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.
Friday 23 August 2013
Monday 12 August 2013
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.
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!
Thursday 8 August 2013
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.
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!
Tuesday 6 August 2013
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.
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.
((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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)