Peter C. Hayward's Livejournal.

My jaw has kind of locked up, which I assume is due to stress. I've been awake for 19 hours now, I don't want to go to sleep in a bad mood, so I'm pottering around online, updating my userinfo, and finding my post about being a virgin for morriganslayde (we were discussing it by text the other day.)

Anyway, I wanted to read the fiction that I wrote to get into that creative writing course earlier today, but I couldn't find it anywhere online. This is quite odd for me - pretty much everything that I've ever written is online in some form, whether it's up here, over at my Fictionpress account (which hasn't been updated in almost 2 years, I notice) or up on a wiki I created for writing.

Wikis, incidentally, are the best way to write creatively. (in my opinion, anyway.) It keeps track of every change you make to every document, from the first word you put on the wiki. It's a great way to share your work with others, the "recent changes" button makes it easy for guests to pop over and see what you've been working on, and even what you've changed. They're a simple download and install, provided you have your own webspace. I got mine from MediaWiki.

I actually have three at the moment - my personal fiction including scripts and plot ideas (private), the first one I made, for a TV show I've been working on for a few years now, called Everybody Loves Lisa, and one for the fictional universe I was going to spend this month working on (a plan which has unfortunately been thrown on the backburner as TV stuff again takes the forefront of my life), All-That-Is.

Here, have some fiction.

( To apply for Creative Writing, I had to write a 600-word 'micro-fiction', and I got a choice of titles. I chose 'The Hierarchy of Sheep' )

I don't mind that one. Apparently it was good enough to get me into the course, so jolly good and pip pip. The other piece I had to submit was a micro-fiction about anything I wanted. I chose a children's poem/book I had recently written, called ( Mum's Marvellous Hair )

I quite like that one too. This is cheering me up a bit, posting these. If I were a uni committee, I'd have let me into the course as well!

While we're on the note of fiction, I'll leave you with a link. September of last year, I wrote a number of fairy-tale drabbles, classic fairy tales retold by me in, exactly 100 words. They got quite a positive reaction at the time, and my new readers probably wouldn't have seen them. Old readers, go back and take a second look, they're well worth it.

A handful of fairy tale drabbles, by Peter.

Goodnight, fellows!

Cliche though it sounded, no one knows what he looks like - he covers his tracks too well. One would think he'd be easy to track, but police spokespersons say that investigations have revealed nothing - and they've been saying this for months. Exactly how he managed to avoid detection is just another mystery surrounding the man the newspapers called Frank.

There are literally thousands of drug dealers in America, but for the past 3 years, "Frank" has been consistently making headlines. The first part of his technique was identical to the other drug dealers. Step one; find an impressionable and attractive young lady - maybe at a party, maybe on the streets, maybe somewhere else...no one knows for sure.

Step two; get her on drugs. Offer the first hit for free, pretend it's a game, tell her it would make her cool, get some mates around and use peer pressure. It doesn't matter how, the aim is the same. Get her high, and wait for the comedown. Leave her with a contact point - never a phone number. Never anything traceable. Maybe a friend, maybe a place she can go at a certain time. She'll always come back for a second dose, and from there it's easy.

It was in step three that "Frank" differs from the other drug dealers. The conventional third step; once the girl was hooked, get her working the streets. Get her to bring in some money, take the money, and pay her in drugs. There were a few variations - maybe instead of pimping her out, get her to rob a store or a house. In any case, the third part of the technique was always the same. Play on her addiction to get money. Use the money to get drugs. Use the drugs to keep her addicted, and repeat ad nauseum.

It was here that Frank is exceptional, unique. He doesn't pimp the girls out. For the first few weeks, he offers the drugs for free, and then, once they are completely addicted, he asks them not for sex, not to offer their bodies on the streets, not for them to rob houses.

He asks them for a limb.

For reasons unknown, it's very important to Frank to get permission. Hundreds of psychiatrists have explored the issue, and there was no theory that had been widely accepted as to why this was the case. He had the girls. They could go missing and no one would notice. Why didn't he just hack off the limbs?

He asks them for a limb. Sometimes they refuse, and he goes another few weeks, slowly increasing the amount of drugs being pumped into their bodies. Then he abruptly cuts them off. He waits two full days, then approaches them with the same offer - he wants a limb.

No one has ever said no at this point. At least, no one ever recovered has said no at this point.

He's extremely precise about it, almost surgical. Like Jack the Ripper before him, it's been suggested that he was a doctor in his "real" life. He's clearly a very wealthy man, providing drugs and asking for no money in return. Some of the girls are kept for weeks before the question was even asked the first time, and considering the quality of the drugs he has access to, Frank must be a wealthy man. Wealthy, and well-connected.

Frank varies in which limb he chooses first. Sometimes an arm, sometimes a leg, there seems to be no real pattern to it. He cuts it off, cauterises the limb, and gives the girl a full two months to recover. He keeps them on drugs the whole time, but also keeps them well fed, watered, and even makes them exercise - not too much, just enough so that their bodies don't just waste away.

And then, he asks for a second limb.

By this point, "no" isn't even an option. This was the man who not only provided them with the substance that they essentially lived for, this was the man who had cared for them, nourished them back into health over the past 8 weeks. The name Frank didn't come from the girls, the newspapers invented it - short for "Frankenstein", the mad scientist from the famous gothic novel. The girls didn't give a name for this man at all, they simply called him "God" - a name that was deemed an inappropriate nickname for a perverted drug dealer.

Frank, or "God" if you prefer, never takes more than two limbs. After the second limb, he cauterises the wound, but doesn't bother to nurse the girl back to health. Instead, he drives her two states away, and drops her off in a small-town hospital. The missing limbs are ignored in the first few minutes at the hospital, as the immediate priority is the blood gushing from the girl's eyes.

For the last thing that Frank does before dropping the girls off is remove their eyes. Doctors say that unlike the limbs, it's not done carefully, it's not done surgically, it's not done ceremonially. He simply grabs whatever object is handy, and quickly thrusts it into both eyes, quite effectively blinding the victim.

No cameras have yet been able to catch the registration plate of his car dropping off the bleeding girls, but amateur crime theorists think that this will be the key to catching him, and have started up a website rallying for hospitals to set up video cameras outside of their drop-off points.

Frank's tale has captured the nation - indeed, the world. Over the three years that he's been operating (pun not intended) he's so far maimed a full 17 girls, that the media is aware of. All 17 girls have been interviewed, but have been unable (or perhaps simply unwilling) to talk about the man they call "God" - perhaps out of loyalty, perhaps out of insanity, perhaps simply because they themselves never saw the man clearly. And while it is rumoured that they would react more usefully if they were presented with a photo of him, however this is obviously impossible - perhaps the reason that the eyes are taken out of commission in the first place.

Ten of the seventeen girls are now dead. They were slowly rehabilitated, however less than a month after getting clean, six of them went out and found themselves a new source, and immediately overdose (though whether this was done deliberately or not is unconfirmed) and the other four of them committed suicide, unable to face life without two of their limbs (whether two arms were missing, two legs were missing, or one of each) and without their eyes.

The other seven remain addicted to drugs. Despite the media attention on their drug lifestyle, there has been no police action. Some say that the police are staying out if it, as the track record of the girls taken off the drugs is so terrible. Others say that with all they've been through, let them have their drugs - whatever makes them "happy", whatever helps them cope with the pain.

The girls supply surprisingly little information, whether on drugs or not. What little information has been gathered from the interviews has been used to put together his method, as described above. What remains unknown is exactly what he does with the limbs - after agreeing to the removal, each girl is put under, and she never sees the limb again.

A public outcry against the police's inefficiency has caught the attention of politics, and there's no adequate response to the main question being asked - "Why can't they catch him?" While no one would suggest that Frank's actions are good in any way, the attention being drawn to the prevalence of drug dealers doing exactly what Frank does (up until the limb removal) has been accredited to his actions. As a direct result of Frank's actions, the "War on Drugs" has been given a second wind, this time much more effectively targetting the dealers.

Nothing is known about Frank. From the information obtained, he could be black, he could be white. He could be a teenager, he could be in his 70s. It's not even known that "Frank" is male, though no one has seriously put forward a theory suggesting that he's not. A Clarice Starling is needed to crack the case, but no one is stepping forward. Inevitably, he will make an error, leave a clue of some kind. Inevitably, one of the girls he dismembers will talk more conclusively. Until then, the police are on the case, and the public are closely watching.

More on this as it develops.

Here's chapter 2 of Town in a Teapot. It's considerably longer than I intended it to be. Chapter 3 is half written, as well, so that'll probably be up before the end of the week.

Anyone want to make me a nifty "Teapot" icon?

This chapter is dedicated to my friend Phill, who went out of her way to text me about what she thought of the first chapter. Made my day, and inspired/reminded me to put the next chapter up.

Haven't proof-read yet, but I'm sure you'll get the idea.

Town in a Teapot - Chapter 2

When Joan woke up the next morning, it was Wednesday. Truth be told, it had been Wednesday before Joan had woken up, for well over 6 hours, but it seemed to Joan that while one was asleep, it didn’t really matter what day it was. A Thursday sleep was no different to a Tuesday sleep. A Saturday sleep was an exception, of course, because they were so much more snugly than any kind of sleep, however it wasn’t until one was awake that the day really started to matter.

And Wednesday was Joan’s very favourite day of the week. (with the obvious exception of Saturday, a day which follows its own rules, and can quite reasonably be considered an exception to any generalised statement.) She was reasonably fond of Tuesdays, hated Thursdays, however Joan loved Wednesdays.

Wednesday, you see, was Baking Day.

Joan, still thinking about days of the week, went downstairs, and, still dressed in her pyjamas, asked Pa Mousecourt why Wednesday was Baking Day.

“The pirates!” he thunderously replied. “It’s because of those damned pirates!”

Had Ma Mousecourt been nearby, she would have admonished Pa Mousecourt for his language. Ma Mousecourt was of the belief that such language had no place in her household, particularly not in front of a lady, and especially not in front of a lady as young as Joan. Pa Mousecourt grudgingly admitted that she had a point, however Pa Mousecourt knew how to tell a good story, and when one tells a story about pirates, bad language is not only appropriate, it’s a requirement.

Of course, had Ma Mousecort been nearby, Pa Mousecourt wouldn’t have sworn quite as thunderously, and so she most likely wouldn’t have heard him.

“They called him Red,” Pa Mousecourt continued. “Red, of the Sea.”

“Why did they call him that?” Joan enquired, in a whisper.

“Well, that’s a good question, lass. Some say that he was bald, but had a beard, as red as the red sea. Some say that he dressed in nothing but the brightest red, so that when his enemies saw him coming, they knew it was him, and threw themselves onto the mercy of the sea, rather than face his wrath. But some say that the real reason is that even though he was bald, cleanshaven, and dressed always in black, his hands were always red with blood, blood that he could never wash out.”

Joan shivered, but Pa Mousecourt didn’t notice.

“Cap’n Red had his own ship, but honest sailors afeared saying the name. To say the name of the ship steered by Cap’n Red was to bring a curse down on your own ship, it was said.”

When Pa Mousecourt told a story his eyes darted from side to side and widened at the appropriate moments, his ears would wiggle whenever anything particularly dramatic was going on, and his hands moved around so much that it was surprising that he didn’t lose a glove. But despite all of this movement, whenever Pa Mousecourt told a story, Joan would watch his beard.

Pa’s beard was there all the time. It was there while Pa read the newspaper, or tinkered with his bicycle. It was there while he fell asleep in his chair, and Joan assumed that it was there while he slept in his bed, as well. But while most of the time, would simply droop, and hang around Pa’s chin, like a beard is supposed to, whenever Pa Mousecourt told a story, it came to life. It was as if Pa answering a question was the only thing that could awaken it from a deep sleep. As Pa spoke, it would dance around, full of energy, animated and alive.

“What was Captain Red’s ship’s name?” Joan asked, nervously. She mentally filed this story under the category of “stories she couldn’t let Ma Mousecourt know that Pa had told her.”

“Well,” said Pa, looking around nervously, as if he was afraid his wife of 45 years was lurking behind a lamp, waiting to rouse on him. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

Joan nodded, and Pa leant forward.

“Are ye sure you’re not afraid of bringing the curse down on our humble home?”

Joan shook her head, and Pa leant further forward.

“Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this…” Pa whispered, as he leant further forward still, “but the ship’s name …”

Pa was now leaning so close that Joan could smell the tea on his breath. He was bent double, whispering so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, and so fiercely that if she wasn’t holding her knees to stop them from knocking, she’d be wiping flecks of spit from her eyes. He was so close, she could almost hear the hum of his beard, and feel the heat coming off it.

“Yes?” she asked, as the pause became unbearably long.

“…was The Harbinger.”

The universe has a certain sense of drama. At this moment, a bolt of lightning should have hit a tree outside, accompanied by a sharp crack of thunder. Unfortunately, the universe also has limitations, and as it was calm and sunny outside, this wasn’t possible. The universe tried its dramatic best, however, and in the next room over, a shelf collapsed, causing dozens of pans to hit the floor with a clatter. At the same time, the electric light behind Pa’s chair went out. Joan jumped with fright, and could have sworn that she saw a bolt of lightning course through Pa Mousecourt’s beard.

“Damned light,” Pa said, swivelling around to tap it with his cane.

“The Harbinger?” Joan asked nervously, and gulped. She was relieved to discover that the universe also had the ability to tell when enough was enough, and didn’t attempt another thunderbolt.

“Aye,” Pa Mousecourt replied, turning around to face Joan again, his eyes alight. “The Harbinger.

“But this doesn’t explain why Wednesday is Baking Day!” Joan exclaimed.

“It was cursed ship, The Harbinger. It was crewed by Red’s mortal enemies, who kept the ship running out of fear. They all planned and plotted to kill him, a fact Red was well aware of. He believed in keeping his enemies closer, and every time they came up with a plan that had a chance of succeeding, Red would have the whole crew killed, and recruit a new troupe of mortal enemies next time they made port. When you kill as many people as Red, ye make a lot of mortal enemies.”

Joan, when she was younger, had wanted to be a sailor. She had dreamt of sailing the seven seas, turning the big boat wheel, swinging around on ropes, scrubbing decks, and yes, even fighting pirates. She had imagined herself the finest swordsperson in the land, able to disarm the diabolical pirates with a few swings of her sword, fighting two at once, three, four, five, laughing boldly as she made them do what they had done to so many innocents, making them walk the plank.

She was suddenly very glad that the desire to be a sailor had only lasted a week or two, and been replaced by her ambition to grow up, and become a professional caterpillar breeder.

“But this doesn’t explain why Wednesday is Baking Day!” Joan exclaimed.

“Cap’n Red and the…and his ship, they soon became infamous.” Pa continued. “He didn’t fly the Jolly Roger, he had his own flag, and when sailors saw it coming, they didn’t even bother fighting. They threw their cargo overboard, and sailed in the opposite direction, praying it would be enough. If the Har-…if Cap’n Red’s ship was already fully stocked, he’d ignore the cargo, and give chase. If he was in need of supplies, they’d stop, take what they needed, and then give chase.”

“What was Red’s flag?”

“It was a single bloody handprint,” Pa Mousecourt replied. “A red handprint, against a background of red.”

Joan thought about this for a second.

“So how could you see it, if it were red on red?”

“Aye, that’s just another of the mysteries surrounding the Harb- Cap’n Red’s ship. Some say at night, the handprint glowed. Some say that if you were sailing against the sun, you could see a difference in tone. Some say that the handprint, while red, had a black outline, making the distinction quite clearly visible. But we’ll probably never know.”

“But this doesn’t explain why Wednesday is Baking Day!” Joan exclaimed.

“I know what you’re thinking, lass,” said Pa, ignoring the fact that Joan had just clearly stated what she was thinking. “You’re thinking ‘If people ran at the sight of the flag, why didn’t other ships just copy it.’ Well, there were a few who did, but when Red found out about this, he made a vow, and tracked every last one of them down. He didn’t just kill them, he…well, maybe you’re a bit young for that part of the story. But it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Is he still out there?” Joan asked nervously, half expecting to see The Harbinger bursting through the cottage walls any second.

“No, love, Red hasn’t marauded or pillaged for nearly half a century now. No one’s sure what happened to him. Some say that his hands finally turned on him, and that he was the final victim of his own, red hands. Some say that he retired, and he’s got a island of natives slaving away for him, day after day. And some say that he used his riches to buy his way into a knighthood, and he’s trying to marry a princess, and rule the whole country. But no one’s really sure. All people know is that one day, he disappeared, and hasn’t been seen since.”

“But this doesn’t explain why Wednesday is Baking Day!” Joan didn’t exclaim.

This came as quite a surprise to Joan, as she had been about to exclaim it, before someone else got in first. It was quite a surprise to Pa Mousecourt, as he hadn’t even been aware that there was a third person in the room, listening rapturously to the story of Red. And when the two turned, they were even more surprised once they saw who it was, exclaiming loudly and listening to the story.

Looking back, I'm actually quite happy with my song lyrics. Could do with a redraft, which I'll do eventually.

Anyone out there with mad leet music-writing skillz, feel free to put it to music. If I like the sound, we'll release it, make millions of dollars, and share the profits 50/50. Aight?

Anyway, here's a drabble, for selphie_jazz.

Rumpelstiltskin

Once upon a time, a miller stupidly told the king that he had a magic daughter. Stupidly, the king believed him. The daughter wasn’t magic, but with the help of a dwarf, she managed to fool the king. Stupidly, the daughter promised the dwarf her firstborn, but even more stupidly, she refused to follow through when the dwarf asked. So the dwarf agreed that if she guessed his name, he would leave. Stupidly, the dwarf spent most of his time singing his name loudly, so they quickly guessed. These people are idiots, but somehow managed to live happily ever after.

The Princess and the Pea

Once upon a time, in a thinly veiled metaphor for virginity, a prince decided he could only marry a “real princess”. A “real princess”, he went on to explain, was one who could feel a pea through one hundred mattresses. That is a lot of mattresses. So he sent an email out to all the local kingdoms, and supposed “princesses” started arriving by the dozen. None of them, however, were “real princesses”, they were all “dirty sluts”. Eventually, just as he was giving up hope, a “real princess” turned up. He merrily deflowered her, and they lived “happily ever after”.

I have the internet back on at work, and my lunch break is almost exactly the amount of time required to write a drabble.

So here's a drabble!

Rapunzel (for selphie_jazz)

Once upon a time, a pregnant lady really wanted some radishes. Her husband was caught stealing them from the witch next door, and promised to give her the kid. The parents don’t appear in the story again, but the kid grew up to be a tower-dwelling girl called Rapunzel. She would use her ridiculously long hair to sneak cuddles with a prince, however he was as good at not being caught as the parents, and the witch thorned his eyes out. Rapunzel gave birth to the prince’s kids, and, reunited when he heard her singing, they lived happily ever after.


Blech. There's a lot of plot in that one. Here's a non fairy-tale drabble, about words:

Words are Everything

There are only three things that are real. There’s birth, there’s death, and there’s words. Violence can be averted by words, wars can be started. Lives can be destroyed with nothing more than words, and countries can be rebuilt. Music is nice, paintings are pretty, but nothing can create or destroy a man like words. And they’re the only way a woman can be seduced. And so, once again, the man intently studied the dictionary. He knew that if he could simply work out the right order and combination, if he could control these words, he could rule the world.


I might be working something similar into Town in a Teapot. Stay tuned!

Instead of drabbles, I've suddenly switched gears, so here's the beginning of my new kids book. It will almost certainly become a children's classic.

Town in a Teapot - Chapter 1

The teapot sitting on the shelf looked remarkably like a teapot. Impossibly like a teapot, one could claim. This was most likely because this teapot-like teapot was, in fact, a teapot. It had many teapotty features, or at least it would have, if teapotty was a word. It had the handle of a teapot, the spout of a teapot, and it had a penchant for wearing tea-cosies. Looking at it, one might say "Cor, that's a teapot!" More likely, one would say nothing at all, because it was simply a teapot, and if one yells the name of every item one sees, one will soon find themselves friendless. Without friends, one's invitations to tea-parties dries up quickly, and since that's where one sees most teapots anyway.

Looking at the teapot, you'd never guess that it belonged to the Great Pharaoh Chomolungma.

This was probably due to the fact that it didn't. To begin with, the Great Pharaoh Chomolungma never existed. Secondly, had he existed, he certainly would never have tried tea. Thirdly, if he had existed, and events had served him tea, and he had liked it enough to buy his own tea-pot, it would almost certainly have been a less teapot-like teapot. His teapot would have looked like a cat, or an eagle, or a bolt of lightning, hitting the side of a tree where a small family of Green Bee-eaters were sheltered from the storm.

No, the teapot did not belong to the Great Pharaoh Chomolungma. Instead, it belonged to a girl called Joan Mousecourt.

Mousecourt is a funny last name, and if you asked Pa Mousecourt where it came from, he would tell you that it sprung from the days when mice could talk. The time when mice had their own little villages, with churches, and castles, and libraries, and little mice butchers, where they would chop up beetles, and sell them to the other mice, while talking in broad accents about the weather, and how the local mouse sports team is going.

Pa Mousecourt, if you asked him, would tell you that a gentleman who was searching for a last name came upon one of these tiny mice villages, and as he bent down to more closely inspect the goings-on of this tiny mouse village, accidentally crushed the tiny mouse court with his foot. Understandably, this annoyed the rest of the tiny mouse people, and they insisted that he rectify the problem immediately. At the risk of infuriating an entire village of tiny mouse people, the gentleman had declared that he would, henceforth, be the new mouse court, both in name and in deed.

Pa Mousecourt would tell you this, because he didn't know where the name “Mousecourt” came from. Telling an elaborate story (some would say “lie”, but those people would be incredibly rude, and Pa Mousecourt would probably pass them on the street without so much as a nod) to Pa Mousecourt's way of thinking, was infinitely preferable to admitting that he didn't know the answer. And so telling an elaborate story would ensure that people either assumed that he knew what he was talking about, or decide never to ask him anything again, which suited Pa Mousecourt just fine.

People who decided one of Pa Mousecourt's stories wasn't worth hearing were the kind of people who Pa Mousecourt didn't mind not talking to.

Joan was not one of those people. She loved listening to Pa explain things he didn't understand, and even when she was well past the age when she knew that Pa's stories were to be taken with a bucket of salt, he was still the first person she would turn to for an answer.

And so, even though she wasn't aware of it, the teapot which looked remarkably like a teapot, belonged to Joan. Joan's mother had died, very early in Joan's life. When she had asked Pa Mousecourt what had happened to her mother, he didn't answer with a story. He sat her on his knee, and told her that sometimes, people left, before they got a chance to raise their gorgeous baby daughters. Sometimes Joan would cry, and sometimes Pa would cry, but no matter what, they'd play a game of checkers afterwards, and have a cup of tea. Checkers, Pa would explain, was a game designed for people who had just been crying, and tea was good for rehydration.

So instead of being raised by her mother, Joan was raised by her father, her Pa, and her Ma.

It was while she was in the kitchen with Ma one day, that Joan found the teapot. When she saw it, she didn't exclaim “Cor, that's a teapot!” (although it was) or “Golly, that looks just like a lightning-bolt striking a tea where a family of Green Bee-eaters have temporarily set up residency during a storm!” (because it didn't.) Instead, she pulled it out from the cupboard, turned to her grandmother, and asked,

“Ma Mousecourt. What's this?”

“Why, that's a teapot,” her grandmother replied. “Now where on earth did you find that? I didn't even know we had a teapot.”

Joan, at the age of 10, was no fool. She understood that when there was a grease fire, you should never, ever throw water on it, because that will make it spread. She understood that when Pa Mousecourt was sleeping, you should never, ever put walnuts up his nose, because though Joan had a nice room, after a week, she started to get a bit sick of never being allowed to leave it. And she understood that when her father said that he needed to talk to his business associates, it was Serious Grown-up Business, and she should go outside and play.

But a teapot, simply by coincidence, was an object that she had never seen before. She was entranced, by its pointy spout, its little hat, and its conveniently placed handle.

“Where did you find that?”, Ma asked. “It was probably your mother's. Well, I suppose that means it's yours, now. If you run along to Pa, he'll teach you how to make tea with it. That's what teapots are for, you know.”

Joan ran along, but not to find Pa. Instead of using it to make tea, she put the teapot up on a shelf in her room, and for the rest of the day, simply sat and stared it it. It was so unremarkable looking that she found it remarkable. And it was so very...teapotty. Joan couldn't have thought of a better word to describe it, had she tried for one thousand years. It was a Teapot, and that was what it was.

And so it was that that night, when Joan turned off the light and went to bed, she had spent a great deal of the day looking at the teapot, and didn't feel compelled to look at it any more. Had she been inspecting it with the enthusiasm she'd shown earlier that day, she may have noticed that the end of the teapot's spout, despite being nowhere near any apparent light-source, appeared to be glowing.

Today's drabble...hmmm. I'm running out of fairy tales. I know there's another three: Three bears, three pigs, three billy goats gruff, seven dwarves, eleven elephants, two men, one girl, a pizza place. Well, maybe not. Let's go with a classic:

Little Red Riding Hood

Once upon a time, a particularly contrary girl wearing brightly coloured clothing walked through the woods. Rather than taking the safe path which her parent's had wisely recommended, she decided to rebel, and took the “stupid” path. When she met a talking wolf, she informed him of her intended destination, and went on her way. When she got there, she was naively shocked to discover the wolf was there waiting in place of her grandmother, having already devoured her. Fortunately, a deus ex lumberjack killed the wolf. Everyone except her dead grandmother, and the slain wolf lived happily ever after.


Coming in the next few days: The Frog Prince, The Pied Piper of Hamelin, Sleeping Beauty, Aladdin (the original, not the Disney version), and The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I'm only doing this until the end of September, so if there are any other fairy tales that you particularly wanted me to cover, let me know now.

Going out tonight, so I'm quickly doing the drabble on my lunch break.

Daily Drabble: The Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time, three little pigs learned a moral lesson, with the materials of their various houses representing their personality types. The first house was made by a whimsical pig, and so it was made of straw. The second house was made by a hippie, and so it was made of wood. The third house was made by an idiot, and so it was made of brick. When a big bad wolf came along, the first two houses could be destroyed by his breath (metaphor for words) however idiots are impervious. And all the pigs lived happily ever after?


Hmm. Bit of a weird one today.

Well, shit.

I recently bought a new digital video camera, after my old one died. (it started eating my tapes.) I bought a top-of-the line camera, which set me back $1600. It's shiney and beautiful, and I love it, but...

It's too damned top-of-the-line. I can film, but I can't actually do anything with the footage other than watch it back. I did some stuff to put up on YouTube, and well, that's simply not an option.

I need to buy the newest version of my editing software, which is $80 US plus postage, and that's money that I don't actually have.

So saving for England is being, yet again, put to the side. I'm considering postponing my trip from midway through next year to the end of next year, but I'm afraid that if I do that, I'll never end up going.

This software is something I need if I want to do any kind of home editing, so I don't have a huge choice at the moment. But I'd forgotten that riding the technology wave was so damned expensive. In a year, this equipment will still be the best, but it'll be about half the price.

Ah well. Such is life. Anyway, here's my drabble for today:

Snow White

Once upon a time, there was a stereotypically beautiful princess, called Snow White. Her stereotypically evil stepmother was jealous of this beauty, and so sent a stereotypically stupid peasant to kill her in the woods. He failed, and Snow White escaped. She found a house in the woods, where seven dwarves lived, and she stayed there and fulfilled all of their dwarvely needs. The Queen found out, and gave her a sleep-causing apple, instead of just killing her. This worked, until a prince came along and bollocksed the whole thing up. Snowy and the prince lived happily ever after.


It's a little bit shit, because I've just spent 4 hours trying to get this camera working, and I am most perturbed that it's not possible. Also, audio in my Mozilla has inexplicably stopped working.

Daily Drabble: Jack and the Beanstalk

Once upon a time, an idiot traded a cow for a some beans. His mother, annoyed, threw them out the window, and was surprised when they grew into a beanstalk. The idiot (whose name was Jack) climbed the beanstalk, and was almost eaten by a “Fee fi fo fum!” bellowing giant. The giant's wife inexplicably helped Jack escape, and he got away with some gold coins, and (on subsequent visits) a golden egg laying hen, and a magic harp. On his final visit, the giant followed him, however Jack cut the beanstalk, slayed the giant, and lived happily ever after.

This one took way too long, and I'm still not quite happy with the ending. The "once upon a time" and "happily ever after" really eat into your word count.

Daily Drabble 3: Cinderella

Once upon a time, there was a man. He dies fairly early on in the story, so don’t get too attached. He had a hot daughter. When his wife died off-screen, he got remarried, and his new wife (and her two daughters) waited for his death, then used his daughter as a servant. She was always filthy, so they called her “Cinderella.” They (quite reasonably) never once suspected that a magic fairy would turn up and give her a glass slipper which would result in her marrying a handsome prince. What fools! One did, and Cindy lived happily ever after.

I typed today's drabble out, expecting to have to go back and extensively edit it to shrink it down to 100 words. So I was pleasantly surprised when I ended up with six words spare (I went back and added the bit in brackets.)

Anyway, without further adieu, here's today's daily fairy tale drabble:

The Three Billy Goats Gruff

Once upon a time, there was a bridge. Under this bridge lived a troll, who was awoken one day by a “Clip clop clip clop.” “Who’s that?” he asked, and leapt up to discover a tiny goat. “Don’t eat me!” said the goat, “My brother is bigger and tastier!” The troll was convinced, and waited for the brother, who had a similar argument. So (letting the first two goats cross) the troll waited for the third goat brother, who jabbed him in the eyes. The troll died a lonely and painful death, but the three goats lived happily ever after.

My cousin Gavin (poxy_report) is updating his livejournal every day with a 100-word story, or "Drabble." In his first drabble (which doubles as an introduction), he says "Try telling The Three Bears in exactly one hundred words."

Well, I will.

In preparation for Nano, I'm going to join in, and for the rest of September, I'm going to write a 100-word story (or "drabble") of a different fairy tale.

So, here we go!

Daily Drabble 1: Goldilocks

In the woods one day, a mischevious golden-haired girl broke into a house, and stole some porridge. The first two bowls she sampled were of unsatisfying temperature, however the third was perfect. Sitting upon two chairs, she rejected them due to their inconvenient sizes. The third one was the right size, it broke when she sat on it. Finally, she tested three beds. While the first two were not at all what she was after, the third was, and she fell asleep. The owners of the house returned, and, being bears, ate the stupid bitch. Serves her right, too.

Some more information on religion in All-That-Is.

( The God of Gods )

That was much shorter than I expected, so here's some information on Phanatat, the God of Procrastination.

( I taught I taw a Phana Tat )

Remember the rules: You can pick anything that I've mentioned, or anything not yet filled out on the wiki, and I'll write a full update about it. Anything at all. You have the power!

Some general information about the deities that live in All-That-Is.

( The gods await! )

Again, pick anything mentioned in any of these pieces, and I'll expand on it. No?

I've got improv today, and I have to start getting ready in about 20 minutes. So let's see what we can write in that time about our friend Borge.

( Borge the Dwarf - Part 1 )

I've run out of suggestions from people. Remember, you can request expansion on anything! Any feature of All-That-Is at all! If I've mentioned it, I'll write about it.

(of course, I'll finish Borge's tale before I do anything else)

Two short ones tonight!

My little sister requested it, so even though his life wasn't particularly interesting, here's the story of King Azzle, father of the Queen Azma (subject of this entry)

( King Azzle the Fairy )

( Serenade, the City of Love )

I can never work out endings. Even though it's just description, I put a fair bit of effort into the beginning of each one, and I feel like I should do the same with the end. I can never work out how to finish the more neutral ones, such as cities or gods. I guess until I work something out, I'll just keep resorting to "hey, this was an advertisement all along!", regardless of how dodgy it is.

Well, rainbow_sleeve requested it, so here's some background information on Mildred, God of Librarians, and her church. (note: both male and female deities are referred to as "gods" in this universe.)

I'm at work, and I've got 25 minutes until my lunch break ends, so lets see how much I can write in that time.

( Mildred )

Remember, I'll write about topics in the order I receive them. I'm going out tonight, so I don't know if I'll get one done, but if I get some requests, I'll make the effort.

In other news, Tony Martin was on Thank God You're Here the other night. I always recognise him, but it's not until I pop online that I remember he played Sharon's arsehole boyfriend on Kath and Kim. The shaggy beard and hair make all the difference: he's almost entirely unrecogniseable. He was great on K&K, however. That kid can really act.

Okie doke! Some more creative writing. This time, it's Dorysse Glum. At the middle/beginning of grade 11, I had an idea for a webcomic, written by me and drawn by James. James never actually got around to drawing it, but I have the format and plot all worked out. And, of course, the characters.

I'm not actually sure where my notes on the other characters are, but Dorysse was probably my favourite anyway, so I'll start with her. This starts in the Year of the Brolga.

( Dorysse Glum, the Gnomish Wizard )

Hey, let's make this interactive. What/who do you want to hear about next? (and no, you can't say "The God Contest", because the end of this is where the comic starts. I can expand on back-stories, however.)

• Borge, the one-armed Gladiator Dwarf
  
• Tim, the enchanted human.
  
• ___, the cursed Peedling Bard. (I have these names in a book somewhere, but I've lost it)
  
• ___, the Elf with a prophecy
  
• Nomad's Land, the forest where they all live
  
• Mildred, the God of Librarians
  
• Anything else mentioned in any of these stories. (including anything mentioned in the Frankel or Azma stories.) I'm creating a universe here. I can expand on anything!

I'll write 'em in the order of comments.