#TwitterFiction – Short and Simple

Today was the first time that I heard about an actual event dedicated to storytelling via Twitter. That is not to say it’s the first time that I experienced the phenomenon.

To me, telling a story using Twitter can mean two things:

Firstly, you have your accounts set up to literally tell a series of stories in short sentences. One which immediately occurs to me is the EGOs Issue 0 Tweets. A quick background: EGOs is a recently started comic series published by Image, a company that specialises in more alternative and ‘out-there’ comics. A week or so prior to #2 being released, the writers of EGOs created a series of tweets which essentially told a ‘prequel’ to #1 via a few hundred tweets spaced 2 minutes apart. Reading back now, you will probably not realise fully the tone that experiencing #0 live held. It was definitely humbling, as a writer, to step back from the story and realise that they were essentially creating tiny pieces of cliff-hanging drama in tiny little sentences. There were a few times when 140 characters were just not enough to convey the imagery, and the writers used an image instead, but overall the slow-moving pace was actually incredible to experience.

Another way in which Twitter can be used to tell stories, and one touched upon by the first article that I linked to, would be the parody accounts who pretend to be the characters’ twitter accounts, and tweet accordingly. Many of these don’t last very long, because they were created on a one-joke basis, but many persist to create a kind of everyday, non-linear narrative of an entire individual.

Both of these are very interesting, because they use the tight restrictions of the medium – 140 characters are barely enough to gripe about grandparents, let alone tell an entire story! – to their advantage, and create a whole story using the constructed understanding that most Twitters users have about how tweets work.

And then there’s @horse_ebooks, which turned out to be part of an elaborate art exhibit.


I Give The Final Blow

[It Ends Tonight – The All American Rejects]

AH! Finally, Chapter 6 is up.

You can read it from the Writing Project tab up there ^^^^^ or alternatively click this link.

This chapter is more plot than anything special or fancy but at least the action is advancing.

I really need to stop introducing characters that I’ll “do more with later on”.

Alright, have fun!


P.S. If you haven’t already, or if you have forgotten, the links to the first five chapters are all under the Writing Project page.

What Was Ever Really Special About Me?

[How Far We’ve Come – Matchbox 20]

This is just a quick note to tell people who’re keeping up with the slow slow updates.

In Chapter 2 ‘It’s Only Natural’, Sera had explained that in order to drink from humans, consent is needed.

I had thought about it, and as much as I hate changing details that I, myself, created, I thought it was a) impractical and b) a bit dumb to have that. I have now changed it to the usual myth: that in order to gain entry into a property, consent is required from a permanent resident of the property. It still explains the good looks, but in a less limiting manner for further on.

I am currently writing. I went driving today but it’s not much to talk about.


Soy un perdedor, I’m A Loser Baby, So Why Don’t You Kill Me?

[Loser – Glee Cast Cover, original by Beck]

I finished all my essays today, and I thought it shouldn’t hurt to share my Creative Fiction here – if the Uni asks, I can prove this is mine.

So yeah, here it is, very very Dexter-inspired.

Hear My Whispers In The Dark

These things tend follow a pattern, a routine that I sit through on auto-pilot, like the period of time between the wake-up alarm and the key in the ignition. Almost every aspect of my Ritual is done on auto-pilot, though I have to admit I do take pleasure in some parts.

I’ve often wondered – and I’m wondering again now, watching her show the first signs of consciousness – why I always wait for them to wake up. I suppose that the only variation I get in my Ritual is the conversation, which is why I let them wake up, just so I can talk to them. One can say that I am lonely, but I don’t like being around people enough for that to apply. I simply like to be stimulated by conversation.

“Where am I?” This is always the first question. I can’t blame her for the lack of originality; one moment she was about to get into her car – a normal, safe place in her life – and the next she wakes up in mine. The sense of displacement…I know that feeling. Except unlike for her, my experience won’t be ending within the next hour, but continue every day, no matter where I go. Everyone I see looks like me, but the things I do on a daily basis exist only in the most horrifying corners of their conscience.

I am that monster that slinks into people’s thoughts at night, the one who whispers ideas from the darkness.

The next part is interesting. I think I can tell what kind of conversation I will have just by what they do next. The kind that struggle, well, they’re bound to be the aggressive kind. Stupidly in denial, they would (try to) tear at their plastic wrap-trap, fighting against what they already know until the last strained breath.

I really like the ones who silently see what is happening to them, and then resign themselves to cry.  They say they deserve it, because they’re guilty of one thing or another. I don’t really care about what they did;  but I do like hearing their stories. If someone like me can have friends, I would call them my friends.

She says nothing, even though I know she’s fully coherent. I feel a small swell of satisfaction that I’d managed to find the better kind.

I dim the lights, like a cinema before the movie starts. I like going to the cinemas, and when the lights dim I’d know I am in for a treat. Maybe that’s why I dim the lights for her, and for the ones like her. Without the light, I get to see a great show without any light to distract me.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask. There isn’t actually a reason, apart from my own personal needs, but I like to know what she’ll say.

She still doesn’t answer, but she’s looking straight up at me. She’s fat – I wouldn’t pick her otherwise – so I try not to look at her body bulging under the layers of plastic wrapping. She’s not beautiful either, but under the dimmed light, and with her damp hair loosely framing her face, I can bear to look at her. She’ll look a lot better against the dark crimson of her own blood.

“Alright then, do you know who I am?” She moves her head side-to-side as far as the tape allows. She still doesn’t speak, but I can tell she is starting to abandon her initial shock.

I turn up the light again, drowning her imperfections. I move around the surrounding shadows, readying my equipment. The clanging of the blood collection tub that I toss unceremoniously near her head stirs some urgency into her.

“What is that? What’s it for?” she asks, starting to shift in her restraints. Once that shifting starts, it usually never stops, until I stop it.

“It’s to collect your blood. I find that having to mop it up is very hard work.” I pick up a pair of rusting scissors and a big, black garbage bag from the bench-top. Cutting a large hole into the bottom of the bag. I slip it over my head, and rip the plastic at the sleeves. I wrap the torn plastic around my arms, securing it with rubber-bands, making myself a disposable shirt with sleeves. Over this shirt, I put on my stained apron. During all this, she is quiet, but fully aware of every move I make; her breathing stops every time I make an exceptionally loud sound.

“Why are you going to kill me?” she asks the moment I appear in her field of vision.

“Well,  there isn’t a section at the butcher’s for my liking, so I basically have to go out into the farm, or what you would call your neighbourhood, and kill one for myself.” I lean closer to her distastefully ugly face, “I’m just being a smart-arse. Yeah, I’m going to eat you.”

Her eyes grow big, as her face expands to accommodate for the sudden surplus of fear. The monster has swaggered into the light, announcing itself. But the thing that is really making her writhe harder in her bonds is the realization that the monster had always been there, just beyond the pool of light.

“Will it hurt?”

Of all the before-meal conversations I’ve had (that I remember, anyway), this is the first time that someone has accepted their fate so quickly.

“Will it hurt? Is that all you’re going to ask? I’m going to be eating you! Bleed you out, cut you up, and skin you! You’ll be made into stew, roast, stir-fry…come on!” I slam a fist down onto her torso, immediately regretting bruising her flesh. “Beg for your life! Don’t you want to get out? For fuck’s sake, woman!” She stares into my eyes, a glow burning in her eyes from the reflection of the light.

“Why would I beg? There’s no way of getting out,” she shifts slightly, and then closes her eyes, breathing out like she’s waiting for her attractive masseur to start on her. Through her closed eyelids, I can still feel the embers of that glow.

“Yes, yes it will hurt. I will cut your carotid artery, and let you bleed out. This table can be tilted sideways, and your blood will flow through these little channels on the table here, and into this tub. Through all this, you cannot move. I am good at this; I’ll make sure to draw out the bleeding for as long as possible. The only consolation I can give you,” I completely turn off the light, and wait until the friendly darkness has settled heavily before continuing, “is that at the end, you’ll be able to see ‘the light’ that you so believe in.”

In the darkness, just below me, I hear her breathing, slowly and deliberately.  I synchronise my breathing with hers, pushing out my rare anger and pulling in a lungful of my old friend. The smoothness of my Ritual comes back to me.

When the lights go back on, she is different, her eyes are just another part of her flesh. I don’t want to talk to her, and I definitely don’t want to look at her. I’m simply hungry, and this is a step I have to take before I can satiate that hunger. I move to my bench. The familiar layout of my equipment brings the buzz back into my arms. I tug out two latex gloves, put them on, and pick up my scalpel. Moving back towards the table, I survey over the mass before me, making a final decision, and cut into the carotid artery by the side of the neck. A pool of dark red forms almost immediately, its clean integrity smeared by squirming. I slip the scalpel in my apron pocket, and move to the crank by the table. A few turns of the handle, and the pool of red slide down past her left shoulder and start rolling steadily into the tub.

I tear off my right glove, and turn on some music. Every piece of equipment that is in this room has its use in different steps of my Ritual, and my speakers have served me well. Chris Martin’s voice drowns out the growing whimpers from the table. Grabbing a chair, I dim the lights to the weakest rays, sit by the table, and wait.

Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.


First Drop Of Rain

My Writing Project (which you can access right next to the 411 and home along the top-ish if the page) has had a huge drought, and finally after God knows how long, I’ve written and put up Chapter 5.

Am I satisfied with it? Not really. A lot of the stylistic features I tried to put in didn’t quite show up, but I have no idea how to edit it.

Did I see the ending of the chapter coming? Yes and no. There was always going to be a huge revelation. I just didn’t plan to put it in so early, or even that revelation for that matter. I won’t spoil it.

If you read my earlier chapters and forgot what it was about, then I suppose you’ll just have to read them again. I WOULD do a “previously on Untitled Writing Project” but nah.

I have a feeling Chapter 6 won’t take long. It’s almost like Chapters 3 and 4 coming out so quickly after one another.

I pretty much expect just Cheryl to read it, ha, but everyone else is welcome too.


Revisiting a few thoughts

(I haven’t written properly in a long time. So here goes something pretty impromptu.)

She tried to block the sounds out, but the words still formed meaning in her mind. She was bombarded with searing images of failure, of dissatisfaction and felt the unmistakable aftertaste of having brought great shame upon herself and those around her.

She studied her mug carefully. She traced the letters on the  mug for the twentieth time, willing herself not to say or do anything.

But she imagined it. She imagined the feeling in her arms as she smashed the mug down on her face. Skull. Whatever could break many bones. Then maybe the mug would shatter, and she’d have something sharp to play with.

And she could imagine the initial shock on her face. Shock that her own daughter could hurt her. And perhaps shock at finally realizing that she’d lost her daughter for a long time.

She continued studying her mug. The small bumps of Homer Simpson’s speech bubble barely registered under her fingertips. And still the bombardment of shame and guilt attacked her ears. She didn’t even need to listen to what her mother was saying; it was the old spiel, the familiar speech of failure.

She became aware of how close she was to completely changing her life. In one swift movement and moment, her mother could be unconscious and dying on the floor, and she would stand over the bleeding body. Would she smile at the much delayed release? Or would she feel horror at what she’d done? If it was horror, it wouldn’t be that she hurt her mother, but that there would be lawful consequences.

She started planning what she’d do. After mashing her mother’s head in (she’d use the tile floor if she had to) she’d run downstairs. Her dad wouldn’t be home yet, so she’d have to tap out some sort of message to her friends, to the people that actually matter to her. She’d detail in that message how sorry she was it had to be like this, and that no one should be put to blame but her. She’d detail that her actions were solely by the influence of her mother.

She’d say goodbye, because she wouldn’t want to remain to allow her mother the pleasure of media attention. And surely there will be; a daughter doesn’t kill a mother often, and the news will be all over it. She doesn’t want her mother to be able to plead with her simpering ugly face that her own flesh and blood and turned against her, and she didn’t want to be portrayed as the bad guy. She wasn’t the bad guy.

Then she’d run back upstairs. She has to be quick. If her mother’s still alive then she would dial OOO. So she has to be fast.

She’d open the top drawer in the kitchen. There was one in there that her dad always kept sharp for cutting meat. In fact, she’d recently been nagging her dad to keep it sharp.

She’d planned it. She’d even envisioned it in her mind a million times.

It would hurt yes, but the satisfaction would be anaesthetic enough.

And then she put down her mug, stood up, and walked away. She went downstairs, calmly opened a new email, and sat there and wrote all of the things that ran through her mind to her friend. She cried while doing it, but she didn’t stop typing until she was done. Then she hit send, and with it buried away the feeling of being utterly trapped. It will come back again, but until then she can just keep sending it out.


Another another disclaimer

Sneaks was sort of hinting at it so I’ve decided to officially announce that:

Yes, Chapter 3 is coming! I have a week off next week during which I can tap out the rest of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 should follow soon after seeing as I’ve done half of both. (Don’t ask why I did that).

Also, it’s occured to me that on Facebook only the first part of my blog is shown on my profile page. Unfortunately the previous one cut off at “…the perpetual gayness that is Bel and Julia…” and didn’t show my repeated assertations that they’re not gay. So whoever read that small intro would’ve gotten a really wrong idea. From now on I’ll be careful to write a teaser/summary in the first few lines, and then get into it.

By the way, they don’t like the name Julinda. I thought it was awesome. Apparently a lot of people don’t like it.

Some humor just go by unnoticed.


4000 and Update

I’ve got 4000 hits (that was fast) and I’m feeling rather good about  myself. Also, I updated and put up the 2nd chapter of the summer project. Clearly, I need  a name for the damned story.

I will be going out tomorrow, and I don’t know when I’ll come home (but most likely before the day after, is what I meant) so I might not blog tomorrow. Oh but I’m sure that’ll be okay because there are people who, for some reason, loads my entire blog on several pages and takes a whole day to read all of it. I mean, it makes me feel all popular but you’re wasting your time. And you know who you are.

De Fluffe, Out.

P.S. To all my readers, though, thank you.

First apology

I can’t believe I’m apologizing already but:

Regarding the summer project, it’s still coming along! I took a huge break during Christmas and stuff, and I know it’s a bit strange ‘cos this kind of stuff is ideal for Christmas time, and it wasn’t like I did anything worthy during the holidays…

Started again today. Chapter 2 should be done by tomorrow. If not, it means I got a writer’s block. No, it’s not that I suck this early on. I have the story in my head I just need a segway to shoo it in.

I don’t think this will be the last apology regarding the story so.

Tomorrow, I’m going to go to see Benjamin Button with Eunice. Unless she cancels last minute. I hope you don’t.

De Fluffe, Out.

Summer Project

Bee and Carmaine and Eunice all have summer projects. Bee wants to get fitter, and there was something else frilly but I forgot (sorry!) and Carmaine wanted to make a dress out of another old dress, which she did, and it looks great! And there was something else, I think, that Carmaine wanted to do, but it was a frilly idea too so I blocked it out. Bee and Carmaine both want to do photoshoots that they’re directing. Eunice wants to make a clutch bag out of playing cards, and a summer dress. (My god, I have frilly friends.)

What is my summer project?

Apart from a personal secret one that I already failed [glares at Bee, the catalys of my failure] I have another one which is to CONTINUE WRITING! I haven’t really sat down and wrote something in a long time (fiction) because I haven’t had the time or the insipiration. Well I have now, and Sonam and Bee and Vania knows about it.

So I put to you, reader (AND NOW YOU HAVE TO COMMENT!), would you like me to make a new page, next to the tabs that say “Home” and “The 411”, called “Summer Project”, and every now and then, depending on the speed at which I write, I upload/update a chapter of my current piece?

Note, I am an indecisive writer, and frequently goes and to edit and change plots, dialogues, etc. And since this idea is in its infant stage, I may re-upload the same chapter twice, if it contains major and important changes.

So, what do you think? Would you like that? Vania said I should, already. But I want some other general feedback as well (not that I don’t appreciate you, Vania, but…)

De Fluffe, Out.