Tuesday, November 07, 2006


The bell on the door tinkled as my partner lumbered in – the uncovered ceiling light swung back and forth. He shouldered off his great winter coat and tossed it into a chair and he began to take off his scarf – shaking off the rain-freezed-to-snow. His face was skewered by that ridiculous cap he always wore.
“Can’t you just throw that bleeding grungy cap out? You look like some filthy Holmes,” I said as I shifted my in my creaky, red-brown wooden chair. I put my feet onto the desk.
“What do you mean by ‘filthy Holmes’? If I’ve got to be Holmes, then you’re bleeding Watson. Better be filthy than that tosser. Go fetch my mug of tea, Watson! Come on, chop-chop old chap. I don’t have all-”
“Oh sod off, you bastard. Even if you were Holmes, you would’ve noticed that tea bin. Make a terrible Holmes, you would. T’was your turn to buy the tea, remember? But it didn’t cross your mind one moment, did it? Told you last night and don’t bother denying it. I did.” I crossed my arms.
“Didn’t – didn’t cross my mind! It surely did! The shops were closed, you know that. I did not have a single pence or quid this morning. I spent it all on the rent for my dear, lovely old landlady and some nosh – supper and this morning’s brekkers.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, “Oh!! Did I not pay you enough? You’re the one complaining, HA! I ought to be the one ratting down on you. You took what? Twenty quid, was it? Robbery!” My friend was about to protest, “Ah!! Ah!! From my own dearest friend! Nay, my closest brother! If this is disappointing, then there is more of this atrocity! You know what that twenty quid was for?” I stood up and walked over to him, point my finger at him. “Bleeding whores, that’s what. Not a damn pence went to you dear old landlady. Not a damn quid to the nosh – no, plump little sausages for brekkers, no slices of toast with jam, no biscuit for your tea. No tea, even! Oh, now don’t look at me with that indignant face, you bleeding wanker. It’s all over you! That’s the shirt you wore yesterday, still got the bloodstains. Your shoes and jacket are covered in mud, from falling into the puddle outside the brothel. You were too smashed to avoid it. Your breath reeks of liqueur. Then there’s the cap. That thing is doused in liqueur, reeks of the unique and very harsh lavender scent that the frisky little ladies down at the Red Fox drench themselves in. No sir, I owe you nothing.” I walked over to my desk and pulled out a small little box and popped it open - out came the finest cigarette I am able to buy. I snapped the box closed and shut the drawer. I stuffed a hat on and slipped on my jacket. I opened to door to the rainy outside and flicked my thumb and index together, producing my ever-favourite flame to light the cigarette. I was about to exit when I looked back at my partner. “Throw out that cap, will you? The ‘murderer’ will know what hit him even if he’s all the way in bleeding Scotland.”


This was an one-class assignment for fiction. We were supposed to do everyday conversation. Which I tried to do, yea, but my original intent was to have these magic-users as a sort of noir Sherlock Holmes and Watson characters. Of course we weren't allowed to use much prose either, so I just hint that they use magic. The 'Watson', or the partner who stole twenty quid, could manipulate liquid. Make them hot or cold or what. The 'Holmes' conducts heat. He creates flames, manipulates them. Sort of fond of these two, even though this piece doesn't really show what I had in mind for 'em. The Watson was a portly man, short and a bit gruff. The Holmes was thin, slender and tall. Not very rough looking, but more of a bright man. Oh well... Hope to keep the two in mind (and hopefully name to poor two men).

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


Well, I was hoping to weave a Halloween story, but it seems as though this year's Halloween fell just a little short. No real costume, no real story... Ah, well. I had some lovely potato soup (very, very good potato soup).

On to the next business, apparently it is the new month. Not a real shocker, the months change 11 times a year. However this would then mean that it is the 'official' start of the 227 Blackwell Society of Fiction. At least... I suppose it is the official start. The club never really was approved by the school officials. Just sort of... us doing what we do (meaning my little group). I'm not sure when the club gets officialised (by the school). Not that it matters, of course. It will go on as long as we keep it up (hopefully we will).

((Note: the 227 Blackwell Society of Fiction is a silly little writing club with an overly pretentious name and therefore, much fun)).

We will have to get together and throw some challenges around. I do believe I have got a few, and in the mean time I shall continue to write. I have already wasted a few hours on silly frivolous idiocies (The Flying Circus might not exactly be an idiocy, but it is silly). Oh dear.