Mario: Cool Story Bro!

Image

There’s really no need for me to say anything. I took this from 9gag and posted this on Quora where it already has gotten some 900+ hits in the last 4 hours. Just wanted to repost it here to share with the WordPress community. I love this little comic in so many ways. Not exactly relevant for my blog but whatever.

I first saw this picture on my Flipboard a couple of days ago. Suffice to say, I was very much impressed by it. Brilliant concept, brilliant execution, and in my opinion, a better Godzilla Origins story than all the pollution/radioactive nonsense. Children and adults alike will appreciate the simplicity of it all. And anyone who has ever gotten high in their lives will appreciate the deeper meaning to it. Mmmmm…shrooms.

It also goes to show how powerful a brand / recognisable image can be when used appropriately. I can only hope that one day, I will be able to design a character or story as simple and as endearing as these immortalised characters.

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Alone In A Crowd: Part 1

Alone In A Crowd

Alone

I’m alone in here, surrounded by people who used to know me and the clink of wine glasses. A mindless drone reverberates through the party, idle chitchat punctuated by overly enthusiastic greetings whenever another so and so arrives on the scene. People who never bothered to keep in touch were hugging one another and calling each other out like old friends. High school reunion, nostalgia, whatever. The spirit of good cheer that tries to seep inside me takes one look at the toxic goop inside my soul and dies without even trying.

I stand in the corner, entertaining myself with a beer, watching and waiting for that something bad that inevitably happens at such parties. Maybe the drunken banker gets pushed off the balcony by a jealous rival, or maybe the blonde in the short skirt ends up with that dickhead leering at her across the room.

Whatever it is, I can feel it in my bones. Somewhere in this room lies my latest muse. What needs to happen tonight will happen. The writer in me wills it.
Sure enough, as soon as that thought filtered through my mind, two bitches on the dance floor start grabbing each other by the hair.

“Skank!”

“Whore!”

They screamed and they fought. Carefully manicured nails transformed into demon claws as they ripped into one another over the bemused man in the middle. I watch them from my little corner, more aroused than fascinated, and secretly hope that one of them will snatch out the other one’s eye.

It doesn’t happen. Like the high school brats they once were, they are pulled away kicking and swearing. The music starts up again and small talk resumes. An hour passes and nothing else happens. This party sucks, and so does the story. I need to come up with something better.

Maybe I shouldn’t start by portraying myself as a depraved writer in a room full of people ignoring him. Quick change of the script, and done.

I see her looking at me from across the room. Perhaps it’s the dim lighting, or maybe it’s the booze, either way it has to be something that makes people do stupid things since she’s waving at me now. I shuffled deeper into the little corner, trying hard to ignore the female protagonist appearing in my story. I was never very good at romantic fiction.

“Hey!” she says, walking up beside me.

“Hey,” I said back, what else was I supposed to say.

“Remember me?”

I look at her with bewildered eyes. Long black hair, porcelain skin, white fleshy thighs… if I have seen her before, it’s probably in one of the movies of my private collection.

“Sasha Grey?”

She looked at me strangely, “It’s me Lyla, you’re Peter right?”

I tried to smile. “Yes,” at least I used to be Peter. I go by my pen name now, Borris Black. Peter Pendleton just doesn’t inspire the same vibe when you tell people you’re a horror writer.

“Wow, it is you. It’s been so long, how have you been!” She said, tucking her luscious mane behind her ear. “Heard from the grapevine you’re famous now eh. ”

“A little,” I answered to Ms Obvious here. Apparently I need to be reminded that I’m the only best selling author to ever graduate from Glendale Springs. But for the life of me, I cannot recall ever meeting a Lyla there.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she giggled, “Braces, black glasses, dorky hair, ninth grade?”

Social protocol dictates I should have at least some idea now, or at least pretend to remember, by shouting her name while I pointed at her and grinned.  But since I honestly can’t remember and don’t give a fuck about what society thinks, I shook my head politely. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about my former life as a Peter.

“It’s ok,” she said, making a good sport out of being forgotten, “Let’s just start over. Hi, my name is Lyla Fisher, I’m a management consultant with Lipper and I just moved back to town to be with my family. Please to meet you Peter!”

“Black, Borris Black,” I corrected her, shaking her extended hand. Peter Pendleton is dead and buried. “Please to meet you too Lyla.”

— END PART 1 —

This is a slightly different writing style that I am trying out. One that fuses words and thoughts together in the first person. Again trying for a more flowing and smooth style in my writing. Really need to cut back on the and/as/the/buts as well.

Let me know if this narrative works for you. I’m trying to fuse together a story about a writer TALKING, THINKING and WRITING about the events of his life into one single narrative. I.e. there shouldn’t be any pure speech or pure story parts. 

After The Accident: Part 3

After The Accident: Part 3

It was still raining when Eric woke up. Outside, he could still hear thunder booming in the sky. Propping himself up on the bed, he winced as a throbbing pain shot through his forehead. Blood roared behind his ears as he shook his head to clear his vision.

Ripping the catheter out of his forearm, he staggered to his feet and tried to walk. Immediately, he felt his vision swirling from the effort as he fell back onto the bed. His bearings were lost in the tumultuous storm going on inside his head, and he found it hard to remain balanced. Unable to walk, he put his hands to the cold hard floor and slowly dragged himself off the white cotton bed.

“Sir, what are you doing…Sir!”

Damn them, damn them all to hell Eric thought through the sedated dullness of his mind. He was in no mood to deal with anymore of this nonsense. All he wanted was see his wife, and he wanted to see her now. Strong hands grabbed Eric by his arms and pulled him to his feet. He stumbled, but the hands kept him up. A plastic cup was raised to his mouth, forcing liquid into his mouth. He struggled fiercely against it, refusing to be sedated again.

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After The Accident: Part 2

After The Accident: Part 2

Elly Pearson was wide awake when she heard the shrill of sirens approaching in the distance. Lying on her bed, surrounded by the drone of medical machines, she raised her head as the piercing wail came ever closer. Looking out her third storey window on Mission Hospital, she caught a glimpse of the blinking lights as they flashed by, casting an ominous red glow through her darkened room.

Pushing herself up from the crumpled sheets, she gingerly shuffled her fragile frame until she stood in front of the window. There, in her shapeless hospital gown, she looked on in fascination as two ambulances turned into the hospital, accelerating past the bend in the road before disappearing under the sheltered driveway below.

Out of view, she could hear the ambulances screeching to a halt. A rush of footsteps followed as she imagined the emergency staff scrambling through the doors to assist the exhausted medics. The backs of the ambulances were flung open as stretchers were guided off their supports. Their wheels clattered against the pavement before they were pushed into the bright lights of the emergency room.

All the while, there was a chaotic gaggle of voices directing the action below.

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After The Accident

After The Accident

Eric shivered as he woke up. Through heavy eyes, he heard the echo of raindrops falling against the roof and the rumbling of thunder overhead. Reaching down instinctively with his hands, he groped blindly for a blanket that should have been there on his bed. Instead, he felt only the wetness on the dimpled leather of his seat. Remembering where he was now, he opened his eyes and looked through the shattered windscreen.

The dim headlights of the truck and the lightning flashing overhead illuminated the wreck in the rain. From where he sat, Eric could see the full extent of the damage. The bonnet of the Cadillac has been smashed, twisted and crushed under the bumper of the opposing truck. It was close enough that he could reach out and touch the license plate. Inside what remains of the car, the dashboard had been knocked out of place, hanging at an angle diagonal to the seat. The entire front compartment had buckled in as well, pinning his legs to the ground.

“Kyla?” Eric whispered, hearing his own voice crack. The effort needed to utter a single word caused him to sputter and wheeze. He could still smell that damn whiskey on his breath. He remembered everything now, the partying, the drinking, getting drunk. Marie had been the more sober one that night, so she drove them home.

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