougar lass we’re expecting great things from, and Ping-Cho has an excellent analytical mind - you know what these Siamese are like.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment, Colonel?” Dangermouse flashed one of his rare, charming grins. “Just popping off for a quick mingle.”
The mouse made his way across the marquee, the crowd shuffling respectfully aside to give him room. What it was to have a reputation, Dangermouse reflected. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven 47 for ‘accidentally’ treading on him during rugger practice all those years ago - surely being an elephant should be all the more reason to watch where one puts one’s feet?
Then, through the sea of people, Dangermouse spotted a small figure looking out of place. His rumpled blue suit was too big and his collar and cuffs stuck out untidily. His naturally wide-eyed, bewildered look was magnified by his thick spectacles. The mouse made his way over to the Hamster’s side.
“Hello, little chap. What’s your name?”
“Ooh ‘eck. Err. Penfold, Sir. Ernest Penfold.”
The usual disclaimer: Cosgrove Hall owns Dangermouse, Penfold, Colonel K, and the whole general idea. I own nothing but a fevered imagination.
“No!”
“But K-” hissed the voice over the viewscreen
“No! I am not working with a mouse! When you said you were sending me an assistant, I assumed you meant someone with some inherent capacity to, as the term would suggest, assist!”
Mouse stared at the floor and chewed the end of his tie, trying to wish himself invisible. He dimly heard Agent K making some comment about the likelihood of an assignment in a cheese factory.
“Look here, K,” boomed the Colonel through the two-way screen, shaking his mane, “Mouse is a good lad. Promising young agent. Did very well on the coursework, now we want to see how he shapes up in the practical.”
“You’ve drafted a MOUSE into Her Majesty’s Secret Service!”
“Yes, we had noticed that, K. Colonel out.”
Special Agent K spun away from the now-dead screen, and surveyed his new ‘assistant’. Little more than a child, he was small even for a mouse, and his thick glasses did nothing to hide the fact that his yellow eyes were permanently fixed on a spot near the end of his nose. His rumpled blue suit was too big and the tip of his striped tie looked suspiciously nibbled.
“So, you’re Mouse.”
“Y-y-yes, Sir.” Mouse hugged his training manual tighter against his chest, as if hoping the words would protect him from the wrath of his new commanding officer. He had thought it would get easier away from the training compound, free of three years sharing barracks with two Persian cats, a terrier and a bald eagle. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Wouldn’t have happened in our day. Rodent-liberationist claptrap. Once they picked agents by their ability - Retrievers, Panthers, Owls - people with potential.” K turned his back on the trembling mouse and gazed out of the pillarbox slot, across London. “Now there are voles in Defence, rabbits in the Ministry and even a ferret running for office in Weston-Super-Mare! They’ll be putting bally hampsters in the Service next thing you know.”
“Y-y-yes, Sir.” Mouse looked up at K. He could see the agent’s fangs glinting beneath his black moustache, muscles rippling beneath the white suit. He wondered if K was going to eat him up and spit out his spectacles. With fifteen littermates, one insignificant little white mouse wouldn’t even be missed.
The viewscreen hissed back into life. Mouse squeaked in alarm and jumped a foot in the air, dropping the manual. He landed in a heap and awkwardly picked up both his book and himself.
“S-s-sorry, Sir.”
“Mouse - shush!” K turned to the Colonel’s leonine face coming into focus on the viewscreen.
“Ah, K - another spot of bother with Greenback, I’m afraid. We need you to to save the world again, old boy.”
“Wilco, Sir.” K lifted an eyebrow at his dishevelled assistant. “Come on then, Mouse, let’s see what you can do.”
Later. Doesn’t matter how much later, time is but an illusion
“Dashed big class this year, DM,” proclaimed Colonel K through his white moustache. “Hundred and seventeen of ‘em. All excellent agent material, trained up and ready to go.”
“We’ll need them, Colonel. Greenback’s schemes are getting more and more devious.”
“Just as well we have the world’s best agent hot on his stumpy tail, then, eh what?”
“Maybe, Colonel, but I’m not sure how much longer even I’m going to be able to keep up with him alone.”
“Yes, well that’s one reason-” they were interrupted by a squeal of laughter from the ranks of newly-graduated agents spilling out of the hall into the grounds. A red fox and a polar bear jostled each other good naturedly down the steps before collapsing into a playful wrestle on the lawn, a blue-suited crowd gathering around them. The Colonel cleared his throat loudly and the gaggle of young agents looked up sheepishly, except the sheep who wore her characteristic dogged expression.
“Hey, that isn’t-
“Colonel K?
“No, the chap he’s talking to-
“White suit? Eyepatch? You don’t think it’s-
“Dangermouse!
“Can’t be!
“Cor, they reckon he’s the best agent in the world -
“Anyway DM, as I was saying, that’s one reason I’ve invited you along to the graduation today.” The Colonel took a swig on his punch. “How do you fancy having an assistant?”
“Well,” the mouse looked across the crowd of young hopefuls. “Have you anyone in mind?”
“Young Renard’s good in a scrap,” the Colonel nodded to the fox, now trying to dust grass stains from his suit. “There’s a Cougar lass we’re expecting great things from, and Ping-Cho has an excellent analytical mind - you know what these Siamese are like.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment, Colonel?” Dangermouse flashed one of his rare, charming grins. “Just popping off for a quick mingle.”
The mouse made his way across the marquee, the crowd shuffling respectfully aside to give him room. What it was to have a reputation, Dangermouse reflected. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven 47 for ‘accidentally’ treading on him during rugger practice all those years ago - surely being an elephant should be all the more reason to watch where one puts one’s feet?
Then, through the sea of people, Dangermouse spotted a small figure looking out of place. His rumpled blue suit was too big and his collar and cuffs stuck out untidily. His naturally wide-eyed, bewildered look was magnified by his thick spectacles. The mouse made his way over to the Hamster’s side.
“Hello, little chap. What’s your name?”
“Ooh ‘eck. Err. Penfold, Sir. Ernest Penfold.”
Monday, December 14, 2009
Postmodernism made easy
"In the works of Smith, a predominant concept is the concept of dialectic art. If semioticist postcapitalist theory holds, we have to choose between Lacanist obscurity and subcapitalist feminism.
Therefore, the primary theme of Long’s[1] critique of precultural dialectic theory is not, in fact, discourse, but subdiscourse. A number of narratives concerning a self-supporting whole may be revealed.
However, Sartre uses the term ’semioticist postcapitalist theory’ to denote not deappropriation, as Derrida would have it, but predeappropriation. Any number of discourses concerning the neotextual paradigm of expression exist.
Therefore, Reicher[2] holds that we have to choose between precultural dialectic theory and capitalist objectivism. Foucault uses the term ‘Lacanist obscurity’ to denote the stasis, and subsequent absurdity, of subdialectic sexual identity.
I'm sure if I'd handed that in at uni, I'd have got a better mark than I earned through actually writing something. It's entirely computer generated, and you'll find the ever so snazzy widget that makes it possible here.
Therefore, the primary theme of Long’s[1] critique of precultural dialectic theory is not, in fact, discourse, but subdiscourse. A number of narratives concerning a self-supporting whole may be revealed.
However, Sartre uses the term ’semioticist postcapitalist theory’ to denote not deappropriation, as Derrida would have it, but predeappropriation. Any number of discourses concerning the neotextual paradigm of expression exist.
Therefore, Reicher[2] holds that we have to choose between precultural dialectic theory and capitalist objectivism. Foucault uses the term ‘Lacanist obscurity’ to denote the stasis, and subsequent absurdity, of subdialectic sexual identity.
I'm sure if I'd handed that in at uni, I'd have got a better mark than I earned through actually writing something. It's entirely computer generated, and you'll find the ever so snazzy widget that makes it possible here.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Five tips for better fan fiction
I do love a good bit of fan fiction, and one of the biggest and most diverse fanfic libraries on the net is this one.
While there's some absolutely brilliant works of fan fiction around, there are also some absolute dogs, so here are my own tips for writing the best fanfic you can, based only on my having read thousands of the things and noticing what grates on my nerves...
1. Proofread and spell check. People read fanfic for fun (I can't think of anyone who'd do it for a living, except copyright lawyers!) But it's not going to be fun if the reader has to navigate bad spelling, words missing, dodgy sentence construction and bastardised grammer to work out what you're trying to say.
2. Write about what you know. It's fair to assume the people reading fanfic are already familiar with the series/book/movie in question... so if you get something so horrendously wrong that it's obvious you've never actually read/seen the franchise you're ripping off, you bet it'll be noticed. (Yes, the person who referred to Colonel K's "flippers" in a Dangermouse fanfic, I am looking at you.)
3. Canon schmanon. Personally, when I write fanfic it doesn't always stick tightly to the official story of the original. I really think there's a place for out-there fan ideas - one of the best fan pieces I've ever read is The Night They Raided Sesame Street. Here's the authors own description of how it came about:
"Believe it or not, this disturbing little vignette began innocently enough. I was babysitting my two year old nephew. He was watching Shrek and playing with some of his Sesame Street toys, tossing them into the back of a large plastic dump truck. Just as the knight on the tv says “designated resettlement facility” I drew a brief parallel in my mind between what I was seeing now and what happened in the concentration camps."
4. Know your characters. Having said that you can take your fanfic anywhere, it works best if the actual characters don't deviate too radically from what we know and love. In the story I've linked to above there are obviously things going on which would never happen in the real Sesame Street, but the characters' reactions are believable, and in character. If Telly busted out of Hoopers' store with an Ouzi screaming "Yiff in hell, muthafuckas!" the story wouldn't work. Either the situation or the characters can be fiddled with, but not both. If you're going to do that, just write original fiction and be done with it.
5. Have some kind of disclaimer at the start. This can be as straightlaced or as jokey as you like, but put something there. Sometimes people wander into fanfic not knowing where they are - maybe they googled an obscure TV show, and one of the first results was an active blog full of fanfic for it. So, just to stop any confusion (and, depending on whose work you're ripping off, to prevent yourself getting nicked for copyright infringement) put a disclaimer on it and be done with it.
I personally find it rather funny when fanfic authors get hyperprotective of their work. There's nothing funnier than a disclaimer that reads "Characters X, Z, Y and the TV series Blah de blah all belong to Whoever Studios are are used without permission. The minor character which appears on the bottom of page three is MINE and MINE ALONE and MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION BY ANYONE FOR ANYTHING1!!!111". Leaving alone the awkward truth that you might be flattering yourself to think anyone else would be interested in your original character, it's pretty hypocritical to help yourself to someone else's copyrighted material and then get all pissy about your own ideas.
The best disclaimer I ever read also comes from fanfiction.net:
"Sherlock Holmes is not my bitch."
While there's some absolutely brilliant works of fan fiction around, there are also some absolute dogs, so here are my own tips for writing the best fanfic you can, based only on my having read thousands of the things and noticing what grates on my nerves...
1. Proofread and spell check. People read fanfic for fun (I can't think of anyone who'd do it for a living, except copyright lawyers!) But it's not going to be fun if the reader has to navigate bad spelling, words missing, dodgy sentence construction and bastardised grammer to work out what you're trying to say.
2. Write about what you know. It's fair to assume the people reading fanfic are already familiar with the series/book/movie in question... so if you get something so horrendously wrong that it's obvious you've never actually read/seen the franchise you're ripping off, you bet it'll be noticed. (Yes, the person who referred to Colonel K's "flippers" in a Dangermouse fanfic, I am looking at you.)
3. Canon schmanon. Personally, when I write fanfic it doesn't always stick tightly to the official story of the original. I really think there's a place for out-there fan ideas - one of the best fan pieces I've ever read is The Night They Raided Sesame Street. Here's the authors own description of how it came about:
"Believe it or not, this disturbing little vignette began innocently enough. I was babysitting my two year old nephew. He was watching Shrek and playing with some of his Sesame Street toys, tossing them into the back of a large plastic dump truck. Just as the knight on the tv says “designated resettlement facility” I drew a brief parallel in my mind between what I was seeing now and what happened in the concentration camps."
4. Know your characters. Having said that you can take your fanfic anywhere, it works best if the actual characters don't deviate too radically from what we know and love. In the story I've linked to above there are obviously things going on which would never happen in the real Sesame Street, but the characters' reactions are believable, and in character. If Telly busted out of Hoopers' store with an Ouzi screaming "Yiff in hell, muthafuckas!" the story wouldn't work. Either the situation or the characters can be fiddled with, but not both. If you're going to do that, just write original fiction and be done with it.
5. Have some kind of disclaimer at the start. This can be as straightlaced or as jokey as you like, but put something there. Sometimes people wander into fanfic not knowing where they are - maybe they googled an obscure TV show, and one of the first results was an active blog full of fanfic for it. So, just to stop any confusion (and, depending on whose work you're ripping off, to prevent yourself getting nicked for copyright infringement) put a disclaimer on it and be done with it.
I personally find it rather funny when fanfic authors get hyperprotective of their work. There's nothing funnier than a disclaimer that reads "Characters X, Z, Y and the TV series Blah de blah all belong to Whoever Studios are are used without permission. The minor character which appears on the bottom of page three is MINE and MINE ALONE and MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION BY ANYONE FOR ANYTHING1!!!111". Leaving alone the awkward truth that you might be flattering yourself to think anyone else would be interested in your original character, it's pretty hypocritical to help yourself to someone else's copyrighted material and then get all pissy about your own ideas.
The best disclaimer I ever read also comes from fanfiction.net:
"Sherlock Holmes is not my bitch."
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