Pinocchio stirred and with his famous nose smelt the dusky aroma of the dungeon he had found himself in. Something was wrong. Made of wood, the boy did not require sustenance so he couldn’t have been drugged. In lieu of a brain his consciousness was ingrained into the wood itself and so a blow to the head couldn’t have knocked him out. Yet he still found himself with no memory of how he’d come to be tied to a metal table in a stretched T, in a damp, badly-lit dungeon with a single fluorescent lamp hanging by rusted chains on the ceiling.
Throughout his life, every since the moment of his carving, he’d been kept in decrepit places but this was a step down from usual. Slimy brick walls, a room the size of a widower’s cottage, with bars on the windows and the only furniture being a wooden cabinet. Pinocchio made a face at the last one of those; he knew how cows felt when they saw leather sofas. He tried his best to unscrew his legs but his body was extremely taut with almost zero room to move, he would have to wait for the arrival of his captor. To pass the time he counted the drops of water coming from a nearby leaky faucet.
“… nine-hundred and thirty-one… nine-hundred and thirty-two… nine-hundred and thirty-three… nine-hundred and thirty-four…” Pinocchio stopped counting aloud for he had just seen a man appear by his side. Not rush in quickly for the door itself hadn’t been opened and no footsteps had been heard, the man had simply appeared. He was dressed in a silk blue cravat, red shirt, black waistcoat and dark coat with a high collar and many fob chains hanging from it. Pinocchio had accepted that there were weirdoes in the world but now accepted that there was a contest going on.
“Hello” Pinocchio wiggled his fingers at the man, “‘and how are you Pinocchio?’ oh, I’m good, thanks for asking”
“I’m searching for something you have hidden” the man said, “I believe you know where it is”
“You’re going to have to be more specific” Pinocchio smiled, “I have hidden a lot of things in my life. Chainsaws and matchboxes mainly”
“A fob watch” the man hissed, drawing a long sword with a battered appearance, “a silver fob watch that cannot be opened. Since you cannot lie, I shall ask you: where is this fob watch?”
“Single correction there” Pinocchio winced, “I cannot lie without consequence” and then looking directly at his captor, “it’s hidden inside a crater on the moon, guarded by robots that are powered with the psychic energy of the hamsters specifically bred by NASA in their attempts to grow life forms on Saturn to which I have witnessed. I have also witnessed the Coming of the Great White Handkerchief and I can run faster than a million, billion miles an hour with my talking brick wall which follows me wherever I go”
True to legend, Pinocchio’s nose grew so quickly it struck the man’s face with the force of a small caliber bullet. Snapping one arm off, Pinocchio slipped out of his chains and broke off his nose, using his good left arm to hold it like a weapon.
The man scoffed, “You can’t be serious”
“Try me” Pinocchio said, swinging his nose. The man thrust his sword in the air to which Pinocchio dodged. Chasing him around the room with his sword, the man sliced the tip of the feather in Pinocchio’s hat off. Pinocchio turned around, catching the man’s sword.
“Where’s the watch?”
“In the gummy bear hideout” Pinocchio said, growing his nose-sword. The man threw his energy into forcing the sword towards Pinocchio, flinging him across the room where he crashed into the brick wall. Picking himself up, Pinocchio slackened his jaw as he gripped his nose-sword.
“I’m a traffic warden for the Gorgon police” Pinocchio shouted aloud, growing his nose-sword once more. The man yelled in rage as he approached Pinocchio with the sword. The two locked weapons, to which Pinocchio snapped off the handle of his.
“I’m also a fan of jazz music and spy novels” Pinocchio said, growing a second weapon, “and I really enjoy country music” to which he now had two full-length nose-swords to compete with the man with only one metal sword.
The man swiveled quickly, cutting the air where Pinocchio stood a second before, clipping a button. Pinocchio grimaced as he crossed his nose-swords and charged at the man. Expecting this, the man dropped quickly and with an upward thrust, beheaded Pinocchio. The man, thinking the battle was over, unlocked the door and stepped into the thunderstorm.
“Don’t think that’s going to stop me” Pinocchio’s shrill voice said and the man was confronted with a headless wooden boy who wielded two wooden swords, “I’m a puppet with no fucking strings man”
Caught unaware, the man was struck by the first nose-sword into the chest. The second was held by the crook of the right elbow, Pinocchio having to snap off his right hand to escape. The man swerved his sword to the right to catch one sword while the other tried to strike at his head.
“Where’s the watch?”
“The mayor of Czechoslovakia borrowed it for his wedding on Saturday” Pinocchio’s head rolled towards the man at an uncomfortably fast pace, the nose attached to his face growing, “and right now, a polar bear is eating the sun”
The man’s sword was caught between the two nose-swords of the headless puppet. Struggling to free it, the blade of the sword snapped.
“What kind of wood are you made of?” the man yelped.
“Magic wood” Pinocchio said, and his nose failed to grow. Pinning the man’s throat with a nose-sword, Pinocchio’s head reattached itself with its respective body with a little sap from a shrubbery.
“Where were we?”
“Like this” the man kicked Pinocchio in the stomach, propelling him against an oak tree, “I really need that watch”
“Bad move mister” Pinocchio said, his neck still slipping from his body, “remember how I told you I hide chainsaws?” and from within the oak trunk, Pinocchio retrieved a grey chainsaw, fully-loaded with gas, “You cut off my head, I cut off yours”
The man, now with no weapon, proceeded to run, pursued by the wooden boy with a chainsaw. Pinocchio screamed for help but was heard by only one creature. A wood nymph called Delilah was out for her morning exercise when she heard the buzzing of a chainsaw. Rather than leg it, Delilah floated over to Pinocchio who was still in pursuit.
“Why are you running?”
“Man”
The eponymous man however, had spotted his escape route. A water well was standing unused in a corner. The man threw himself in, landing softly into the body of running water.
“Where does this well go?” Pinocchio asked Delilah quickly, “where does it go?”
“No idea” Delilah said, applying tree gum to help keep Pinocchio’s head from wobbling.
“I’m damn glad I float” Pinocchio groaned, ditching the chainsaw and throwing himself into the well in pursuit of the man in pursuit of a fob watch.
Adrian Glass was fifteen years old. He was born in anonymity, he was raised in anonymity, and Fate decreed that he was to die in anonymity.
Fate however, was not in possession of all the facts.
Adrian Glass had one possession of any value and that was a fob watch he kept with him at all times. Though he could not open it, it remained tucked in his jacket pocket next to his beating heat which Death had decreed would stop at age fifty-six.
Again, Death was not in possession of all the facts.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Unhealthy Snacks & Heart Attacks
The smell of toast, a shooting pain down your left arm, a massive explosion inside your lungs. It’s what they’ve been warning you all this time- it’s a heart attack.
All right, calm down, calm down, let’s think about this. Those unhealthy snacks probably didn’t do you any good. It was probably all of those cigarettes you had, you did start when you were fourteen so it’s not like you can fault anyone else. They did taste good back then, sweet, smoky, the first puff after a long day would be a veritable heaven. Maybe if you’d paid more attention in all of those Physical Development classes… but that doesn’t even bear considering. No one should pay attention in those classes, secondary school in general. What does it do? What are all of the German teachers doing? Can any of their graduates speak German six months after leaving? Can any of us do Quadratic Equations, those fearmongers in our youths, after finishing up with the whole of mathematics. Sometimes it’s difficult to count without using fingers, that’s the amount of skill degraded from your soft, soft brain.
But then, if you weren’t paying attention in class, what were you doing? Nurturing a secret crush on that special someone you were always going to approach but could never quite find the right words and then the partings of the ways- oh, so that problem sorted itself out. They just stopped being in the same vicinity as you every day. You can lament all you like but they’re never seeing you again. Game over buddy.
If you’re unlucky in love at high school, what makes the real world any better? Your odds have not gone up, they’ve gone down. Now you have to sell yourself because people probably won’t spend a second glance on you. You don’t eat right, your exercise is pitiful, you’re constantly sitting down, you don’t have a lot to offer. You try and make it work though; make your hair presentable, wear slimming and cliquey clothes, it’s a hit-and-miss process these days.
Actually, why is it a hit-and-miss process? All of those trends nowadays changing every time someone sneezes. The good old days when you didn’t have to update what you wore for a year, now it seems it’s every ten minutes. Younger kids can go bother about with that, you don’t have enough time or energy or money to give yourself fully to the fashion, riding the trends was so much easier in those good old days.
Why didn’t you enjoy those good old days? Because you didn’t know any better? Or because you were having too much fun. Where did they go anyway? Did they just sort of melt away or have they been recycled for the kids? You didn’t have to get up so early, Saturdays were the day when your cartoons were on, it passed you by too quick.
In fact, the only things that don’t pass you by quickly are the agonizing pains. The partner who broke your heart, you’re liable to see them now than ever. The garbage bags that seem to fill too quickly, what are people putting in them? You don’t get enough time to read the books you want because that time has been reallocated to sitting on the sofa watching television you didn’t care much for anyway. God, remember all of those hours spent watching television with a burning passion? Wholesome, moral stuff, as opposed to the dribble given out today. Seriously, where are all of these producers getting their material from? Are all the typescripts from Monkeys attempting Shakespeare just being formatted onto scripts and sent to the TV network? In which case, do the monkeys know they’re attempting Shakespeare or is someone proof-reading fifteen thousand copies of the Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer?
OK, OK, relax. Somewhere from the swamp of your memory, you dig up some information on heart attacks. There was that one article you read that said that you have thirty seconds from your heart stopping until you pass out. Thirty whole seconds. You put on a genuine smile.
Time for one last cigarette.
All right, calm down, calm down, let’s think about this. Those unhealthy snacks probably didn’t do you any good. It was probably all of those cigarettes you had, you did start when you were fourteen so it’s not like you can fault anyone else. They did taste good back then, sweet, smoky, the first puff after a long day would be a veritable heaven. Maybe if you’d paid more attention in all of those Physical Development classes… but that doesn’t even bear considering. No one should pay attention in those classes, secondary school in general. What does it do? What are all of the German teachers doing? Can any of their graduates speak German six months after leaving? Can any of us do Quadratic Equations, those fearmongers in our youths, after finishing up with the whole of mathematics. Sometimes it’s difficult to count without using fingers, that’s the amount of skill degraded from your soft, soft brain.
But then, if you weren’t paying attention in class, what were you doing? Nurturing a secret crush on that special someone you were always going to approach but could never quite find the right words and then the partings of the ways- oh, so that problem sorted itself out. They just stopped being in the same vicinity as you every day. You can lament all you like but they’re never seeing you again. Game over buddy.
If you’re unlucky in love at high school, what makes the real world any better? Your odds have not gone up, they’ve gone down. Now you have to sell yourself because people probably won’t spend a second glance on you. You don’t eat right, your exercise is pitiful, you’re constantly sitting down, you don’t have a lot to offer. You try and make it work though; make your hair presentable, wear slimming and cliquey clothes, it’s a hit-and-miss process these days.
Actually, why is it a hit-and-miss process? All of those trends nowadays changing every time someone sneezes. The good old days when you didn’t have to update what you wore for a year, now it seems it’s every ten minutes. Younger kids can go bother about with that, you don’t have enough time or energy or money to give yourself fully to the fashion, riding the trends was so much easier in those good old days.
Why didn’t you enjoy those good old days? Because you didn’t know any better? Or because you were having too much fun. Where did they go anyway? Did they just sort of melt away or have they been recycled for the kids? You didn’t have to get up so early, Saturdays were the day when your cartoons were on, it passed you by too quick.
In fact, the only things that don’t pass you by quickly are the agonizing pains. The partner who broke your heart, you’re liable to see them now than ever. The garbage bags that seem to fill too quickly, what are people putting in them? You don’t get enough time to read the books you want because that time has been reallocated to sitting on the sofa watching television you didn’t care much for anyway. God, remember all of those hours spent watching television with a burning passion? Wholesome, moral stuff, as opposed to the dribble given out today. Seriously, where are all of these producers getting their material from? Are all the typescripts from Monkeys attempting Shakespeare just being formatted onto scripts and sent to the TV network? In which case, do the monkeys know they’re attempting Shakespeare or is someone proof-reading fifteen thousand copies of the Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer?
OK, OK, relax. Somewhere from the swamp of your memory, you dig up some information on heart attacks. There was that one article you read that said that you have thirty seconds from your heart stopping until you pass out. Thirty whole seconds. You put on a genuine smile.
Time for one last cigarette.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Suicide? Really?
A student I once knew said something along these lines: suicide is the hardest choice you can choose because it ends all of the other choices. This is the sort of yuppie thinking that sounds deep but it’s not even close.
Thinking about it on face value, suicide should never be easy. However, the hardest? Note the question mark. I’d even use a sarcmark if I could (we’ll all use them eventually, so don’t ask me to explain what one is, go online and find out). Suicide is not as hard as say, donating a kidney to a man who rapes his children. On one hand, he’s human and society says that we’re supposed to value human life, preferably an English-speaking one. However, he is a child-abuser and society conflictingly says that these people deserve to die. Or even tougher, to kill a man who rapes his children and then posting it on the Internet. The choice becomes central to the target; you become an active participant in the hypothetical. In the former scenario, your apathy causes a man to die but you can shrug off responsibility. In the latter, you are integral to saving these children from mental and physical abuse, at the cost of killing a very bad man. However, he is a man.
All hypotheticals, but proof that suicide is not THE hardest choice you can make. If you’re a teenager and have stumbled upon this on searching ‘suicide’ on the Internet, then go get a smoothie and read a book please.
Cos’.
Thinking about it on face value, suicide should never be easy. However, the hardest? Note the question mark. I’d even use a sarcmark if I could (we’ll all use them eventually, so don’t ask me to explain what one is, go online and find out). Suicide is not as hard as say, donating a kidney to a man who rapes his children. On one hand, he’s human and society says that we’re supposed to value human life, preferably an English-speaking one. However, he is a child-abuser and society conflictingly says that these people deserve to die. Or even tougher, to kill a man who rapes his children and then posting it on the Internet. The choice becomes central to the target; you become an active participant in the hypothetical. In the former scenario, your apathy causes a man to die but you can shrug off responsibility. In the latter, you are integral to saving these children from mental and physical abuse, at the cost of killing a very bad man. However, he is a man.
All hypotheticals, but proof that suicide is not THE hardest choice you can make. If you’re a teenager and have stumbled upon this on searching ‘suicide’ on the Internet, then go get a smoothie and read a book please.
Cos’.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)