Archive for December, 2008

Untitled, Chapter 1.

December 4, 2008

The first chapter of an untitled work that may or may not be furthered.
Chapter 1
In which it is established that the author actually despises long-winded chapter names not unlike those exhibited by certain eighteenth- to nineteenth-century authors, and which usually unfold major plot details, and which could have ended at the conclusion of the chapter number. Carry on, what ho.

On a crisp spring Saturday morning in T’Worcestershireburgh, all of the citizens were bustling about their daily duties save for Pete, who was busy cutting his leg off with a chainsaw, as it was inseparably adhered to his left bedpost. Pete had stuck it there the night before, to see if his dog would take it off, but had absent-mindedly forgotten that Bruce was happily dozing in the kitchen, after gulping down a bucket of elephant tranquilisers, to which he was allergic.

Ignoring the aching pain coming from his leg, as well as the rivers of blood spurting from his chin, which Pete had confused with a similar-sounding body part, Pete busily sliced at his leg, until he heard a ring at the door. Not wishing to stray from this arduous task, and also being unable to stand up at that moment, he threw the first thing that came to his hand as he reached out to his bedside table. This turned out to be a small pencil, which Pete threw with great vigour at the door, hoping to knock it down so that the visitor, who turned out to be the butcher, but was actually the postman, could come in. Luckily for Pete, the pencil hit the peephole, broke the glass, and flew straight inside the postman’s eye, killing him in an instant. “Excellent!” thought Pete, and continued busily hacking at his shin, which was simply refusing to be cut.

Several hours later, with the first layer of skin nearly broken through, Pete suddenly had a comparatively bright idea – he should first plug the chainsaw in. After strenuous amounts of time spent still attempting the amputation, Pete decided to actually turn the chainsaw on. With a small ‘whirr’, the machine spluttered to life and the blades started spinning around. Pete, from a constant stare at the rotating spikes, or more likely from blood loss, went into a trance, one that he failed to wake up from. Well, until a piano fell on his eyebrow, anyway.