Catching Fire

Starring: Jennifer Lawrence, Josh Hutcherson, Donald Sutherland, Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Duration: 2hrs 26mins

Director: Francis Lawrence

The franchise-universe of a dystopian future, massive oppression and Battle Royale homages returns for part two. The second of Suzanne Collinn's The Hunger Games trilogy has hit the big screen. So how does it compare?

Just when you thought it was "safe" to go back in the arena...

The Hunger Games ended with Katniss and Peeta's "love-fuelled" screw-you to the Capitol, by the two of them surviving the Games (just). From their actions, ideas of a rebellion start to sift through the air of the districts, and Katniss is the first beacon of hope seen in a very long time.

Thus, President Snow and new Game-Maker Plutarch Heavensbee (what a name) set to work on destroying Katniss' image of hope, and failing that, Katniss herself. Their plan starts with Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour, trying to make Katniss one with the Capitol. Seduce her with enough parties, glamour and interviews, and soon enough the Districts will lose affection.

But Katniss is hardly one to forget her roots, and back home, she continues to stand up to stormtrooper-esque Peace-Keepers and other Capitol representatives. So Team Snow/Heavensbee come up with a darker plan.

Every twenty-five years, the Games get a little "Quarter Quell" special treatment. For the 75th annual Hunger Games, previous victors are to be the competitors. "Wait, isn't Katniss the only female victor in District 12....oh." What better way to destroy a catalyst for rebellion, and still make it seem like an accident? So will Katniss survive her second bout in the arena? You'll have to find out for yourself...unless you've read the books, of course.

On that note, the first Hunger Games finished up with an outstandingly faithful book-to-film adaptation. Catching Fire happily continues this legacy; points to new director Francis Lawrence, successor to Gary Ross. Catching Fire is quite a busy book; one half devoted to destroying Katniss' image, and the second half, her, in the Games. It isn't an equal half-and-half, the arena gets the slightly bigger slice. The film is much of the same, although the 'slicing' is a bit more equal.

This is fine for the first half, the film covered everything necessary in a little, easy to digest package. The second half, however, seemed to shorten time within the arena. Now this actually worked quite well for fast-paced, exciting action scenes; they're just not very spaced out. Twice, a load of competitors die in less than two minutes. To split Catching Fire into two films - as they're doing for part three - would have been absurd, but it could have done with being just a tiny bit longer. Just for some breathing room. Although the Games don't tend to work that way!

Hot couple. No?

Still, fast-paced or not, Jennifer Lawrence still had plenty of time to give another great performance. She's got Katniss covered well; the tough girl with occasional soft spots. She'll slowly have to work 'leading a rebellion' into her character which may perhaps be a challenge for her, but that shall become important later on. For now, she's doing very well with her 'victimised' methods.

Josh Hutcherson, Peeta, was up to his usual standard of 'Good, if sometimes a bit wooden'. He can do a good Peeta, but every few lines or so his emotions seem to falter, and he has an incredibly vacant gaze for times like these. There's something in his eyes as well; he seems like a worthy opponent for a staring contest. But in any case, Hutcherson gave another commemorative performance, none-the-less.

Donald Sutherland, President Snow, is sublime. With only small parts in Hunger Games, it was easy to forget him. In Catching Fire, he plays the power-mad, rebellion-fearing part brilliantly. A very early scene consists of Snow visiting Katniss to warn her of the seriousness of her actions, and to keep within Capitol guidelines on her Victory Tour. Sutherlund's intimidating demeanour makes that scene so delectably tense you may just forget to breathe.

And Phillip Seymour Hoffman spoke for the entire film like he's got syrup in his mouth. Not a lot of syrup, but enunciation's never been his strongest suit. You may notice it the most when he talks quietly. But anyway, another strong performance.

Then finally, the visuals of Francis Lawrence are just as glorious as Gary Ross'. The Victory Tour takes us through a multitude of decaying districts, particularly around the higher numbered. Districts 11 and 12 look strikingly similar though; coincidental, on-purpose or lazy backdrops. Take your pick.

Was Effie 'born this way'?

This does perfectly contrast to the awesome spectacle of Panem's Capitol. Its vast cityscape, almost reminiscent of Star Wars' Coruscant and populated by followers of Lady Gaga's fashion sense - especially Katniss and Peeta's friend Effie Trinket. The Victory Tour party scenes were particularly vibrant, incredible and just a bit bizarre when Effie walks in and squeals "Ooh, curtains!"

Then, the visuals that this author particular awaited, those of the Quarter Quell arena. It was, in essence, another forest - but a forest locked within a force field. Graphics for both were phenomenal, helped along by the director's use of IMAX cameras. And just wait until the extra-spectacular special effect at the end...

It is also worth nothing that Francis Lawrence had different views on the use of shaky-cam. It hasn't completely disappeared, but there is a massive improvement. Lawrence did a great job with Catching Fire, it felt like less of an indie film and more of a blockbuster, which is well deserved, given the franchise's huge popularity now.

Overall, it's definitely a recommendation for those who enjoyed the books and previous film alike. And it's only been out for a week. It's still all there, waiting for you.

For further enticement, here's the theatrical trailer for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAzGXqJSDJ8

Death, In All the Wrong Places

I encountered Death at the dentist's. Truth be told, I really didn't see it coming.
It was the waiting room, specifically. The room of boring posters, exotic toothbrushes and the gentle, underlying wave of fear coming from the children.
Except this time, apparently, the Prince of Darkness was visiting in a rather good disguise.

I certainly didn't spot him when I entered. Too occupied with absent-mindedly licking a gap in a back molar which recently held a filling. And also wondering if this would be more painful than my tattoos.
Nervous? I was, a fait bit. I never totally shook the childhood fear of the dentist. Even now, if I hear that shrill, high-pitched shriek of a dentist drill - or something like it - I get a tad on edge.
Maybe my nerves would have been worse, had I known an agent of shadows currently shared the same airspace.

But, at this point, I still didn't know. I was now busy people-watching, involving thoughts about what the guy sat next to me was in for. He was called up a few moments later. Didn't catch his name.

A short while after that, a young...nurse, are they called? It is 'nurse' only in hospitals, or is it 'aide' or something?
Nah, the science of job titles would make it more interesting-sounding than that.
Anyway, a young, female, dental-health-care-specialist-assistant appeared in the doorway to my far left.
Although I didn't actually see her at first. I looked up when she called out "Mr Death?"

Thinking about it now, it could have been 'Deff'. There's an actor named Mos Def who was in the film The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

But this didn't occur to me then. I stared, utterly transfixed, at Mr Death. A figure of enormous power; yet unacceptable dental care apparently. The figure etched into foreboding stones, hero of so many fantasy tales, famed creator of Hallows...currently disguised as a mature, black gentleman. (Who happened to look a bit like black actor Scatman Crothers, the guy who played Dick Hallorann in The Shining.) 

Mos Def is black, too. Just to add a plot-thickening agent.

Anyway, this well-disguised Mr Death stood, removed his coat and hat, and followed the young, female dentist-but-not-quite.

My mind, quiet and bored until this development, felt ready to burst with questions and stories.
Why was Death here? Did ferrying passed souls increase chances of tooth decay or gum disease? Can cadavers cause cavities?

As he's a skeleton, could the dentist fill in any other cavities he might be tired of?

Why that particular disguise?
And why my local dentist? Is that one other thing Hell is devoid of? Besides cheeriness, optimism, hope, a good bench and possibly an occasional blancmange.

Now, although I didn't know this at the time, it was still a long while yet until my dentist was ready to see me and my cracked filling.
But, this did give me several minutes of wondering and guessing about the natures of enigmatic Mr Death and his own oral-health histories.
What I'd give to see his records:
Mr Death. Age: "Older than the moon but younger than the sun."
First record: (as found during an archaeological dig)
19.02.1226 - Teeth loosened by way of large hammer, to fix crookedness
20.02.1226 - Theories that last appointment was a bad move. Sacrifices made to dental gods.
21.02.1226 - Many reports of great pain. Townsfolk disappear under patient's wrath.

...and so on.
Maybe Death has dentures.
Every night, in his own shadowy corner of Beyond, before bedding down in his nest of nightmares, he places his teeth in a chalice of blood, then goes to sleep.

No, that would be preposterous.
I highly doubt Death ever sleeps. He's far too busy.
I imagine even the back-up from his short, dental-related time off gave him a hell of a run-around later on.

I didn't see him again when I was done. Even the guy who had been sat next to me, within the time of my waiting and my appointment, didn't re-appear until after I had sat down.
I wondered, again, what he'd been in for. Or maybe if time had moved for me. To make up for that tedious STILLNESS of any waiting room.

Still, I offer many thanks to Mr Death for not suddenly turning to me and simply saying "Well, you're done."
I also wish him the best of luck with his future appointments and any future disguises as well.

When the time comes, and he really does appear to escort me along and beyond, I'll be sure to make him smile, have a quick look and say "Hey, had some work done?"

Nothing wrong with one's last words being a compliment.
And if he lies, I'll know.
I was there.

The L(e)ast Of Us

(Author Note: It's a review, there shall be some SPOILERS)

I constantly find that trying something new, when you already have opinions and reviews about it in your head, can dramatically change the way you perceive and, possibly, enjoy it.

I obtained and played Naughty Dog's The Last of Us on PS3, because I had heard and read that it was, potentially, the 'Best Game Ever'. There's nothing new there, it's natural to try something because of good reviews.
But if you try something with good reviews, its reviews aren't usually as dramatic and huge as 'Best Ever'. You'll read a book or see a film because you heard good things about it; but because it's apparently the 'Best Ever'? That's a whole different kettle of shish kebabs.

As a result, I started playing The Last of Us and went into it, looking for reasons why it had earned its title; instead of purely playing it and living it as any other game.
I found good things, I found new things, and I found why people may think it's the best game ever.

But I do not agree.

I'll explain why later. Start on the positives and keep a hold on the tension.

So, Step One: Game Synopsis. I always like making this short and vague; saves me some work and might interest readers enough to give it a go.
(And, in this case, see if you agree with me or the world. When I put it like that, I'm not too confident, but like I said, we'll get to that bit.)
The Last Of Us: An Unfortunate Father's Tale.
After a bit of relationship-establishment, the game starts with father Joel, his daughter Sarah and Joel's brother Tommy, fleeing their home city after a brain infection hits.
This little sequence ends when Tommy and Joel plus Sarah are separated. The father-daughter-combo get cut off by soldiers dealing with the situation, and Sarah is shot.

As Spoilers and Plot Points go, it's a pretty dark one. Books, films and games mostly avoid the idea of child-death. The Last Of Us blasts that one out of the way less than twenty minutes in.

Anyway, this easily sets up Joel as this damaged, brooding character who does what needs to be done to survive as the world changes for the worst around him.
Out there, the world is separated into the infected, the survivors, the military, the Fireflies (AKA the rebellion) and the Hunters (AKA the murderously desperate).
All of these are met and dealt with in their own way, when Joel is given the task of escorting a young girl - see where this is going? - to a safe zone because she's survived being bitten and shows a potential for a cure. This little Humanity Beacon is named Ellie; and Ellie is obviously there to put the whole Joel-Lost-His-Daughter shebang to the test.

Yes, they develop an attachment.
Yes, there's tension and heartbreak.
No, there's no twist like she's actually Sarah and back from the dead. This isn't a B-movie.

There's your little snippet of this walking Game Award.
So why exactly is it so highly acclaimed?
Well, it's got fantastic graphics, great voice acting, strong (as possible) realism, immersive-ness and capacity for addictiveness. For a good game is like a good book; you just can't leave it alone for long.
(That does also describe a strong itch, among other things, but never mind.)

In all the technical criteria (visuals and audio etc.) of Gaming 101, The Last Of Us has pretty much covered all bases and passed every class.

But you might overlook all these things, like most similar situations. Who watches a film and looks behind the actors to look at the CGI? It's not the technical stuff we're after, it's the plot and character-relations within.
As you will easily imagine, the huge main point of The Last Of Us is the emotional turmoil. Joel's history colliding with Ellie's rebellious-teenager-nature does lead to many arguments between the two and even more stirring scenes for the player to watch and, for some, weep over.
So it's not just a zombie-survival game; it's the emotive journey of two conflicting characters.

And THAT is why I disagree with The Last Of Us being the potential 'Best Game Ever'.
A zombie game, avoiding gore but more concerning the development of entirely different characters = where have we seen that before?
Oh yeah.
EVERYWHERE.
Shaun of the Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Resident Evil, ZombieLand, Left 4 Dead, 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, Call of Duty Zombies (at a push, I'll grant you), Dead Island, The Evil Dead - the list is pretty extraordinary; just type in 'Zombie Films' and 'Zombie Games' into Google and you'll see.

The Last Of Us has a central idea, plotline, setting and character-relation-system that has been seen too many times before. It is nothing new, it's just another zombie-survival game to throw on a rather ridiculously big pile.
If you think I'm over-reacting, add in another zombie expert and you've basically got a 28 Days Later game. In honesty, I enjoyed 28 Days more as well.

TANGENT
All this actually brings me onto a secondary point. This shall be a post-within-a-post. But I'd like to discuss the views of the game-review-industry; particularly the ones concerned with giving The Last Of Us the 'Best Game' potential.
I feel like the actual best games are rather neglected or ignored by games like The Last Of Us, the ones all about zombies, or guns, or killing, or war. (The endless line of Call of Duties, for instance)
It feels like no-one gives two monkey balls about plot anymore, and they really should.
Video Games have developed SO MUCH since they started out a few decades ago, and as time has passed and technology has improved, the physical stuff that made up the games itself improved dramatically.
It's all come a long way from massive pixels and 2D platformers. But new games do seem to be reaching a limit for how advanced they can look and sound. Technology can really only get them so far, awards-wise, and eventually, all games will look as equally high-tech.

So as we approach that day of Visual-Equality, games now only have plotlines to really stand out and differ from the rest. But modern games and reviewers seem to be ignoring this.
Today, it's all STILL war, revenge, survival, racing or some awful mix of everything.
Take GTA for example. It's been years since the bird's-eye-view-cam; and have the storylines changed from all the misdeeds and revenge?
NO!
TANGENT SOMEWHAT FINISHED

So now I return to The Last Of Us, and that little tangent explains why I disagree that it could be the 'Best Game Ever'. It's got all the technical bases covered and done, but plotline and basic originality is nowhere to be found.
And at this developed stage of video game history, that is no longer a feature you can just ignore.

*

 

So, what is my 'Best Game Ever'?

Those that know me will probably think I'm about to say BioShock Infinite.

(Which, as I read recently on another blog, is known as "BioShock Infinite, the best game ever oh wait The Last Of Us is out.")

Now, granted, I do dearly love BioShock Infinite, as well as the other two, and they all come close to the 'Best Game Ever' mark in my head.

 

But my 'Best Game Ever' award goes to LittleBigPlanet.

That game led me to get a PS3 which effectively started my career as a 'Hardcore Gamer'.

Its creativity and capacity to create has inspired many stories I have written in the past, as well as making my favourite ever personal character creation.

And it is like no other game, ever.

 

Sorry Infinite. But you didn't make me a gamer. LittleBigPlanet did.

And as for you, The Last Of Us?

You are just another, glorified zombie game. I eagerly await the next big game event which steals your title.

 

Peace out!

Three Nouns, Except One Isn't

There are few things that have the durability, stickiness and relentlessness as Nicknames.
The most annoying of which are ones you acquire at a ridiculously young age - an age where you can't fight back against it - that remain with you for the rest of your time.

Meet 'Stripes'; a seventeen year old boy; black hair, green eyes, rather good teeth and remarkably flat feet.
None of these qualities relate to his nickname, however, they're just there to paint a picture. For the gap lasting between his teeth and feet, just aim for a scrawny seventeen year old and you're basically there.

No, the title 'Stripes' came along for a very particular reason, and has remained with the boy for so long, he is actually unaware of his own name. He was Stripes when he learnt to talk, he was Stripes when he learnt to write, and was even Stripes when he came to sign his own name. Banks and other, grown-up based boring places to do legal thingies accepted his name without question.
This may have been because his parents are best described as "looking-like-two-people-who-are-the-sort-to-give-their-child-an-odd-name." We all know the type, and we all know we know.

If any of you are now demanding to know why he acquired his nickname, quit shouting at a computer screen, and here you go:
You've learnt how Stripes' parents look on the surface, and underneath that you may be shocked to learn that they were not the best parents. Not of the 'attentative' sort.

One day, sixteen-years-and-a-few-months earlier, young Soon-To-Be-Stripes was crawling around the upstairs landing at home. The bathroom had been too noisy, his parent's room had been shut and the airing cupboard smelt funny. So, he decided to tackle the stairs.
Stripes' parents, currently upstairs as well, behind the closed bedroom door, didn't react to the first, thirteen little thumps. But only when there was the unmistakable clang of something heavy hitting a baby gate did they finally start paying attention.

Stripes was lucky to have survived, but it did come at a price. Upon falling down the formidable stairs, towards the bottom, he had turned sideways and crashed into the baby gate bars face, chest, stomach, thighs, shins and feet first.
And this baby gate was rather unique. Stripes' father had claimed it for a cheap price because it had thinner bars: something not technically designed for babies but large dogs.
Thinner bars requires more of them, so when baby Stripes landed with that one of a kind clang, about fourteen metal poles struck him quite badly.

As stated, Stripes survived. (Obviously, otherwise the introduction earlier was an absolute lie). The doctors, nurses and child psychologists did the best they could to fix all damage, and they did rather well, but Stripes was left with fourteen red line marks across his skin and down his body.
Marks which did not fade, but rather, grew with him. As Stripes found his height, the marks stretched with him. The front of his torso gave the odd illusion he was wearing a beige-and-pink striped shirt.
(Which, compared to his skin condition, actually seems more tragic, fashion-sense-wise.)

Needless to say, his future nickname was sorted. His father, hardly apologetic but more holding back laughter, thought up the name Stripes the day his son was released from hospital.
And when that kind of event and that kind of name occurs before you're even toilet trained does tend to leave scars and memories (often the same thing) so deep, they won't fade away.

Thus, Stripes became one of 'Those People'. We all know the type, but will deny it when asked. The people you stare at on the street, but shouldn't. The people who get documentaries on Channel Four, not out of respect, but so the channel can get shock-tactic-viewings.
It's a taboo subject, but still exists. And Stripes was part of that world.
And when you're one of 'Those People' in school, if you avoid depression or suicide for the first eighteen years of your life, you have the perfect mental and physical strength to be whatever you want.

Stripes made it to seventeen years old so far, so that's all cool. But that's not to say he did not suffer.
And when you're a sufferer in school you do tend to learn more about psychology. Why just sit back and take the abuse, when you try and figure out why you're getting it in the first place?
Plus, you can consider the Originality of Bullies, of which, there is hardly any. Whispers, or just out-and-out yells of, 'Stripes' followed him absolutely everywhere, and not once, did the harsh words deviate. No other references to stripy things, nothing like "ZEBRA!" or "Prison Convict!" Just 'Stripes'. Always 'Stripes'.

So, Stripes spent the years in education studying (if you're going to be bullied for looking different, you may as well throw in abuse for being a geek too), analysing the minds of the average school children and weightlifting in the school gym.
Stripes, amidst a life of bad parenting, bullying and a Zebra Complex, did enjoy weightlifting. He even had a favourite dumbbell, that after years of being squeezed by student hands, had a set of stripes down it in random finger marks.
Every day after use, Stripes would hide it in a special cupboard where only he could find it. Then he would go to the library, maybe a bit smelly but who cares when you're stripey too, and do his studies.

On one particular Monday, the headmaster was making the rounds of his school. Wherever he went, there followed a wave of gum being hidden, ties shooting upwards and shirts getting tucked in; followed immediately when he had left by all that being undone.
The final visit was to the gym, to check on the facilities and possibly flirt with the female gym teacher, Mrs Great Eyes, ahem, sorry, Sweet Thighs, no, I do apologise, Mrs Batewise.  

Upon entering, he found Mrs Great, er, Batewise nowhere around. Just a lone student on a bench-press machine. The headmaster sighed and wandered over, to check at least that the student wasn't breaking it.
When he reached the lad, he recognised him immediately, but was more interested in the amount of weight he was lifting. Not even the rugby team had strength like this.
"Excuse me?"
The metal in mid-lift fell with a clang, and Stripes sat up.
"Ah," said the Headmaster, "Mr...?"
"Call me Stripes," says he, in his most robotic voice, "everyone else does."
"Quite. Erm, listen, how often do you train in here?"
"Every day," Stripes replies, sitting up. "Gets me away from the pointing and laughing, y'know." He waved casually at his face.
"I see. And do you always lift that much weight?"
"Not until recently." Stripes nonchalantly rubbed a bicep. "Found my strength a little while ago."
"No doubt," said the Headmaster, "it is that time of life. Are you interested in any sports, Mr...?"
"Stripes," he said again, in his rehearsed, 'may-as-well' voice. "Not really. Why?"
"I think with your...fitness level, you should look into it."

He didn't.
That was rather anti-climatic, wasn't it?
True though, Stripes didn't look into any extra sporting activities. He got enough laughs for his lined face alone, why would he get undressed around other men to show the further extent of his...decorations.
So, instead, upon leaving school with a fair amount of good grades, and even more impressive bodily strength, he went through one of the stranger doors open to him. Once which would take his laughing-stock-of-an-affliction and turn it into a career:
He joined the circus.

His parents, as ever, couldn't give two...well, you get the idea.
His teachers were glad they no longer had to supress laughter when they looked at him.
(Oh yeah, teachers are cruel too. Humanity guides us all, bringing Harshness along with it)
His Head teacher nearly tore what hair he had left out when he learnt of all the opportunities Stripes wouldn't reach. He then realised that full-on baldness might scare off Mrs Batewise and suppressed it.

And Stripes just went out and joined the Foxx and Ghost Travelling Circus. With his growing strength and striped body, he was labelled the "Lined Lifter". Audiences gave him a weight, and a line on his body, and the chosen dumbbell had to reach that line.
Audiences being audiences, they always picked the topmost line on his head.
But Stripes hit every one. Every time.

So ends another story of one of 'Those People'. Injured in childhood, tormented and bullied in adolescence, yet happy in later life, because all the opening acts of life did was give him the drive to be what he wanted.
If that dream was to work in a circus, who are we to judge?
Hell, we judged him enough when he appeared with stripes on his body.

* * *

 

Another random one to add to the collection.

I've always said, when you start a story, all doors and all directions are opened to you all at once.

Now, when you play one of my favourite writing games, of taking random words and making a story from them, the doors and roads are still open. They're just a bit more diverting and twisting.

Like when you're given "Baby", "Dumbbell" and "Stripes". Getting over the fact that Stripes isn't a noun was easy. Just add on the word 'proper' before 'noun' and you're in business.

Such is the creative way of things...

Peace out!

Abandoned Encounters

(The Lightside Enimga - Part 2)
((Read Part 1 here: http://insaniacjournal.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/the-lightside-enigma.html))

When it comes to sequels, between the stories, storybook heroes are given time to themselves.
Storybook villains are dramatically left behind, yet are remembered.
And storybook victims are forgotten.

Mother Wire. Shade. Bulb.
This team was not granted an epic conclusion or honourable exit from our world. They were last known as 'discarded', which rapidly changed to 'vanished'.
True storybook victims.
So what happens when, not the heroes, but the victims get a sequel?
Read on...

Gods can be unworthy mortals in delusional disguises; just as those that seem unworthy throughout existence can just as easily hold unique powers.
Street Cleaners are precisely these kind of 'forgettable gods'. Their lives are an endless arcade of choosing and deciding the fate of lost possession. Indeed, they are the ones holding the scales of balance between one's trash, and one's treasure.

Readers of a nervous, sympathetic or simply odd disposition may be disheartened to learn that our Lightside team were deemed 'Junk'.
The trio spent so much time getting to know Rain and Road on that fateful day; only to become most intimately acquainted with Black Plastic Bag.

Black Plastic Bag, slave and worshipper of the Street Cleaner proclamations, played their own, large part in the disappearance of the three victims. Indeed, he took them from Rain and escorted them to the body of mighty Truck - the formidable vessel of Street Cleaner travel.
It was this Vehicle of Ages that helped move our trio to the great haven of Street Cleaner control: The Dump.
This is where our story truly begins.

The Truck vessel was not exactly merciful. By the time our trio came to rest - after having been dropped out by Truck, no less - damage had been done.
Shade's style was fractured, crumpled and bent; Mother Wire was knotted and Bulb, previously cracked, had smashed altogether.
Shade covered and comforted as best he could. Mother Wire constantly grumbled about her new knot, and her exposed filaments.

A demi-god, a Dump Operative, was there first to discover and move the three. This monster of rubbish consideration took them to rest beneath an aged sign reading "Electricals".
Bulb and Shade offered their prayers to any fragments of themselves left behind.
They too offered prayers to all discarded and forgotten entities surrounding them.

Many ignored. These: the filthy, the aged, the rusted, better known as the Long Gone. These veterans of time and decay had no time for new arrivals. To be forgotten, it does end one's courtesy and optimism.
Only the friendly Recents replied, and of them, there were few.
One particular Recent, just inches away from the heroes, went by the name of Desk Lamp. He saw the destruction of Bulb, and sympathised.

Bulb saw an intact version of himself within the jaws of Desk Lamp's head, and remained silent.
Shade, however, was quite overcome. His own material paled (and actually had, in places) into insignificance when studying the metals of Desk Lamp.
Mother Wire stayed silent as well. Desk Lamp's own, unknotted wire was nothing short of an insult.

Desk Lamp offered further condolences to Bulb, and attempted some form of reconciliation.
As it happened, Desk Lamp's Bulb had died, quite suddenly in fact. Desk Lamp had been quite shocked (Author Note: No pun intended) at the time, but utterly appalled by their owner's reaction. No remorse, or signs of pity.
Nothing but purest anger, simple and selfish.
And Desk Lamp had suffered, greatly, and without reason. The same, Bulb-hating owner had forgotten what kind of replacement they would need. Along with that, they had also forgotten where they had put the instruction manual and even the necessary screwdriver needed to access the passed Bulb and begin the funeral process.

The owner's anger, forgetfulness and laziness led to Desk Lamp's relocation to the sacred grounds of the Rubbish People.
"Bitterness" would only be the tip of a lemon and lime iceberg to describe the inner workings of Desk Lamp's mind.

Bulb broken his silence, and quietly offered words of compassion and pity. Life in a broken state now seemed just a bit easier to bear.
Shade's rain-coated surface conveniently matched his emotional state at the time.
Mother Wire mumbled something about an unknotted wire and returned to her musings.

The remainder of the day progressed quietly. Desk Lamp informed the three about the haphazard ways of life a top a desk; while Shade and Bulb regaled him with times of Ceiling Life.
Desk Lamp was on the cusp of expressing envy, until he heard the story of the drunken antics that lead to the trio's predicament, and instead offered kind words.

That night, the three looked forward to getting some sleep. Their old, reckless owners, constant in leaving Bulb alight, never cared that sleep avoided the trio in their night world of heat, light and exhaustion.
Maybe now, with Power nowhere around and Bulb broken, sleep could be theirs.

But when the Gods of Rubbish Moderation left for the night, the sacred grounds of The Dump truly came to life.
The Lament of the Abandoned began.
Microwaves cried of meals they longed to cook. Fridges wailed of no longer being cool. Obsolete games consoles constantly wept, crying that they had tried their best.
Every piece of lost, broken or forgotten possession wailed into the night, into a swirling echo of anger, sadness or regret.
Just minutes after the cacophony of emotion, Bulb, Shade and Mother Wire all joined in.

Morning returned as it should always do so, its light shining down on the returning Gods, demi-gods and their fleets of vessels. The inhabitants of the holy ground fell silent once more.

But this particular silence was different.
There are silences for tension, for disbelief, for dramatic effect and for respect. And all of them differ from the other, in length, noticeability or from what follows.
Much like the Silence of Waiting. That is what fell upon The Dump that morning.
For the dawn light brought with it something that most, if not all, would deem a 'Sunday'. And that particular week-ending Day brought with it..."Them".
The Collectors, the Scavengers, the Otherwise Furnished, the Low Incomes and the Aged.
(Basically, anyone who can visit a dump and end up leaving with more stuff than they arrived with.)

So it came to happen, a short time later, a seventy two years old, ex-electrician named Arthur found the trio, in a nest of other discarded goods.
The three were lifted up by Mother Wire - much to her distaste, of course - to be inspected.
As the three were twirled and spun in the air, Arthur said words like "not bad condition", "pretty easy to fix" and "could be a nice challenge."

The three were over-joyed. A chance to return, to bring light to the world of darkness once more.

But Life is not that kind. It hasn't lead Existence by the neck for billions of years by niceness  and compassion alone. Every now and then, it has a little dig.

(And nor, for the record, are ex-electricians that naïve.)
"Bulb will need changing, though," said Arthur.
Death sentences don't usually come in a variety of different ways, so Bulb could have taken some kind of delight at being uniquely 'sentenced'.
But he was too occupied, with feeling like the world was dropping away beneath him, which then felt like nothing compared to Arthur's fingertips pressing down on him.
Mother Wire, still outraged at this kind of treatment, was a little too busy complaining to obstruct Bulb's exit.
Shade could feel a yell of despair building, that was never to be released.

Bulb twisted, unwillingly, and fell.
Eternity stretched out before him; the true meanings behind "On" and "Off" finally made sense.
He landed, not gracefully nor silently, next to Desk Lamp. And departed.

As did Arthur, although not from Life, more simply from The Dump, swinging the trio-down-to-duo along with him.
Shade didn't even get a chance to look back, one last time.

*

 



There remains little to tell.
Or rather, anything else told would more than likely loop back again to a similar construct of beginning-middle-and-end.
The sort of thing does happen a hell of a lot.
And sometimes, all it takes is a little moment, like seeing a wire-shade-bulb trio lying in a rainy gutter, to actually realise the true balance of things. These are the joys of Random Perspective.

Always keep your eyes open. And only look back if you really have to.

***

Author Note: Generally, it is an odd moment when something random happens in life and you attempt to write about it.

But today, I learn that it is even stranger to then sequel such an event, with nothing to draw inspiration from. Randomness, from thin air. The odd, empty spots in the back of your brain.

But, I enjoyed the challenge. Once again, I must thank Chelsea for suggesting a sequel in the first place. As she's my main audience, I can only pray that she enjoys this.

Hi Chelsea! Again!

A Chance for Chess

Short Story

There lived a great king; high King Duremaine, ruler of the town Knight’s Square and its surrounding lands.

                The King had much to boast of: a loyal court, a thriving town and, chief among all, his chessboard.

                Every day, in the gloriously sunny afternoons, King Duremaine would sit at his chess board, atop his mighty castle’s roof, and play against himself.

                The red side – the King’s – always won. The black side would put up a good show, undoubtedly. Sometimes victory would be within their grasp, only to be shut out by a temperamental queen or unexpected bishop.  

                The chess set itself was exquisite. A board made of deep oak and mahogany, polished expertly every day after the King’s game, before being locked safely away.

The pieces: carved red and black glass, which played with sunlight majestically to liven up the game and make the board seem like it was covered in blood.

King Duremaine kept his beloved red pieces in a velvet pouch, secured to his belt at all times. The black pieces were locked away with the board.  

Needless to say, the life of King Duremaine was idyllic, peaceful and content.

Which means, of course that the door was left wide open for Boredom.

Boredom came to King Duremaine midway through his seven hundred and fifty sixth game.

As the red rook cornered the black king, Boredom showed him two things:

1. The red side; the untouched winners, the dull, arrogant, undefeated lot.

2. And the empty seat behind the black side.

It was with a small sigh that King Duremaine knocked down the black king that day. 

The following day, King Duremaine made a proclamation to the good folk of Knight’s Square. He promised to any man or woman who could best him at chess would win his very own crown.

Most town-folk merely laughed. The King’s chess prowess and constant practice were the commonest knowledge.

But a ripple of excitement did hit a few citizens. Who went away, deep in thought.

With that, the King declared the challenge would begin in one month. Many queried the delay aloud, but were left without answer.

 

In time, an answer did become clear.

For you see, Boredom had not travelled alone to King Duremaine. It had brought along dear Curiosity, and its distant relation, Creativity.

These three combined forces thus lead to King Duremaine to order a large slingshot to be constructed upon the roof of his palace.

The building of it lasted one month. Then the contest began.

 

The first applicant was a hopeful young farmer named Christopher. He too had received his own visit from Boredom, who had shown him the true worth of farming. The result of the visit was the reason Christopher was now standing in the castle entrance hall.

A queue of hopeful applicants, of ranging age and wealth, were arranged nearby behind him, kept in check by a small handful of guards.

Another guard led Christopher from the entrance hall, up a considerable amount of staircases, until eventually they reached the roof.

Christopher was unsurprised to see the slingshot, pointing out from the castle over the land surrounding Knight’s Square. Its creation had hardly gone unnoticed or undiscussed. 

Christopher’s surprise did arrive when he was directed to sit in the notch of the slingshot; him facing the chess board and the sling and his back facing the King’s land.

Surprise was rather rapidly replaced by deep anxiety.  

King Duremaine, already there and patiently waiting, wordlessly took one of his pawns and moved it two spaces forwards. He sat back afterwards, hands linked and eyes attentively on Christopher.

Christopher’s sweating hand slipped slightly on the glass piece, but even with a shaking hand, we managed to move one of his own pawns two spaces forward. He too sat back, with quite ragged breathing.

The King made a face, and an odd tut noise of disappointment. He moved his Queen’s bishop five spaces diagonally forwards.

“Checkmate,” he said with finality.

Christopher’s face fell, and he spluttered with confusion. Before he could defend himself, the catapult was engaged, and he was flung away into the distance.

The guard who had escorted Christopher walked towards the table. He studied the pieces, did a very quick calculation and said “Sir. I’m not quite sure that you’ve…”

He silenced himself immediately when the King turned to him. Never before had he seen the King with eyes like the ones he found himself staring into. The deepest anger; much more than he thought the King to be capable of. He mumbled something about ‘next person’ and hurried off down the stairs.

Other guards got to work resetting the catapult, while King Duremaine reset the board. It did not take long.

“He stank,” the King declared to no-one in particular. “Didn’t want his hands on my chess board.”

No-one replied.  

The Catapult-Chess game occurred only five more times. The first two, after Christopher, were simply unaware of the situation until they found themselves spending their last seconds alive above a field.

The latter three were, to all intents and purposes, desperate.

The King cheated on all five games; and would comment on each applicant’s unworthiness to even touch his board for more than ten moves. After they had been shot off, of course.

A field some distance from Knight’s Square received all six bodies without pity or question.  

Word spread, understandably, of mad King Duremaine and his rigged chess contraption. Most stories came from the escorting guard, who suddenly disappeared not long after the sixth occurrence.

Soon enough, the King was left to play alone once more. He stopped cheating, and he played, absent of the knowledge that his irrational game had lit the spark of revolution.  

The people of Knight’s Square were rattled, to say the very least. A leader who flung poor, rigged-chess-game players to their deaths was hardly an appropriate leader. With the idea of rebellion and treason building and nesting deeply in their hearts, one knight decided to give it one last attempt. 

The sixty two year aged warrior was named Sir Douglas. He had fought many, many battles, killed very often and had retired well. Knight’s Square had welcomed him in, happily, and treated him as nothing less than a hero. They had even hung his old armour in the Great Hall as tribute.

So Sir Douglas would be damned if he didn’t at least try and stop this war in his beloved town. If ownership came along in the deal, that was just an extra.  

The next day, Sir Douglas was escorted up the many staircases, by a different guard – “Wonder where the damned fool’s run off to?” the King had pondered while player six had landed with a dull thump a few miles away.

Sir Douglas had to stop for a breather, twice, on the way up, but was very soon sat in the notch of the slingshot, facing a truly wonderful chess set.  

King Duremaine respected Sir Douglas. He had given the order to hang his armour in the Great Hall in the first place. So he decided to let up on the cheating for today. Over seven hundred and fifty games experience should be enough.  

The game began and progressed silently, save for the dull clinks of glass on wood. The Old Chess Expert (rather mad) against the Old Warrior (rather determined). Differences were quite few and far between.

Pieces were lost and tensions were high. The glistening chess pieces shone with glass and sweat alike. Still, the silence remained. The King. Sir Douglas. The Slingshot Operator. No noise from anything but the board.  

Until one sudden moment.

King Duremaine had clearly spotted something Sir Douglas hadn’t. The vow of ‘No Cheating’ was still in effect; this literally was a flaw in the left side of the battlefield…. “chessboard”. Quite similar to game five hundred and twenty nine. Or was it five hundred and thirty?

The King let out a small grunt of satisfaction and slid a rook forward.

Five hundred and thirty, definitely.  

King Duremaine smiled a small smile. It had been a long road, but finally, he had come through, and won honest and true. He readied his jaw to form the two syllables of victory – and flying citizens – when the knight in opposition made a sudden move.

The King, still about to speak, thought there was different cheating afoot, but was left mistaken.  

As ‘checkmate’ left the royal lips, poor Sir Douglas was sent flying away a few miles away…clutching a considerable amount of small, red glass chess pieces.  

King Duremaine spluttered and mumbled in a mix of horror, confusion and spit. His men were already setting up the slingshot again, but to what purpose? The King had no beloved chess pieces to play with anymore; his velvet pouch would now forever be empty. Over seven hundred and fifty uses, now clutched in a dead man’s hand.

“No,” he growled, and jumped forwards. “CHECKMATE!” He roared.  

The Slingshot Operator: robotic, habitual, oblivious. Responsive.

He heard the word, and pulled the lever.  

King Duremaine shot forward at blinding speed, determined more than ever to get his beloved pieces back.

Right up until Gravity, and its somewhat partner Ground, caught up with him.

The King’s determination and optimism didn’t exactly count for much following that.  

Knight’s Square was left king-less for a long time following the accident involving a mad king, a slingshot and a chess board.

The lack of monarchy did then lead to an uprising in anarchy.

Sir Douglas had, at least, tried his best. 

As for King Duremaine; he had killed when Boredom came along and opened the door.

And died when it left the door open for a little one named Insanity.  

Checkmate. 

Dream Escape

Short Story

It was almost exactly like the Italian bistro he had visited on holiday. Quaint little tables with red and white checker tops, wine bottles in little baskets and Con te Partiro playing softly in the background.

Clyde took a seat near the glass-front desert fridge, but resolutely didn’t look inside. Instead he picked up the little black book labelled ‘Menu’. When he flicked through it, Clyde found every page was covered in the word ‘Food’ in tiny, typed writing. Every single page, only that word was cramped into any available little space.
As Clyde considered just which ‘Food’ he was going to have, he was entirely oblivious to the fork floating silently past his left ear. Only when his knife decided to pay a slow visit to the ceiling did he eventually look up.
A waitress dressed like “that girl from the party last week” trotted over. Clyde attempted, and royally failed, not to look anywhere but the girl’s eyes.
“Red triangles,” she said, “red triangles, red triangles, red triangles.”
Clyde pondered whether to find this strange, or the gentle tornado of cutlery happening over the girl’s shoulder. He eventually settled on neither, and pointed to the two hundred and thirty first ‘Food’ on page two.
“Red triangles,” the girl insisted, “red triangles, red triangles!”
Her voice reached a scream, and the girl burst into a large cloud of red triangles. Thousands of tiny, red, almost video game styled three-sided shapes.
Clyde felt ready to panic, there and then, when the entire scene froze in front of him. This was twinned with a nearly deafening beep noise. Four regular beeps to be precise, in quick and measured succession.

“Odd,” Clyde spoke aloud, “I’m normally awake by now.
The beeping continued for exactly a minute, and then silence returned.
Clyde looked about himself. No bedroom, no night clothes, no alarm clock to punch. Just a suspended-in-time bistro with weird menus and weirder staff.
“Stuck…in my own mind?” Clyde asked the frozen red triangles. Answerless, Clyde decided to do the only thing possible. He went for a walk.
 
Outside the bistro, everything stopped. Quite literally in fact, for the bistro was an island in a world of infinite white. Clyde found himself thinking of an old cliché ‘No man is an island’.
“Still, soon as I set off, that won’t be true,” Clyde said with a chuckle.
As the words ‘No man is an island’ ran through his mind, a small black arrow labelled “Clichés” appeared directly in front of Clyde. Startled, he peered closer and saw in small letters at the bottom: “A division of ‘Vocabulary’.” The arrow pointed to Clyde’s right, so that was precisely the direction in which he set off.
Along the way, to make a makeshift compass, Clyde recalled every cliché he knew. All he had to do was picture his mother speaking to him and the ‘old sayings’ came through clear enough. “Curiosity killed the cat” lead him around an odd clump of grey clouds (as well as made him a tad more nervous) and “all roads lead to Rome” brought him near the edge of all the white.
It also conjured up a photo of the Colosseum out of nowhere. Clyde side-stepped this to try and avoid fully remembering it, fearing getting crushed by a memory.

The infinite whiteness then parted to reveal an ancient library; old and decaying by design, with Grecian columns lining the front. In weathered letters above large, wooden doors was the word “Speech.”
Clyde pushed open the doors with some effort, to enter a massive and quite magnificent foyer. Bookshelves, all of varying design and size, made up every wall and took up a vast amount of floor-space too. Each was packed with books, the same book over and over again; an aged, brown leather hardback.
Every shelf also had a sign above it, the randomness of each making Clyde doubt his visual skills. The signs had titles like ‘Awkward Situations’, ‘Small Talk’ and ‘Tongue-Tip’, just three examples of hundreds.
In the centre of the huge room stood a doughnut-shaped desk, in the middle ring of which sat an old man, who has his feet up.

Clyde walked towards him, stepping over a few discarded books as he did so. Upon reaching the desk, he noticed the man was reading a magazine, one which looked strikingly like the one Clyde had read before going to sleep. Clyde also noticed that in one hand, the man held a highlighter.
“Excuse me?” Clyde ventured.
“Polite greetings; section four, shelf six.” The man replied without looking up.
Clyde faltered for a moment. “No, no, I just wondered if you could help me?”
“Cross reference. Disagreement and vague request. Try section eight.”
Clyde gave up and wandered away. Behind him, he heard the flap and click of a magazine and pen being put down. This was followed by a muttered “Not one new word.”

Clyde continued walking aimlessly, and quickly discovered he was in the ‘Childhood’ section. Resolutely not looking back at the man, Clyde grabbed a book at random and began flicking through it.
“Entry 93,” he read quietly, “Ba-da is slowly becoming Da-da…Thomas the Tank Engine is still inexplicably ‘Gunny’.
“Gunny,” Clyde repeated under his breath. He laughed softly. “Gunny.”
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became, when suddenly the librarian-magazine-man was at Clyde’s elbow.
“Need this,” the man said, taking the book from Clyde’s hands, and hurried off.
All thoughts of ‘Gunny’ were dropped from Clyde’s mind, and the man reappeared to return the book to its shelf.
Without subtlety, Clyde stared at him when he returned.
Taking notice, with ease, the man eyed Clyde suspiciously. “Can I help you?”
“Er…erm…vague request, section eight!” Clyde declared.
The man grinned coolly. “Rhetoric. Huge section for that. But really, what are you after?”
“I don’t know,” Clyde said. Then the words just came tumbling out: “You see, I was in this Bistro, in the middle of all this white, and there were red triangles and…”
The man held up a hand. “White?”
“Yeah.” Clyde nodded. “Loads of it.”
“You crossed the Dream Scape? Must have taken a while. Never thought I’d meet a member of the Dream Division either. Too erratic, for one thing.”
“No, I didn’t make the Bistro. I was there, and there was this odd menu with…”
The same hand went up again. “You were in the dream?”
Clyde nodded again.
“I see,” said the man. “I see.” Louder this time. “I see!” He then walked away, but kept getting louder. “I see, I see, I SEE!”

A small child materialised next to the man.
“That was fast,” the librarian said.
“Yeah, not much is happening now.”
Clyde realised, there was something familiar about this child. Something about the awkward teeth, bumpy knees or maybe that god-awful haircut.  Might even be the men’s t-shirt folded back on itself and tucked into a pair of paint-covered jeans.
“Things have gone quiet,” the child was saying. “He left the Dream, and is now…”
“…standing right in front of you,” the librarian added.
The child’s mouth fell open, but he quickly composed himself. However, the face of surprise had given Clyde his answer.
“Right. Okay. Well, back to work Vocab,” the child said, as calmly as possible, “I’m sure we’ll call you if we need you. Or, he will at least.”
Vocab bustled off back to his desk, but did not sit down. Rather, he remained where he stood, ready, as if poised to flee.
The child approached Clyde and extended a hand up to him. “Hello. I’m IC.”
“Hi.” Clyde took the hand and shook it, trying to ignore Vocab dashing off to the shelf under the sign ‘Greetings’.
“What does IC stand for?” Clyde asked pointedly.
“Inner Child,” IC replied, quite automatically.
Clyde pulled a “I knew it” face and made a noise to match.
“Now,” IC went on, “no time to waste. The mental outcomes of being inside one’s own mind could be baffling. And believe me, we’d know.”
Clyde stood in dumb silence, so Vocab soon returned into view.
“So, Clyde, can you imagine a door for me. Marked ‘Shortcut’?”
Clyde could feel his head ready to burst with questions, but rather fearful of being crushed by them, he fixated upon the door idea.

Immediately, a white door popped up in the middle of the floor. The word ‘Shortcut’ was indeed on it, scrawled in a child’s messy handwriting. IC and Clyde approached it.
“Is the door like one of those psychological tests? How I perceive it is who I really am?”
“I dunno. I just needed a door. Come on,” IC urged.
They crossed the threshold together, leaving Vocab to rush off to ‘Meaningful Questions’.

 “What is this place?” Clyde asked mere seconds after passing through the door.
“It’s what you might call your mind’s dumping ground,” IC replied without elaborating.
Clyde looked around very carefully at what looked, essentially, like bubbles. IC and Clyde were surrounded by these ‘bubbles’ of different sizes; some were taller than Clyde, others looked like nothing more than dust particles.
Clyde looked into as many as he could when passing them. In some, he saw old lessons like algebra and the boiling point of acids. Others had information like what kind of bear requires which kind of approach or does a good egg float or not.
“It’s like a lifetime of those ‘Useless Trivia’ books.”
“One man’s trash…” IC replied, giving Clyde a quick reminder of the Cliché Arrows.

“So,” Clyde attempted after some silent walking, “my mind’s full of little people. Quite movie-like, isn’t it?”
“Actually it is movie-like, but only because you watched the right movie. Before that little cinema trip, we were a system of talking folders. No doubt the years of computer work taking its toll.”
“Then not everyone has mini mind people?”
“Remember the girl from the party last week?”
Clyde did, trying his best to supress mini-red-triangle thoughts. “Yes…?”
“Yeah, you don’t want to know what she used,” IC went on unhelpfully.
“How would you know?”
“If there is DNA in a mind, then there is mind in DNA. When you two kissed, we got a sprinkling of her.”
“I kissed her?!”
“I need to take a visit to ‘Priorities’,” IC mumbled, “and ‘Memory’. See if I can clear out those little Drink-Mites.”
After his little grumbled outburst, IC lapsed back into silence.

Clyde watched many bubbles of birthday dates glide by, and tried again. “Why is my Inner Child in charge?”
IC snorted. “Ask your therapist, not me.” He thought for a moment. “I’d been around since the very beginning, I had all the access. Made sense I suppose.”
Clyde was still a bit pre-occupied with the therapist point, and desperately tried to ignore the bubbles concerning his failed A-Level psychology module, which just so happened to choose that moment to drift by.

After what could have been any period of time, the Bubble/Dump Field came to a sheer wall of black. It was perfectly straight in every direction, and perfectly endless in every direction.
It hurt Clyde’s eyes to look at it, and as he had no idea what would happen if he got a headache, he stared determinately at the floor.
IC reached the wall and finally turned. “Welcome to the Maze of Bad Memories.”
“The Maze of…” Clyde mumbled, still not looking at it properly.
“Yes,” IC continued, “the Maze of Bad Memories. All pain, guilt, fear, selfishness: kept safely inside here.”
“Why a maze?”
“Because most bad memories lead to another, but you never quite know how you got there.”
Clyde chewed this over for a moment. “And what’s this got to do with me?”
“You didn’t wake up Clyde. But you’re not dead either. Something is troubling you so much that you looked inward.”
“Subconsciously?”
“I believe so. Dreams, Dumping Ground and Bad Memories all fall into the subconscious, one way or another. But it seems the door to the Subconscious is a door left forever ajar. Sometimes something gets out.”
Again, Clyde could feel his mind getting ready to swim. He tried to clear his thoughts, and the world around him wobbled slightly.
“Once you have dealt with the Maze,” IC added, “you shall reach your Mind’s Eye. The shock of seeing yourself clearly in your Mind’s Eye should wake you.”
“How?”
“Have you ever seen your own face in a dream?”
Clyde hesitated, and in that moment, IC vanished, leaving him with just the black wall of the maze. Clyde slowly approached it, and a panel appeared, allowing easy entrance. It is all too simple to retrieve bad memories.
Clyde wanted to try some form of compose or bravado. Instead, he simply swallowed hard and took a shaky step inside.

Clyde could feel smoke. It panicked him; to feel smoke but not see it was not a stress-free experience. Especially when his eyes then also started to sting.
Trying to blink back tears, and fears, he took a few tentative steps forward. 
"Clyde Andrews!”
Clyde almost fell over in fear, and furiously held back a whimper.
A figure of solid smoke lighted into life in front of him. Female. Old. Hands on hips.
Furious.
“Forgotten your homework again, eh Andrews?”
“Mrs Hawthorn,” Clyde breathed.
“Don’t just stand there reciting names, boy! Why haven’t you completed your work?”
Clyde stammered and fumbled for an answer, but Mrs Head-of-Year-Four was, he knew, merciless.
“I’m sorry!” Clyde cried. “I can’t, I don’t understand fractions!”
Smoke-Mrs-Hawthorn vanished all together. Clyde shakily stepped forward.
“But I didn’t admit that,” he thought, “I just got detention.”

Clyde pressed on, hands out like he was blind, moving slower than someone in an airport complaint’s desk queue. In the eerie, smoky silence, he kept himself to his thoughts. Happy ones, to combat whatever lay ahead.
But as he pressed on, trying to recall his tenth birthday party, his calm world was shattered by a bizarre noise.
Odd, unsettling and…wet squelches, with the occasional muffled grunt.
Clyde then found himself making out with (smoke form) Amanda from college, a little too forcefully.
There was an awkward sucking noise, and she pulled away.
“God Clyde! I invited you round as a friend, then some drinks later you’re sticking your tongue down my throat?”
Shamefaced, Clyde mumbled apologies at his feet.
“Sorry? I thought you were better than that, I thought…”
“You’re right.” Clyde found his voice and addressed the pissed-off smoke.
“I’m, I’m what?”
“You’re right. I went too far, I shouldn’t have done that. I do value our friendship, but sometimes I’m just too clingy. I’m sorry. For everything.”
Clyde had never heard his own voice so honest. It won out, however, when Smoke Amanda vaporised. 

Clyde continued in this ‘Self-help’ manner for some time; the mind really can jump from one bad memory to another with ease.
He came true with friends he lied to, apologised to unhappy bosses, attended a few missed birthday parties and stopped younger versions of himself doing things they really shouldn’t be doing. He even came to unsteady terms of his father’s death so many years ago. That had been a challenge, but the pain had vanished. The Maze of Bad Memories had even gotten lighter and clearer of smoke. Navigation around the place improved.
As did Clyde’s morale. He felt empowered, determined, and just generally better. There was nothing he couldn’t beat/apologise to/come to terms with.

Then he came to the final corner. Having just explained that, no, he actually didn’t fancy his best friend, he rounded another bend. Opposite him, a door was marked “Mind’s Eye”.
But that wasn’t what Clyde saw first.

“IC?” Clyde whispered. “How did you get in?”
“I’m your final challenge,” he said simply.
“My Inner Child? I don’t have a problem with you.”
“No? Then why am I running the place?”
Clyde looked away in annoyance. He glared back at IC before speaking. “You couldn’t tell me this outside?”
“Oh I’m pretty well repressed. You’ve gone through many bad times to get to me.”
“But I don’t have a problem with you.”
IC sighed. “You’ve gone through bad times, but learnt nothing. Look at what you’ve just seen! Annoyed teachers and bosses, failed relationships, inability to deal with loss of paternal figure. All this basically screams Inner Child difficulties. But you couldn’t see that, could you? You stumbling, mumbling, fumbling machine.”
Clyde said nothing.
“You just never grew up. IC isn’t just Inner Child. It’s Incomplete-Clyde.”
Clyde still said nothing. Had the maze been for nothing?
“Keeping you asleep, bringing you in here didn’t help,” IC mumbled, mostly to himself. “You’re too weak and immature to change.”
“NO!” Clyde’s roar cleared the darkness and smoke all together.
“I reached you,” he said, forcefully. “I stood up to higher powers, I apologised for my mistakes and came to terms with it all. I did all the right things. If you’re incomplete, then you can just get out of my head like the rest of them.” Clyde paused and took a breath. “I’m my own man now.”
IC had just enough time to grin before disappearing completely.
Clyde strode forwards, head high and smile true, to push his way into his mind’s eye.

Dreamers can struggle with reflections. This is the irony of life. No-one’s existence is a Hall of Mirrors. Of every face seen every day, one’s own face is seen the least. 

Thus, when Clyde saw his own face staring back at him; clearer, braver and stronger than ever before, the confusion of it all gave his brain just the tiniest of nudges back into the waking world.
Clyde Andrews woke at 9:20am, only twenty minutes after his alarm.

Time enjoys being fickle, especially within the borders of the mind.

But Clyde was not to know this. He woke with a clear head, a fresh load of determination and a remodelled personality.
He woke into a better life.