#oneaday, Day 53: Freewriting #3, or What The Hell Is Going On In My Head?

[In the absence of any particular inspiration today, I'm going to start that clock for ten minutes once again and just write without editing, except that which happens on "autopilot" as I type. Let's see what happens this time, shall we? Three. Two. One. Go!]

Fire light.

A camp fire.

Figures all around. Standing. Waiting. What are they waiting for?

Who knows. No-one knows, not even the woman standing apart from the group, facing the other way, into the forest. She weeps, for something lost and almost forgotten.

The men chant. No-one knows what they are saying, not even then. It is a dead language, dredged up for this ceremony which no-one is sure of its purpose.

The woman turns. The men continue, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Her face is streaked with tears.

She pulls off the shoulder of her fur top, first one, then the other. The garment falls to the floor. She is naked in the darkness, the red glow of the fire illuminating her skin.

She walks towards the fire. The men still chant. Over and over. She walks. Closer. The heat is on her skin now, making her sweat.

What is this? she thinks. Why am I here? I don't know what this ceremony is about, or what it is that is going to happen next.

A man's attention is distracted. He stumbles over one of the words of the dead language. No-one notices except the woman. She turns, her flaxen hair falling over her bare shoulders. She locks eyes with the man.

One word goes through her mind. Heretic.

Why heretic? Why is he a heretic when I don't understand why any of us are here? she thinks.

The man is panicking, trying his best to find his rhythm and get back with the rest of the group. Still no-one has noticed except the woman, now staring at him, the light of the fire reflected in her widening eyes, still glistening with tears.

The man looks away from her, down at the floor, as he continues to mumble the words, missing things here and there.

Eventually, he can take it no longer, and sinks to his knees, his bare legs striking the dirt on the ground and grazing them. It hurts more than he expected, but in a short while it won't matter.

The woman is filled with sorrow for this man's fate. She doesn't know what it is, but a flash of something – a forgotten memory? A vision? Something blasts through her mind, and it is not a pretty sight. She catches a glimpse of the man's face in her mind's eye, his face contorted with intense torment and pain.

Then she knows. She has to save him. She has to get out of here. She takes a step forward. Towards him. Moving slowly, her bare feet gliding across the dirty floor.

The kneeling man looks up at her with pleading eyes. Her eyes still glisten. Her heart is filled with compassion for this man, this poor man dragged into this situation beyond his control, just like she was. And she knows that it is time. It is time for this to continue no longer.

She takes his hand. The other men chant, over and over in a forgotten, dead language. They are oblivious to what she is doing, and oblivious to the young man's mistakes. In a few short minutes, all that will change, and she knows this. She pulls him up to his feet and nods her head towards the darkness of the forest, away from the angry red glow of the firelight.

Where should we go? she asks herself. I don't know where we are.

Run, he says with his eyes, looking at her, on the verge of tears.

The unspoken communication between the two of them passes quickly, and, hands clasped tightly together, they run into the forest. Plants and branches sting and lacerate their bare legs as they run, but in a few short minutes none of that will matter. In a few short minutes, the ceremony will be over, for better or worse, and all this will cease to matter.

Given our desertion, she thinks, my money is on "worse".

But she doesn't want to stick around to find out. And she's sure he doesn't either.

Where to go? The forest paths seem to lead in every direction.

The only thing they can think of is the direction they cannot go in – back towards the flames. That way lies only suffering and death.

But where to go from here?

[Yeah, I know. Don't ask.]

#oneaday, Day 52: Nostalgiarising

Been feeling a little nostalgic over the last few days. The Final Fantasy story I told last night was just one of the things I've been remembering. I've been finding all sorts of other crap around the place recently – one of the most recent rediscoveries was a cardboard document wallet containing some play scripts, posters and a few other bits and pieces from when I was at university. I love finding old playscripts in particular, because we always used to scribble all over them and sign them on the last night of a performance. I'm glad we always did that, because it means I have great keepsakes like this. Ignore the dreadful attempt to draw Cloud Strife that is inexplicably on the front page.

Four points about these pages:

1. I have no idea what the stains are.

2. Yes, I am aware my script is bound using duct tape.

3. Don't try and email "Costume Lucy". She's not there any more.

4. The "makeup" mentioned in several of the comments is referring to this:

(I'm the one on the right.) My mother inexplicably told me that me being dressed like this reminded her of my Grandad. I don't remember my Grandad ever looking like that, unless I didn't know him that well. (Yes, Mum, I know that wasn't what you really meant.)

My time with the Theatre Group at Southampton University is one of the things I most fondly remember from my past. One day we'll manage that reunion that Anja and I are always talking about. Maybe even this year. Who knows?

Also found in said folder:

Programme from an episode of Songs of Praise that our extremely non-religious secondary school attended, signed by Diane Louise Jordan of Blue Peter fame.

Programmes from other productions I was in – our extremely over-budget, ambitious, futuristic Macbeth from the time when everything had to look like the Matrix; our first attempt at taking a show up to the Edinburgh Fringe (A Month in the Country by Turgenev, performed outside. Not the wisest decision, but it was fun.)

My second attempt at freewriting from when I first found out about it – dated 16/9/01 at 21:36.

My "P" for "passed" plates for my car (which I never put on the car, because having "P" plates on is an invitation for other drivers to treat you like even more of an arse than they do already)

And, finally, this delightful 20th birthday card, hand-made for me by my friends Sam and Chris.

Rediscovering stuff like this is awesome.

One A Day, Day 36: An Open Letter

Dear Universe,

I write with regard to the recent delivery you made to my person – specifically, the bumper package of coughing fits, temperatures and shaky hands.

I do not remember ordering these items, nor do I wish to keep them. As such, I must humbly request that you dispatch a courier posthaste to come and pick them up. Technically the items have been "opened" and "used" since they are coursing through my body as we speak, but since I did not order them and they appear to have been delivered in the dead of night directly to my person rather than appropriately packaged at a more sociable hour, I do not feel that the premature opening and usage of said items is my responsibility.

I am of the mind that this delivery was perhaps intended for someone else. If this is the case, would you kindly furnish me with the details of the intended recipient and I will do my best to forward on the items as soon as possible. I would not wish the items' rightful owner to miss out on the experience of coughing so forcefully it creates a side-effect of unintentional flatulence.

If, on the other hand, the items are an unnanounced "gift" from someone (which is possible, seeing as there did not appear to be a receipt with the items) then I request, with respect, that you provide me with their name and address so I may return the favour, perhaps through the medium of Uzbekistani sledgehammer dancing – a dangerous yet beautiful artform which frequently places bystanders' testicles in mortal peril.

I thank you in advance for your co-operation in this matter, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Pete Davison

One A Day, Day 17: Desk

Never one to shy away from a good meme (with #oneaday itself being something of a meme anyway – and with "desk" being something of an unintentional one from the looks of things), here we are.

In front of me is my 24 inch iMac, white plastic model, the generation before they went all metallic and shiny. It has a new-style Apple keyboard and a Logitech mouse because I loathe and detest the Mighty Mouse. To the right of the mouse, laying on its side is an iPod Shuffle 1GB that I got out the other day with the intention of putting some music on for exercise purposes… then didn't.

To the left of the iMac is a stack of three blank DVD/CD spindles. One of them only has a couple of discs left, but the other two are full. In front of the DVD spindles are four pens – a green whiteboard marker, a green biro, a black Berol handwriting pen and an interactive whiteboard pen. There's also a pair of metal scissors, a roll of Sellotape and a bottle of Niceday knockoff Tippex. Sorry, "correction fluid".

Further left still, there's a Sony CRT Trinitron KV-1440UB TV-monitor which has been in good working order ever since the late 80s and early 90s. Sitting on top of the Sony screen is an Atari 800XL, a Zipstik and a Quickshot joystick.

Underneath the desk is a semi-transparent plastic tote containing an assortment of PC games that I haven't played for years. On top of that is a brown leather document wallet containing my passport, marriage certificate, university degree and teaching qualification and Criminal Records Bureau Enhanced Disclosure paperwork proving I am not a criminal. There is also an expanding sectioned file thing with a broken clasp so it won't close. This contains everything from bills to strange bits of forgotten-purpose paper to TV licenses to paperwork from houses I don't live in any more.

There are some shelves under the desk. On one of the shelves sits an Atari 1050 floppy disk drive, a few more PC games and some cardboard document folders.

The drawers to the left of my desk are broken. Try and pull one out and the front simply falls off.

In summary: I need a new desk that is bigger than this cluttered shitheap.

Spam Fiction

If you've received any email recently (and if you're reading this, then let's face it, you probably have), chances are you've received one of those bizarre spam emails that contains three things: 1. a link (which we're all well-trained and don't follow, right?) 2. some sort of pornographic exhortation (such as… oh, I'm sure you can imagine one) and 3. an extract of narrative from… somewhere.

I was intrigued by this. Why on Earth are spammers trying to get us to visit a website via the medium of extracts from… what? Books? Who knows. Anyway, having little to no regard for my own sanity, and against the express wishes of my dear friend Mr George Kokoris, I decided to see if pasting them one after another (minus the pornographic exhortations and links, and with some minor text-correction to make some of them a little more readable) created anything meaningful.

Here we go.

The gelsphere sped over one ceiling surface, then streaked down a wall, across the floor and between Erasmus's legs, then back up again. "Is it possible that you have avoided the subject of religion in your investigations because it is too complex and illogical?"

"Billy!" the cop yelled. A coyote howl rose, wavering and glassy. It was joined by another and another and another.

Either way, it maybe hadn't been such. a good idea. David pulled a thick ring of keys. out of his pocket and found the one which looked like the one Entragian had used.

He feels it. And when they get there they'll form. a conga line and sing 'It's a Small World After All.

'Twenty-three. .

'I said I wouldn't pack his lunchbox,. but of course I did. He reaches below the pillow Henry is. holding over the thrashing thing's face.

The laddie-bucks who had come running were,. for the most part, still running. We also know that Russian fighters destroyed. a grayboy ship over Siberia in 1974 .

News & World Report-but that was all. "What a joke!" the rotting thing cried. indignantly.

Had it and then got drinking and. lost track of it again. Across the bottom of Albert Belle's card. was this: "To David-Keep sluggin'! Albert Belle.

you are wonderfulTransactional fo' sho'I bought a bunch of cable organizers on sale, but instead of using them properly I just pile them on top of the cablesThis is just the same clips from different angles, but I would really like to see more of thisstevebanfield less functionality, but I like Tweetie on the Mac STUPID STUPID WHO viaI can't believe how quick I was searching for the nicotine gum this morning

Muhsari haad to prood hiim aagin. "And the docotr diidn't saay _anything_ abuot Eilot?"

After half an hour of hot pursuit, a bridge technician asked to speak privately with the two Primeros and informed them that their Holtzman shields were in danger of overheating and failing. The protective systems were not meant to be used at such high intensity for long periods of time.

Exhausted from nearly four decades of bloody fighting, the people were delirious at the prospect of reconciliation. They lionized Vidad and his fellow cogitors. They launched exuberant victory parades, imagining how their lives would now be different, never again without the fear of awful machine raids. They desperately wanted to believe in the possibility of a safe future.

"There he is!" Dhartha howled.

After all, we are not flower-merchants or herbalists! Suldrun gazed pensively down the garden and over the sea.

I've had an interesting set of experiences. The seasons passed; autumn turned to winter.

No normal man could remain normal under … Whatever its nature, it had failed to protect the hand.

"I invest my greatest hopes in all of you," she said. "I cannot deny that danger lies ahead. Even if you succeed, you die. And if you fail, you also die – but worse, it will have been to no purpose. I am here to make certain your lives and your deaths are not in vain, that you are instrumental in destroying Omnius and his thinking machine minions."

Usually they cry and hold out their arms when I leave them. For the death of others was its life.

After the meal the group became restless. And then go to your destiny in your own way.

I want nothing so much as to join him. All transport was at a standstill.

It seems an unimaginative plan. Hold the light; stand yonder, where you can see along the street.

You must still have it with you. He turned desperately to the District Attorney.

Lady Vosse, who stood nearby, grunted. We re going to share hopes and doubts, dangers and victories.

To the dog must now fall the problem of disposing of the pearl. Blow softly, with kind expression-ah!

Whatever might happen would not be to her liking. The Druid to the east extended his oak branch.

Is this not correct, Zar-aides? I fear that I have only five days to live.

Chilling stuff, I'm sure you'll agree. I particularly like the frenzied stream-of-consciousness bit in the middle. But what does it all mean?

Quick! The elixir!