Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

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.


The Ceramic Elephant

August 26, 2006

I’d like to share with you a story I wrote entitled “The Ceramic Elephant”. Here goes:
The ceramic elephant stood on the table, dressed in white, gold and purple, with blue eyes, a trumpet clasped in its mouth, blowing silent notes, watching. Watching the occurrences in the room it stood every day, silently blowing through its trumpet. Although the table was cluttered up with books, keys and stationery, the elephant noticed every miniscule detail going on in the room, and every word transmitted, he heard. Every feeling experienced, he sensed.

The elephant’s table stood in the room of a boy with dark hair, and green eyes. The boy was in the first year of high school. He lived with his mother and father in a small house in a relatively peaceful suburb. There was a school, a town hall, a park, a movie theatre, but no prison – there was no need – no break-ins or murders or other such crimes had been committed in over fifty years.

The elephant saw each day go by, and each day the boy would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to school. When he was at school, his mother would come into his room and put his clothes in the wardrobe, sometimes pausing to view scraps of paper on which the boy had written ideas for stories. The boy would come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep.

It was on a summer’s day that the boy was feeling rather frustrated. Nothing that day had gone as planned. He sat down to listen to some music, to relax. But after the third song, the disc started jumping. That was the final straw. The boy grabbed the first thing he laid his hands on and threw it. This thing happened to be the ceramic elephant. But instead of smashing to little shards, the elephant bounced off the wall and back into the boy’s hands. The boy smashed and smashed but nothing would come of it. Finally, the boy gave up, placed the elephant back in its place and went to bed.

The boy’s routine continued every day, without variation. He would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to school; come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep. The incident with the ceramic elephant had long since gone out of the boy’s head.

One day, the boy’s father had gone out to do the grocery shopping. The boy was immeasurably tired and went to sleep on his bed. The boy’s mother sat on her bed and read. After several hours, the boy’s father came back to find his wife’s body parts spread around the house, the walls covered in blood and intestines. The boy slept peacefully, snoring, unaware of the brutal and gruesome massacring of his mother.

The boy’s father woke the boy up and showed him what had happened. Both the boy and his father were terrified. But it couldn’t have happened. All windows were closed, so was the door, and no glass was broken. Furthermore, they searched the house and no sharp implement was found with blood on it. They called the police, who brought along a detective. After months, years even, of searching and investigation, the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. The boy and his father had to swallow the reality, which was like swallowing cornflakes after having tonsils removed, and get on with their lives.

Each day, the boy would repeat his routine all over again. Nothing much had changed, except that his mother wasn’t there to greet him after he came home from school. But the boy found that the killing had brought him closer to his father. He soon found himself doing something with his father every day. They would go out and play some sport, or sit by the beach and watch the sun set.

The boy and his father were preparing for one such outing when it started raining. So they changed their plans slightly. They watched a movie, played chess and cooked together. By the time they’d finished, it was getting late. The boy went to sleep and so did his father. Upon awakening, the boy found his father’s body lying on the kitchen table, cut into wheels like a cucumber. Again, the boy was petrified. Whoever had butchered his mother had obviously come back for a second slaughter. The police and the detective, the same one, found nothing. Again. The killer had definitely covered his or her tracks well.

This death was much harder to get over for the boy. He had lost both his parents before he had managed to do anything with his life. It was like trying to get out of a swimming pool with stubs for arms and rocks tied to your legs. But he did it. By this time he was old enough to live in a house by himself, and he managed to get along with his life as best as he could. After all, half of his life was dedicated to getting over his parents’ vicious and anonymous executions.

The boy’s routine had not changed much from his regular one. Each day the boy would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to college; he would come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep. His days were very monotonous, and no matter how hard his friends tried to cheer the boy up it would not work. So they tried the biggest thing they could think of – a party.

After the party, the boy came home and flicked the light switch. The light wouldn’t turn on. He walked into his room and lit a candle, but that was immediately extinguished. His hair stood on end. He lit another candle, but it too was doused shortly afterwards. He called out for whatever it was to stop, and lit another candle. That too was put out. The thing obviously did not want the boy to see it. The boy tried to run out of the room, but in the darkness stumbled and hit his head on the bedpost. His last vision before losing consciousness was that of a large creature with something protruding from its face.

When the boy woke up, he found he could not move. He looked around and could see his room, but from an indistinguishable angle. Everything appeared larger than it used to. Suddenly, somebody walked into the room. It was a boy, with fiery red hair and blue eyes. He put his case down on the floor, took out his trumpet case and started playing some jazz.

And the green-eyed ceramic elephant stood on the table, immobile, playing silent notes on his violin, and watched.