Inkwellknight update

Okay so recently I’ve not been posting as frequently as I would have liked. This is due to a combination of lack of inspiration and personal desire to write longer projects. Mostly I do comedies and flash fictions, but I started off before this blog writing full novels (which you can buy… wink-wink) and screenplays (which I can pitch WINK-FUCKING-WINK). So for a year I’ve been doing flash fictions, some short stories and I even managed to start a few on-going series like ‘Meat Puppets’ and ‘Glassman’. I guess some of you might want to know what’s going on, so here’s a rundown of where certain projects are up to:

Meat Puppets: it’s on hiatus… I feel like I left it on a nice point and I do intend to return to it, but right now my zombie passions a bit dead. I’m sure it’ll pick up soon and I do have the end written, but I’d rather it be more organic. So no it’s not over… but it won’t be rising again.

Glassman:  As fun as it’s been to write this series, it will be coming to a close. I want to focus on a spin off series and give the poor bastard some time to relax. Will this mean a happy ending for our disgruntled hero… probably not, but hey we’ll see when we get there.

Now for the stuff I’ve not mentioned.  This year I have written a full children’s novel that I will be trying to publish by November. It’s called ‘The Trolls of Sert-Highland’ and if anyone interest in cover art let me know because I need it.

Second is a story I will be publishing on here, but I have no title as of yet or begun typing it up (it is written on pad).

The third is another pad written waiting to be typed. I don’t know yet what I want to do with this as I would love lots of pictures and art, but getting it online might be an arse. If you like drawing rats and squirrels let me know.

In short I am still here, I am still creating, I just might be going back to weekly rather than tri-weekly. If you have any requests for stories or just really liked a series, please leave a comment and I’ll get back to you. If you struggle to find time to post on your deadlines, leave me some advice.

My donation paid for this?!

So not so long ago I wrote a post which encouraged people to donate to charity. A few days later in the post came a letter from the charity. It was the usual spam paper junk mail: a letter of thanks, a request for more donations and a deeper explanation of what the charity was going to do. I also received a holographic card of a child delighted to be dancing in water. The back of which was filled with copyright details and other useless information, which was a shame because it would have been a nice postcard. So what’s my issue with all this? How much did printing and postage cost for this junk?

I’m bring up an age old argument about whether charities actually use the money that we at home donate effectively. Now I can’t name names as I’ve not done the research personally into this or any other charity, but when I get all this crap through the mail I sort of question if my money actually matters.

Don’t get me wrong, these post out campaigns did serve a purpose before the internet, but now if I want to know more about what a charity is up to, I can subscribe to an email list or just look up the website. So why are we killing all these trees and wasting ink to produce messages for people who are full aware of the situation? As nice as it is to hear that little (insert African name) is doing so well, I’m just not that sensitive of a guy. If there’s a button I can click on my donation which says ‘no paperwork, just more progress’ please let it exist.

Maybe people have the idea you don’t get something for nothing, which is fine until it’s for charity in which case that’s the fucking point. I don’t want incentives to donate more I want to donate because it means something to me, not so I can get a tea towel or a postcard or whatever crap they’re offering. All this shit must cut out from the main pot of charity.

Maybe we’re all naïve about this. After all there are these high class champagne dinners and celerity parties that raise money for these charities too. So how do they throw these things? One good Samaritan offers to pay for the whole thing or does it go out the pot once again. I guess charities wouldn’t get that much money if the cards look like this:

 

For £5 you buy a glass of champagne for a potential donor

For £20 you create a platter of overpriced nibbles at the party you’re not invited to

For £50 you help make a gift bag composed of items the sponsors have given

 

Yeah that actually sounds really depressing doesn’t it, but I bet it’s not far off the truth. Then again it must work. If your donation is enough to make some rich bastard tipsy enough to add that extra zero at the end of his cheque, then maybe it is worth it.  Maybe it’s all part of the bigger picture, after all not all our taxes pays for the lifesaving medicine; someone’s tax must cover the rubber gloves and tongue depressors.

I guess all I want is for less money to be spent on advertising and marketing, and maybe just to see a few more victories. Sometimes it feels like charities are spending so much time trying to out due each other, more so when they’re fighting for the same cause, that everyone forgets why they’re raising money in the first place. The ice bucket challenge is meant to help battle ALS and raise awareness, but I have feeling this is going to be a as much of a charity fad as Kony 2012… remember that guy… how we were going to stop him? He’s still out there guys… just thought I’d remind you that ass hoe we all hated so much a few years ago is still going. Anyone feel like donating to stopping him? No ice… just money.

What I want is non-commercial charity. Its sounds like a contradiction, more like a joke. Shame no one’s laughing eh?

Glassman vs Dr Acid- Part 1

Glassman was sat opposite his teammate, the Burrower, whom was busy throwing up in a sick bag. The mission was to go find Dr Acid lair and seek out his old team mates. He was the only one who had previously beaten Dr Acid and could save them (plus the government was going to clean up some ‘monkey business’ that happened a while ago). The only issue was that the mission seemed impossible.

Dr Acid was operating on an island with an active volcano, however to cover up his activities he had built a theme park on the island as bonus revenue. ‘Sockoworld’ the world only sock puppet themed adventure experience; it promised rides such as the ‘NOM NOM’ ride and the ‘Pool of socks.’

When they landed, Glassman looked at the large stitched sign that welcomed guest in.

‘Who the hell would go to sock theme park?’ he said.

‘Oh my wife and I bought a family season pass,’ said the Burrower. ‘We come out here about two or three times a year with the kids and her mother. We all think it’s wonderful.’

‘Wait Burrower you have kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you’re a terrible villain, how have you been able to support them?’

‘I do a job share as a systems analyst.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, also their holiday scheme is actually accumulative. I’ve not missed a day of work in seventeen years… if I keep this up I can retire five years earlier.’

‘Wow your company sounds awesome… have they got any opening?’

Before they could speak a man wearing a giant sock appeared in front of them.

‘Welcome to Sockoland, I’m Socko your best friend. Do you want a snuggle hug?’

‘No piss off,’ said Glassman. ‘We need to speak to your boss.’

‘My manager on his break right now sir…’

‘Oh… oh…Socko… I want I picture of you in my costume,’ said the Burrower. ‘I’ve never been able to be the Burrower while at Socko land.’

Glassman was forced to take part in various sock puppet themed activities to the delight of the Burrower. They eventually made their way to ‘The washing machine’. Glassman was drilled information during the queue by the Burrower about how it would spin you around, then fill up with water and foam before a final spin to dress out your clothes.

When it was their turn, the pair were strapped into their seats before the door was closed.

‘Hey… how many people fit onto this?’ asked Glassman.

‘Oh 200,’ replied the Burrower.

‘Then why are we the only two on it?’

The ride then began.

‘Oh bollocks!’ he shouted.

The pair were sucked into the drain and were washed away. They landed with a thud in front of a man in a lab coat. It was none other than Dr Acid; he had glowing green veins and yellow eyes.

‘Welcome Glassman,’ he hissed.

‘Why didn’t you just drown us?’ asked Glassman.

‘What?’

‘Why didn’t you just drown us both up there… what’s the point of going through this drama?’

‘Honestly, it for insurance reasons. Every person that disappeared or dies on a ride causes a massive amount of paperwork. Its better I kill you both and leave you behind the children’s puppet theatre later this afternoon with needles in your arms. And before you ask yes… we do have a drug problem here at Sockoland… I don’t know why drug addicts are attracted here, they just are.’

‘I don’t give a shit about your theme park, where the hell is my old team? Are dead or not, I just want to find out so I can get off this crappy island?’

‘Oh Glassman why so rushed don’t you want to see if we still have… chemistry?’

‘No.’

‘Oh come on don’t be so upset, you’ve yet to feel my… acid tongue.’

‘No not doing this.’

‘You don’t have any glass puns for me? Come on buddy, this is what we do.’

‘Okay how about this… let me just clear my throat. If you don’t tell me where my friends are I will take a dildo make of razor glass, run it in and out your anus as it spins into your stomach and then out your throat. I will then draw in back through into your lower intestines and make it shatter into a thousand pieces. Assuming blood lost hasn’t killed you, I will make those pieces explode into more shards, rebuild them into the shape of a badger that will burst from your guts and rip you apart. How do you feel about that Dr Acid… how the fuck do you feel about that!?’

Everyone went quiet.

‘What happened?’ asked Dr Acid. ‘We had a bit of respect for each other. It was a fun time.’

‘It wasn’t fun for me! I fucking hated being a hero! Now all I want is to be left the fuck alone and everyone keeps demanding my help!’ screamed Glassman. ‘If I don’t save these arseholes I’ll never be at peace. I don’t want to do this anymore Dr Acid alright… I just want to go home. Burrower, glass me so I can end this shit.’

‘I don’t have any glass, I thought you’d bring you own along,’ said the Burrower.

‘And the day just gets better!’

The room was absent of anything that could be made of glass; nothing but rock, metal, rubber and paper.

‘A laboratory with no glass… genius isn’t it,’ said Dr Acid. ‘But only second to my greatest invention… the Sockosaurus!’

‘Before you unleash this thing… what with the sock obsession man. Is it like a foot fetish thing? Just help me out here,’ said Glassman, ‘I just don’t get it. Anyone… anyone?’

‘My wife and I enjoy role playing with stockings… but not socks,’ said the Burrower.

‘No you should have paid more attention to my origin story,’ said Dr Acid. ‘Now kill them my beast.’

There was clunk and a screech from the darkness behind the misfit pair.

A charitable donation

 

Little Helena was hooked up to the lifesaving machine at the children’s hospital. Her parents were able to breathe a sigh of relief; their most precious gift in the world would finally get better. She would have a future, grow up, get married and have a family of her own. The nurse would come in and check the dials, monitoring the screens from time to time.

On one occasion the nurse informed Helena’s parents that some special guests were in the hospital. They had been the ones who raised money and donated the lifesaving machine to the hospital. Her parents were more than enthusiastic and agreed to let them enter the room. They weren’t prepared for what they saw.

It turned out that the money had been raised during a special fundraiser meal: The monthly exotic animals eaters’ club. They delighted in hunting elephants, giraffes, rhinos and other wild and rare animals to eat. They had even brought Helena a piece of tiger jerky.  The more questions Helena’s parents asked, the more sinister the club sounded. They discussed their next meal would be held in international waters and without giving too much away, it was a bit taboo even for them.

The group eventually left the room and Helena’s parents looked at one another. Those crazy people had funded that machine. They didn’t know how to feel about it. On one had it was saving her life, on the other had given where the money had come from it seemed wrong.

Demon’s cave: The greatest pitch ever!

 

This is Demon’s cave, the show where hopeless inventors and crack pot businessmen flog their nonsense ideas to five incredibly wealth and skeptical entrepreneurs. Jacob McFarrell the Scotch giant who is as harsh and salty as the sea winds. Marrie Lulu owner of five casinos and founder of the Millionaress society.  Jake and Blake the heirs of the Weather Shoe empire, known for taking £10,000,000 empire and turning it into a £11,000,000 empire in 7 years. Finally Ponto Hantit, the self-made millionaire from India… which isn’t actually a lot given the exchange rate, but most investors don’t have time to sit around on a TV show so there we have it.

After two months of seeing a ridiculous amount of pointless proposals and moronic presentations, it was time for Steven to step up. Steven had entered the Demon’s cave wearing a balaclava and stood before them.

‘Hello Demon’s… I’m Steven.’

‘Hi Steven what have you got? asked Ponto.

‘I have a gun.’

‘What so interesting about that?’ asked Jake.

‘It’s loaded,’ was the reply.

‘With what like sweets or booze?’

‘Hollow point bullets… eight to be accurate.’

‘Those already exist,’ said Jake.

‘Yeah I’m proposing that I get two million pounds and in exchange I don’t shoot any of you.’

It’s an interesting proposal, one the Demons have yet to face. What will they make of it?

‘So if we were to give you the money Steven,’ asked Jacob, ‘how would we benefit from it… apart from not being shot? Where will the money be invested?’

‘Well I plan to leave the country, start a new life and escape any loan sharks that are after me. No one will ever hear from me including yourselves. 100% guarantee you’ll never see me again. ’

‘How do you know you won’t get caught,’ butted in Marrie. ‘I mean we’ve had interview screenings, paperwork, background checks and even now you’re being filmed.’

Marrie makes a strong point and has Steven on the ropes, how will he regain his footing?

‘I already sent false information and details to a dummy account. If you had researched property you would know that the person I was claiming to be died about 200 years ago. As for the interviews, I wore make up and a false nose. With this mask on I’m pretty much sorted.’

‘One question lad,’ asked Jacob, ‘ now you’ve pissed off five of the wealthiest people in the nation, what  makes you think you’ll ever get to spend a night of your life believing someone I hired won’t be driving an ice pick through your skull?’

Jacob has pointed out a flaw in Steven’s plan. It’s a poor long term investment for him.

‘I think Steven,’ said Jacob, ‘you’ve not got the guts to pull the trigger and for that reason… I’m out.’

One Demon down, four to go… literally Steven has already gunned the Scotsman dead. The rest of the Demons have been quite vocal… but Ponto is fairly quiet.

‘Steven I like the product… I like the idea and I like the marketing, but when someone threatens my life I kind of feel like I can’t trust them. For that reason I’m also out.’

And like that another Demon drops from Steven’s options… and onto the floor. Christ I bet the Demons had invested in ‘Blood be gone’ stain remover now. The twins are milling over the idea between them.

‘Hi Steven,’ said Blake. ‘I have similar feelings to Ponto, MINUS THE OUT…I’M IN, I’M IN… I just want to negotiate.’

‘Listening,’ said Steven.

‘I will give you half of what you want in exchange for the whole gun.’

‘Blake what the fuck man!’ shouted Jake.

‘I got this Jake,’ said his brother.

‘Screw that… I’ll give you all of it if you just give me the bullets,’ said Jake.

‘You’re under cutting me? We’re brothers!’

‘I just want to get out this alive.’

Oh dear it seems the twins are not sharing any brotherly love. Will Steven be a Demon slayer or a deadly seller. Marrie has an alternative offer.

‘Steven I will give you all your money, keep your gun just shoot these two wankers for me.’

So Steven has beaten his Demons. He gets the money and only had to kill four people to do it… but people have done worse for a fortune. He walks away with what he wanted and so does Marrie.

Thoughts when trapped on the toilet

I hate diarrhoea. It’s literally the most crippling and embarrassing sickness that plagues our lives. For years I have gone through the same mental pattern of coping as I feel my inside fall out my arse. So as I’m stuck on the toilet wondering when this agony will end, I decided to finally get these ideas written down.

Fear is always the first emotion. Even as an adult fully aware of what is happening, it still grips you. I have to reassure myself that I will survive this. After the first wave I can get my miracle medicine and be released of this possession of pure evil within two hours. That while the ring burns and my stomach is being pulled in and out like an accordion, everything will be fine. As I sit staring at my knee caps and my face ignites, my next thought arrives.

All the friends and family I have, all the celebrities and great political leaders throughout history written to be written have all been in a similar situation. Now it might be strange to consider such matters, but I feel less monstrous as I am glued to my porcelain prison.

The next symptom strikes- dehydration. That’s when the humour ends for a moment. I’m reminded of all the TV adverts about clean water and how this sickness kills. My mouth is cotton and my body begins to sweat rapidly; they’re not joking about it being a killer. I consider how fortunate I am that I have privacy, clean water and hygiene to help me get through all this. That all this is an inconvenience and not a death sentence.

All seems safe and after a flush I waddle to the sink to wash my hands. The ritual of doing a full job like I had been taught during my time within medical practices: Finger nails, wrists, palms and all. It’s necessary I do it right before I spread the illness to the rest of the house. I recall when I was younger how whenever me or my sister was ill she’s disinfect the whole bathroom the next morning. It’s something that I’ll probably do for my kids one day. Strange how even at 24 your mother is still a nurse.

The warm water then triggers a ticking time bomb within me. It won’t be long until wave two happens. There’s just enough time for me to get my magic pills that will save me and get me a bit of sleep tonight.

Wave two hits me. This time the dormant fly awakens and hoovers around me like a cliché cartoon strip. Horrible little bastard. It reminds me of the devil. Not the fire and brim stone with red skin and pointy horns. The one from South American tales, ‘Lord of Flies’ it translates as. The devil would come with a thousand flies to wipe out the living and ruin everything. The images of flies draining the fluid of those African eyes and giving them God knows what bacteria to destroy their vision flash into scope.

My body feels light, but my guts are bloated. I wash my hands once more and then stagger to bed, hoping it will all settle in the battle of the bulge. I try to get to sleep. In my peace I can reflect on the cause of this affliction.  Everything I have touched, drank, eaten, hugged or interacted with. What was the odd item? The conclusion: strawberry Swiss roll. Never again.

I hope you all enjoyed a venture into my mind as I am stuck on the toilet. Hopefully it made you laugh, but also think. Water is literally the key to life and so many people are going without it. I’m not usually preachy and to be honest I’m not trying to start a revolution from my armchair. I just figure that with the Ebola break out and the on-going crises, we should all try a do our part. So if this post made you smile or think, please make a donation and change a life.

Losing a pet

When people say they’ve lost their pets, we assume that their beloved friend has died. Well when the tortoise was lost, it wasn’t quite dead. One summer day the tortoise was left alone in the garden to roam free. I was on my phone when I was called inside to help with a task. I returned to the garden to find that the tortoise was missing. I had lost the tortoise. After three hours of searching every plant and every bush that a camouflaged reptile could hide I was distort. That was when my second horror came. My phone was also absent. No one could have gotten into the garden and there were no holes in the fences. How did I lose my little friend and my most valuable piece of tec? The answer came three days later. A tortoise selfie was posted on my Facebook. That’s when it clicked… my tortoise had robbed me!   Picture after picture of the reptile was on show: all over bars, landscapes and hanging out with some other familiar faces.  Our pet hamster from two years ago and in a pint glass, two of my goldfish from childhood (the third I could confirm died). All my pets were alive and well, running around with my phone. Bastards.

Crixcus offices

 

Crixcus offices were a simple office block that managed a range of different tasks throughout its history. From parliament to private, environment to demolition it had changed hands on numerous occasions. Managing this large building was none other than Raymond Clancy. He knew of the history of Crixcus offices, how it was built on a Celtic gravesite and defiled. As years went by, the events within the offices grew stranger and stranger. At present day, a Tuesday for that matter, Raymond begins his day.

Sat at his desk, he organises the morning reports into piles for filing. When the last sheet was piled on top, there was a moment of calm before they were all thrown up in the air by an invisible force.

‘In a huff again are we?’ he asked looking around him.

He picked up the papers carefully and placed them back onto the table. Coralline then walked to his desk with a post it note.

‘Hi Raymond,’ she said. ‘More delays eh?’

‘Yep, he’s not in a good mood today,’ Raymond grumbled.

‘The third floor called… the walls are bleeding again.’

‘I thought it was the fourth?’

‘No it’s jumped again. Also the radios and TV’s are making white noise again. Foretelling people’s deaths and terrible events.’

‘Unplug them then or turn them to radio 3, not even the spirits want to touch the dial when that crap is on… anything else?’

‘The ladies toilets blocked on floor 5.’

‘I keep telling them not to flush the tampons and what do I get? Maintenance will sort everything out, but they’re still fixing the heating on floor 7, it’s bloody freezing up there.’

Before lunch there was a meeting with Veronica on floor 2 with the rest of the office that he needed to attend. He sat there as they went through news events.

‘First I’d like to welcome you all here,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I know given the issues, it’s not been easy to stay on task, but thankfully the priest is coming to bless the office this afternoon. I know that floor 6 did try it before and it accidently sent them into another dimension, but this time we’re pretty sure it will work now the smoke alarms won’t be set off by the incense and thus disrupting the ritual.  Now onto the audit, we need people to go through the health and safety records for the last two…’

Veronica went silent as her eyes rolled over white and cracks formed onto her face.

‘Lucifer will rape your hearts and make your children barren with fire and decay. You will all know death by the hand of the beast of hellfire. Your souls will be my mine!’

Her head then began to twist around and projectile vomit all over the room and its occupants. Her face then healed and her eyes regained their colour. She wiped her mouth clean and patted herself down.

‘Raymond, could you log a job with the cleaning staff after the end of the meeting,’ she said before spitting out a loose tooth.

 

At lunch, Raymond was mid-way through his lunch when the table he was sat by levitated away from him with his drink.

‘Some days we don’t get paid enough for this,’ he muttered.

Harold entered the break room with his mug.

‘Hey Raymond do you fancy a coffee?’

Before the words reached his ears, the coffee machine sprayed boiling water into Harold’s face.

‘I’ll go fill out the accident report,’ Raymond huffed as Harold lay in a puddle of melted skin, blood and coffee.

 

In the afternoon after placing the ‘Out of order-possessed’ sign on the coffee maker, Raymond needed to file away all the paperwork from this morning’s ‘events’. As the draw was opened a face appeared before him.

‘Come play with us Raymond… forever and ever and ever.’

‘No,’ said Raymond and he slammed the file shut.

Back at his desk his emails are filled with requests. Glowing icons are scattered around the ground floor, one which is a racial slur, hordes of rats, spiders and flies have over taken the basement, cultists have been spotted worshiping in the car park and floor 2’s printer had ran out of ink. Raymond typed out a reply : Floor 2 needed to start using double sided printing or risk going over budget.

 

When the priest arrived Raymond welcomed him in and guided him to the second floor. He explained the various rifts in the fabric of space and time which led to hell, and the possessed members of customer service that had mutated.

‘Sometimes the changes have been useful, but the tentacles have resulted in an increase in sexual harassment,’ said Raymond.

‘Why son would you rent such a property?’ asked the Priest.

‘It’s £1 per square meter to rent… that’s a steal in this area of the city.’

‘What has been done to create such a concentration of evil?’

‘Builders man… drunk, stupid builders.’

‘Does none of this bother you?’

‘No, not really… you could say I’m a part of this place.’

Raymond then revealed to the Priest the wound he had hidden under his shirt. A large chunk of flesh that was eternally rotting at his breast was clear for all to see.

‘IRA bomb… never stood a chance,’ he smiled. ‘Still times have changed. Good look on the second floor, if you fail you might be seeing a lot more of me.’

Raymond walked through the Priest and made his way back to his desk to finish his paperwork.