Saturday Update

Today's short is a bit of an odd one. It's sort of an experiment in getting a story across in a sort of stream of consciousness type way. The short is all dialogue, or should I say monologue. Basically a character recounting a story to someone else, or just the reader. I really wish the indents worked becasue it makes it much easier to read. As it is, it sort of looks like a bit of a block of text.

Also if anyone thinks there is too much use of the word "like" or things such as ending sentences with the questions "right?" and "you know?" then try reading it out loud as a monologue, it flows better that way. While writing it, I had to read it out loud to make sure the commas are all in the right spots, even if they aren't gramatically correct. Also I found myself adding more "like"s when I read it out loud.

Partly inspired by one of my favourite films of all time Waking Life, Directed by Richard Linklater and mostly created by letting the main character/narrator go off on whatever tangents he thought necessary, and no, I didn't have the dream described in the story.

Heres a clip from Waking Life. Great scene, the whole movie is like this, rotoscoped animation and interesting interviews/dialogue. Amazing.

And a music video: Arcade Fire - The Suburbs directed by Spike Jonze. Arcade Fire's album The Suburbs was my favourite of 2010.

Also Ou Est Le Swimming Pool - Dance the Way I Feel. Great song, made number 3 in Triple J's Hottest 100 of 2010.


Monologue
By Tim Harvey


“So, I've been having this recurring dream recently. Like, the last few nights, right?
Anyway, so in the dream, I'm like at the video store, right? And I'm leaving the video store.
It's like night-time, and anyway, I'm walking across the parking lot to my car.
So, it's dark and there are a few people around and whatever, and I notice there is a cop car in the parking lot.
The video store is like on the same block as this pizza place, right? And, so they like share the same parking lot, you know?
Anyway, so I'm walking across this parking lot, looking at the cop car, and it's got the tail-lights on and all that, the reversing lights and whatever.
So, I'm like; 'Oh, okay, these cops are like, getting dinner,' and I'm thinking; 'Geez, guys. Like, pizza, am I right?'
Because, you know, they're like cops right, but whatever.
So as I'm like getting into my car I see these two shady looking guys walking across the parking lot. And they're like, eyeing up the cop car, and they're looking at each other, and like eyeing up this cop car.
So, I'm like thinking to myself; ' These dudes look like real shady,' I mean, these dudes look like the type to start trouble, right?
Anyway, so now I'm getting into my car and I have to like, turn my back on these guys, and I get this thought, like; 'This is the perfect time to get mugged.' Right?
I mean, dark parking lot, not many people around and all that.
But I'm not scared or anything, because, like, the cop car, you know?

“So, anyway, that thought sticks in my mind, and I'm like driving home thinking about doing some writing. Anyway, I'm like; 'This would be a great story.' I mean, you know? Lone guy gets mugged in the parking lot, and there was a cop car like, right there. I mean, that's pretty funny right, these guys must be pretty stupid, right?
But then I'm like; 'What if the cops didn't notice?' Right?
So, the guy gets mugged, with a cop car like, right there, and you know?
I mean, the guy's getting bashed and, like I'd imagine it as being really brutal, right? So, he's getting kicked in the head and like, broken jaw, and like, real violent, like fractured eye sockets and all that, you know?
And the guys are like taking his keys and, you know, jacking his car and all that, with these cops right there in the parking lot!
So, like, I'd imagine it as like, the guy's on the ground, and his face is like swollen and all that, and he looks up and sees the cop car pull out of the parking lot.
Like, they didn't see anything, right?
And, even, they like stop and he sees the brake lights go on and he's like; 'Oh, thank God!' And all that. And then, the cops like, drive off.
I mean, It's like heartbreaking.
Imagine like, the soul-destroying, like, feeling of being in that situation, you know?
Just like, crushed, you know?
So, anyway, then like the hero of the story, the guy, you know, goes to hospital and all that. And he's like in a coma for months, with the tubes and all that, all that stuff.
So he gets out of hospital and he's like, vowed to get revenge.
But, here's the twist, right? He's vowed to get revenge on the cops who left him there.
So, I don't know, he becomes like, a supervillain, or something.
Probably, not that much, more like a bad version of like, Batman, or something, you know?
So, I'm like imagining the story as being from his perspective, right? But the reader like, gets that he's wrong, right? I mean, that whole origin story, his whole like, origin was just a mistake. I mean, the cops probably couldn't see him in the dark, or something, you know?. Chances are they couldn't hear him, or whatever, you know?

“So, like, this whole guy's life, his motivations, his plans and all that, his whole life! It's all like, just based on a mistake. And I want like the audience to pick that up, even though it's like from his point-of-view and all that.
The book is like, I don't know, and indictment on society, right? But it's like masquerading as like, an indictment on corrupt, or like... That's not right, not corrupt.
Like... Inept policing? Yeah, like you know, police being like, understaffed and all that, like you know, like incompetent police.
So the guy that the reader follows, is like one of those unreliable narrators, right? I mean, it's obvious that he's in the wrong, but he doesn't know that, right? He's like all caught up in his life having meaning and all that, you know?
But here's another cool twist, right? By the end of the book, and it's like written as like his journal or something. So at the end of the book, he like admits to the reader that he knew what he was doing was wrong, right?
So, he's like; 'Yeah, I knew that the cops weren't deliberately like, screwing me over. I just wanted to have a purpose in life, you know?'
And, so then the audience has to like choose to sympathise with him, or like not.
But he's like totally killed the cops or something, or maybe just bashed them like he got bashed, you know?

“Wow, so where were we?
Yeah, like anyway, I'm making this story up in my head as I'm like driving home from the video store. And, like, it's all coming to me like, rapid fire, you know? I mean, like the whole thing is just falling into place, like the whole novel. I mean, I'm seeing the characters, the twists and all that.
So I'm driving home and I'm getting all excited, you know? As you would be, right? I mean, this is like pure inspiration, right? Like, I saw something in the world and my mind, like, my imagination just went into rapid fire and I pulled a fully formed story out of, well out of nowhere, right?

“So I get home and I rush inside and start typing it up and it's just flowing, I mean really flowing.
And I'm sitting there writing for hours and hours, like, it feels like hours, right?
And all of a sudden it's done.
A full novel, right? Well manuscript, anyway. But you know, I've written a full manuscript in one sitting.
So I sit back and, I'm like exhausted, like really exhausted. I'm like panting and sweating, and all that.
Then I like sit back, like this.
And fold my arms behind my head, like this, right?
And I look over at my bookshelf, like, you know, just looking around my room, and something grabs my eye, right?
I look at the bookshelf and there's only one book on it.
And, I'm like; 'What happened to all my books?' Right? Because they're all missing.
Anyway, so I get up and grab this book, and start flipping through the pages and guess what.
It's the same book! I mean like, word for word the same story that I just wrote down.
I'm like; 'What? What the hell?' Right? And I close the book and check the cover, I mean, this must be some mistake, right?
And get this, the author's name?
Yeah, it's me.
And then I wake up.

“So, I like had this dream every night for like the last week, right?
I'm like; 'What does that mean?' You know?
I think it is like something to do with my like, thinking I'm unoriginal or something. Or like, I keep writing the same ideas down, or something? You know, like my subconscious self like, giving me shit for being unoriginal or something, right?
But I don't know, I mean, sometimes it feels like just this external force like telling me; 'Nothing is original,' right? Like; 'Even when something feels truly inspired, it's still been done before.' Or something like that. Not like God or anything, no, nothing like that. But maybe like, collective consciousness or something.
I don't know.
The weird part is like the vividness, right, of the dream. Not really the ideas or anything, but the emotions, you know?
I mean, when I start thinking up the book, I'm like super-excited, you know? Like really excited. And when I see that I already wrote that story it's just, like, total depression. Like, the depression is so much that, it like, wakes me up.

“Well, I don't really know.
What do you think?”

Romance Short?

This week's short is a possible attempt at the romance genre. I really struggled with making some sort of "and they lived happily ever after" ending but I think there's hope there, which sort of works. During the writing I kept going back to my old school style of dark and twisted, which I find hard to implement into romance. I should try to write a completely cheery and happy romance story but I fear I'll just end up laughing at it.

As far as the writing goes I really let the characters tell their own story and the plot really evolved on the spot through their thoughts, which was great. I'd love to follow this up with more stories about Jeff and Deb.

As far as music goes for the week, try this Mountain Goats song. John Darnielle is a master lyricist, I've seen them live twice and can assure you they are incredible.


Jeff and Deb
By Tim Harvey

Deb noticed how heavy her shoulders felt all of a sudden as she stood in the living room doorway watching her boyfriend lounging on the couch. Jeff's limbs stretched out at all angles, one leg resting on the couch, another hanging off the side. One of his arms folded behind his head and the other resting on his lap. The hand of the arm folded behind his head limply clung to the television remote control.
He looks like a boy, Deb thought. Oh God, he is just a boy. She inhaled deeply at the sudden realisation that her life was not as it had seemed a few minutes ago. Some ideas cannot be un-thought, she decided. Releasing the air from her lungs was surprisingly difficult and she felt her throat closing up, making her breath come out in chopped up gusts.
Jeff's head turned slightly, his eyes still determined to hold their focus on the TV. He glanced over his shoulder, away from the screen, for a split-second, to see Deb standing in the doorway, a shopping bag in either hand, her handbag hanging heavily from her shoulder.
“Hey Deb, didn't hear you come in,” he mumbled before inhaling deeply and rearranging himself on the couch. This basically involved rolling his torso out of the deep groove he had created and switching the positions of his arms, the remote hand now resting on his lap, his eyes again fixed to the screen.
Deb felt her eyes begin to itch. She rested the bags on the ground near the door and struggled to lift her handbag over her shoulder. Delicately she bent down and rested it on the floor near the two shopping bags that contained the week's groceries. She paused for a moment, to take another breath. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, still leaning over her handbag, she felt a warm tear dribble down her cheek.
It's my fault, she thought. Dammit, you stupid-- Just, dammit. She looked over to Jeff, the back of his head now at her level. Her chest and throat felt like they were being slowly constricted. She felt a sudden urge to grab her handbag and run out of the living room, out of the front door of their rented unit and out into the street. She wanted more than ever to run, to get away from Jeff, to get away from herself.
Damn you Deb, she thought. You started this, you got him into this. That poor boy, she thought as she looked at his ashen blonde hair. Her hand instinctively reached out, but held back from stroking his head. You stupid bitch, she thought to herself. I hate you!
Tears flowed from her eyes as she sat down on the ground, drawing her knees up to her face and wrapping her arms around her legs.
“What? Deb!” Jeff scrambled off of the couch, dropping the remote and slipping on the bottoms of his grey track-pants, the waist band of which had worked its way down around his behind. Not bothering to compose himself any more than to pull his pants up to a reasonable position, Jeff dived down next to Deb, almost bowling her over.
“Deb, what's wrong?”
She sniffed and wiped her nose; “I'm sorry-- Jeff,” she choked out the words.
“Deb, what?” Jeff edged closer to her, trying to goad her into raising her head.
She felt the need to look at him and lifted her eyes slowly, brushing her hair behind her ears. Jeff's green eyes hit her square in the chest. He was scared, she knew he was scared. Scared for her, Deb thought. Oh you stupid boy, you poor boy! You should be scared for you, what have I done?
“I'm so sorry... Please Jeff, know that I'm sorry.”
“What is it, Deb? Tell me! Please!” Jeff's face twisted with confusion and fear.
She's killed someone, he thought. She's run over a kid on her way home! Deb's going to go to prison, for life. No, wait, she didn't drive. She's cheating on me? What did I do? No, nothing, she would have said something, right? No, she's... she's sick! She's got cancer! Oh Jesus, she's going to die. She's going to die tomorrow! I've only got twenty-four hours left with Deb, Oh God! That can't be right.
Deb sniffed and wiped her eyes. Time to face up to what you did, she told herself. He's going to know you did it and he's going to hate you! You deserve it anyway, and he's going to leave you forever. Why did you do it, Deb? Why did you do this to him, this beautiful boy, this poor boy. He is going to hate you, and he's only seventeen! You stupid-- You should have known better than to get so involved with someone who was still in highschool! You're twenty-four, Deb! What were you doing!
“I'm pregnant Jeff.”
Jeff's features went blank, his tanned skin went pale and he moved slightly away from her.
See, Deb thought, you've killed him! Can't you see it, look at his eyes! You've destroyed his life, he's dead now. He's going to die now... No, he's going to kill you! You deserve it too. Deb... Why did you stop taking the pill? Why did you do that, Deb? What was the plan, Deb? Why do you hate Jeff?
I don't hate Jeff! Her thoughts burst through the cloud of vicious negativity floating within her mind. I love him! Oh God, I was scared, okay? I was scared he would leave me! Are you happy? Are you happy now? I'm not perfect, but you don't have to be such a bitch about it!
“Pregnant?” Jeff mumbled, almost to himself. His lips and tongue fumbling with the word, trying it out. It was new and it scared him. How did this happen? Jeff thought Deb was on the pill. She must have forgotten, Jeff thought. That's the only way, she must-- Oh God!
Jeff sprung to life and raised his arms reaching out towards Deb.
Here it comes, bitch, Deb's mind vomited malicious and destructive thoughts as Jeff came closer.
Breathing deeply, Jeff wrapped his arms around Deb's shoulders and held her tightly. His face resting against her shoulder. She must be killing herself inside, for forgetting, Jeff thought. He did his best to comfort her, he didn't know what else to do, so he held her.
Deb's body went limp and she curled into Jeff's embrace. Slowly she began to cry, moaning loudly between bouts of quiet sobbing.
“Don't worry, please don't cry,” Jeff begged, his eyes closed, holding back his own tears.
“I'm-- so... sorry!” Deb moaned.
“Don't be, please, don't be sorry. We'll work this out.” Jeff held Deb's shoulders and moved his head away from hers to get a good look at her face. He smiled as best as he could and wiped a tear from her cheek, “we'll get through this.”
Jeff sat on his knees before her, holding her shoulders in his strong hands. She cried again and fell into his chest. He's not a boy, she thought. She curled into his embrace and he held her tighter.
I hope he can forgive me, she thought. She had changed both their lives forever now, and she cried harder.

Late, late week update.

Sorry for the late update. I wrote this short just now, slightly intoxicated and very sleepy... (or vice versa.) I hope it makes some sense, because right now it looks like gibberish. Any interpretations are welcome. More shorts to come next week, and I promise not to leave them to the last minute ;) Spent the majority of the night discussing, with my mates, songs to be included in the latest Triple J Hottest 100. A generally popular track seems to be, this one by Angus & Julia Stone. Pretty nice sounding (each post is becoming more like a music blog... look for album reviews next week ;) )
Well, either way, enjoy the story.

Drunk; and home, for better or worse
By Tim Harvey

I laughed as I sat in my bed, or lay in my bed, as it were.
I was still drunk.
The party was over, my friends had left , the taxi had dropped me home, and I was still drunk.
I snickered and laughed.
The feeling consumed me as I stepped through the front door. Three am, and I snicker.
As I fall through the door, my mind flexes, twisting as it hasn't for two weeks, twisting as it hasn't since the beginning of Two-thousand and eleven.
My hand dives into my Mother's handbag, fondling and fidgeting, twitching with pain as I realise I've been saved.
My hand rests against her purse as I think, 'There are no cigarettes here.'
The thought rocks me, and I laugh. I spent Friday surrounded by smokers and those who didn't smoke, giving me high-fives because I quit. My identity, once so wrapped up in tobacco, now defined by avoiding the substance.
My hand quivers and flexes as it searches every nook and cranny of the handbag.
Moments ago, I had resigned myself to lasting only two weeks. Two pathetic weeks. I think of the one thought that had kept me from smoking in those two weeks; 'I haven't smoked, this year.'
I laugh and my body shakes, and I leant against the handbag, resting against the wall in the kitchen. I let out a sigh, a sigh as if I were releasing a trapped gas, a sigh as if I were inventing a new emotion and testing it out. My lungs heave and I rest my head against the cool faux-leather, giggling, relieved. My hand darts back to my side, my bare chest dripping with sweat and my bare mind dripping with the desire to sleep.
I had changed, my clothes lying on my floor. When did I get home? Standing in the kitchen later. Much later.
The dog pants restlessly at my heels and I swoop him up in my hands and clutch him to my bare-chest. The mini fox-terrier in my arms pants with the heat and tries to lick my face.
I hear a groan from the hallway and briskly step over to see what is happening. There is no fear within me, my house is usually crowded, and no-matter what hour it is, or how drunk I am, I expect activity.
My sister stands at the end of the hallway covering her eyes. I stand in the kitchen holding the dog, covering my chest, and little else.
“Somebody rang,” I comment, the fox-terrier clutched to my chest.
“Yeah,” my sister comments back, her hand over her eyes.
I realise at this moment that she had groaned at me.
I was wearing only a pair of grey briefs and she was not accustomed to seeing me in anything less than shorts and a tee-shirt.
I felt slightly empowered by the situation, I must admit. I was free, and she was blind, however I shuffled into my room and let the dog down gently.
“Who's here?” I questioned.
“I dunno,” she responded, hand still over her eyes. I thought about that hand. It meant she obviously hadn't seen me half-naked before.
Fair enough.
Despite my usual, occasional, drunken binges, she hadn't seen me sans pants.
Fair enough.
But she didn't peek. She didn't give up, despite me entering my room and closing the door. Her hand remained firmly over her eyes. What does that mean?
She isn't afraid of me, no. She isn't disturbed by me, hopefully. She is innocent.
Hopefully.
I breathed a strong gust of thoughts out of my head, and with it, my drunken mind abruptly let go of the previous chain of ideas, and my mind went blank.
I was in my room, in my underwear, drunk.
I smelt of dog, I smelt of beer, and I was home.
Why didn't I smell of cigarettes, what year was it?
I stood in my closed doorway, I heard the dog trot down the hall, that bastard always came to my door, why?
As I sat in bed, lay in bed rather, my mind drifted.
I thought of the advice my friend had given me that night; “Dude, just grab her hand.”
I pondered that, my mind darted and drifted like a moth that was... that was... well... drunk.
I tried to think of the context, I tried to think of what I'd told him, I tried to find the words that had drawn that response from him.
My mind recoiled, and I drifted to sleep for a moment. Focussing, abruptly and instinctively I tried to place the words.
“Dude... Just, grab her hand.”
“Grab her hand.”
I didn't know when, I didn't know why. When can I do that? When should I do that?
I want the answer. I need that answer, but I fear it is something for me to discover. Please tell me, please let me know if that is what should happen. Release me from this doubt and... just tell me. Goddamnit just tell me.
I feel like sleeping.
And so, I slept.

Slow Goings

This week's update won't be for Irredeemable, as it should be. While doing some research I recently stumbled upon this terrible, terrible thing and realised I have to do some serious thinking if I want to make Ray Douglas work as an original story. If you read the plot to that series of books in the link it is pretty similar to some stuff I had going on with Ray. I think that I have to really take him back to the basics and work on themes etc to build it up from the ground again with a clear vision for a unique and dynamic character. In the meantime I've whipped up something hopefully dryly comedic to take my mind off of it. Hopefully more Ray Douglas and Irredemable when I can get some ideas down on paper and a clear plot outline that I can follow and be happy that it hasn't been done before.

Also, Josh Pyke - Eat Me Alive is giving me some really good ideas for short stories, and some longer ones. (This is becoming more like an actual blog with each post.)

John Young
By Tim Harvey


John Young's left eye began to twitch as he sat limply on a medium sized office chair that felt too big for him. Drowning in his brown suit, surrounded by layers of musty cotton that hadn't been worn for years, John wondered if Principal Wright would notice his failure to control his twitching eye.
“Mr. Young, if you can't control your own eye, how do you expect me to hire you to teach these teenagers?” John looked up at Principal Wright in a panic and realised that he hadn't said anything, he was still busy reading through John's references. Blinking rapidly, he tried to disrupt the nervous flinching of his facial muscles. He felt they were flinching in preparation for the books and stationary that would presently be hurled at him at any moment.
Shifting in his seat John Young felt beads of warm sweat trickle down his forehead and drip into his left eye. 'Oh hell, just kill me now!' He exclaimed to himself.
“What was that?” Principal Wright flicked his attention to the small man seated across from him. 'Did I say that aloud?'
“Sorry... What?” John spat the words out, his pitch shifting as he forced a painful smile onto his face, awaiting an answer.
“I thought you said something.”
“When?”
“Just then,” Principal Wright answered quickly.
He was a man of action John thought as he shook his head; “No, I didn't say anything.” His pained smile stretched wider and he shifted his position again.
“Oh... Sorry then,” Principal Wright's face flushed and a wave of confusion flowed across his features, followed by a disinterested shrug as he continued reading.
“Oh, that's quite all right,” John Young answered, despite Principal Wright's shift in attention from the confused stuttering conversation to his reading.

John raised a shaking finger to loosen his tie and realised it was already hanging slackly around his neck. Stifling a cough, John yanked his tie up until it was choking him.
Principal Wright raised his eyes and from behind his glasses saw John sitting rather awkwardly, and smiling expectantly at him.
When Principal Wright's eyes settled back onto his reading, John loosened his tie marginally. He felt too cold whenever the oscillating desk fan faced him, chilling his sweaty forehead, and too hot whenever it neglected him. Reaching to turn the base of the fan slightly, John's arm shot back to his lap when he noticed Principal Wright was still looking at him.
“I... ju-” John's mind searched for words to explain his actions but halted when he realised he didn't know what or why he was trying to explain anything.
Principal Wright's eyebrows scrunched up in accusatory confusion, the rest of his face remained calm, but his eyes appeared to protrude from his head.
John felt his face flush; “Yeah, when...” He raised a limp finger at the fan and let out a nervous, undecided giggle; “And I just... With the- uh.”
Principal Wright glared at John, his eyes only shifting to the fan that John had weakly indicated after he managed to decipher the mumbling before him. Shifting the base of the fan so that it faced John, Principal Wright inquired; “Better?”
“Muc- Yes much... Thank you,” John stifled another cough as he forced the words out.
Principal Wright held his gaze, his eyebrows raised now. John held his gaze awkwardly and smiled at the Principal until he resumed reading.

John Young was too cold now. He wanted to leave, this was too much. Scanning the room for quick exit strategies John's mind created a myriad of excuses for a swift escape.
“If you'll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom, Principal Wright.”
“Certainly Mr. Young.”
“I'll be back in a tic!”

“Are those lilies over there?”
“Yes”
“Sorry I'm deathly allergic, I'll wait in the hall, okay?”
“Sure thing Mr. Young.”

“How old is that fire extinguisher, Principal Wright?”
“Well, I'm not sure.”
“It appears to be a pre-war model XT-3. They had a notoriously high malfunction rate, you know?”
“My God, I had no idea! We should wait in the hall Mr. Young, should a fire break out in here.”
“My thoughts exactly Principal Wright, you can thank me later. Let's go!” John Young declared as they ran dramatically to the door, pausing only for a moment before diving into the hall.

John Young noticed he was biting his nails now. The sweat on his forehead felt icy and his left leg was twitching along with the eye.
“Do you mind?” Principal Wright declared, indicating the nail-biting.
John's hand again shot into his lap.
“Thank you,” the Principal answered, returning to the list of references.
How many references did I have anyway, John asked himself. This is taking forever, and it's going nowhere, John groaned.
“Excuse me, Mr. Young. Would you prefer to wait in the hall?” Principal Wright asked, distracted by the deep, depressing groan that poured out of John Young.
“Wha- I... No, no, no. I'm here,” John struggled as Principal Wright eyed him suspiciously.
“I mean, I'm good... I'm all good... in here.” John fumbled with the words, before staring at Principal Wright, smiling, as always.
“All right then, could you please sit quietly, this will only take another minute.” Principal Wright glared at John and returned to his work.
John mentally slapped his face and continued to fidget and twitch, breathing heavily as he waited.

“All right Mr. Young.” Principal Wright declared suddenly after countless hours of scrutinising John's reference list, a list which only contained six names.
John snapped to attention, leaning forward in his seat eagerly; “All right!” He declared, also.
“Yes, well... I've checked through this list and your references appear to be in good order.” Principal Wright eyed John.
“Ah- Aha... Yes, good.” John nodded with sharp jerking movements.
“Yes...” Principal Wright nodded slowly, took one last look over the papers spread before him,sighed and offered his hand to John; “Well it looks like you've got the job.”
John Young raised his arm to shake Principal Wright's outstretched hand, but felt a sudden and violent tremor move through his body.
Principal Wright stood suddenly, his face flushed and he was clearly alarmed; “Are you all right, John?”
John Young nodded, slid off his chair and was dead.


NOTE: If the ending seems abrupt it's because I didn't really have a plan for the story and it wasn't really going anywhere...