Ultra short stories wanted

I'm trying to start some projects with which to occupy myself, and I want to make a zine of 50-word stories written in the sci-fi genre (hopefully, if I maintain an interest, other genres will follow). The rules are that the story MUST be 50 words exactly, but it can have a title which is not included in the word count. I'd also quite like some pictures or illustrations, so any kind of submission would be gratefully received - write as many stories as you want (you could do a trilogy, even). Here are a couple of my early attempts:

The ship's spectrogram flickered and data filled the vast control screens. Kirk Balzac breathed deeply in relief as he strolled over to the door release mechanism. Outside lay the mythical forests of Mophistu. But in the instant that the doors began hissing open, Kirk’s lungs dissolved: he’d forgotten his helmet.

Damien’s heart thumped. The dull beat was the amphibocretonian guards heading their way. He shook the semi-conscious figure on the floor.
“Evelyn, quick!”
He followed her tearful, drowsy gaze: her leg was trapped under the dislodged fluxoradio command unit. He paused momentarily, gave her one last passionate kiss, and sprinted.

Please contribute: I'd be very grateful.

Bollocks

I posted an anti-comments comment on Post Secret, and didn't realise that my comment would link to my blog (google automatically signs me in, see).

If you've come to my blog from Post Secret, I honestly love cats and animals and don't wish to harm them with bleach . . . or anything else for that matter. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, visit www.postsecret.com) That said, I could definitely look after my goldfish a little better . . .

Itchy

Itchy feet and itchy brain. I'm slowly starting to get into more of a rhythm, though. The major problem presented by completing my course is actually stepping off the treadmill, and then, once off, not feeling terrible about not being on the treadmill. Even though I've been doing productive things over the last two weeks, I still feel immensely guilty about wasting my time and not achieving . . . and I think I'm just at the point of adapting. I hope it isn't like this in the Sumeer holidays to come, or I'll only have four proper weeks of guilt-free time to myself.

I don't think my complex is just about being in work-mode though. I remember hating going back to university after the Summer because people would inevitably ask, "So what did you do?" and if you didn't have an amazing story about travelling in South-East Asia or volunteering in Peru, you (well, me) felt completely uninteresting and uncool.

But then, it's the kind of question you ask people when you either don't know them (very well) or you don't really car, and which, annoyingly, you end up asking people yourself when you either don't know them enough to chat to or don't much care about their response. Aren't we all incredibly fake and rude? But it would be ruder not to fake, I suppose. But then, why don't we care? Hmmm . . .

It's alright everyone - I'm ok!

Yes, parts of Sheffield are seriously flooded ("seriously", as in more than 200 people waiting to get winched from the tops of buildings), and mainly in David Blunkett's constituency which comprises much of the low-lying industrial quarter in the north of Sheffield, alongside the River Don.

We're very safe, I think, up on the hilly side. In fact, I didn't even have an inkling that this was going on, as I've been holed up with my cold all day long.

Oh well. Met Check says it'll be sunny tomorrow!

Phew

I'm deleting various tracks that I never listen to off my iTunes for the express purpose of making room for The Sims. Ayway, I've found myself just listening to purely classical music. Sometimes it really feels purifying.

I had an ace day yesterday, shopping and killing bluebottles effectively and such, then I went out for a drink with some PGCE friends and things became rubbish on the way back (not because of of my friends, I hasten to add). Such is life.

How did it know I love Radiohead?

You are sorta emo. You listen to Radiohead and enjoy their eclectic sound, but haven't pushed past into the underground indie subculture. The closest to emo attire that you own is maybe a few band t-shirts and tight jeans.

AreYouEmo.com

To evoke your sympathy . . .

I've felt crap all day. I woke up with a bunged up head and a sore throat, and now I'm dosed up on paracetamol and feeling drowsy and snivelly. This isn't a good way to feel when your house is infested by bluebottles. I walked into the kitchen before and felt so defeated by the tens of bluebottles buzzing around the window that I got the hoover and sucked up the vast majority. Yes, ALIVE. The irritatating thing is that I have no idea how they're getting into the kitchen. They're such disgusting creatures. But I suppose their purpose is helping things to decompose is a valid one. What surprises me is just how long they're around for. How many eggs then maggots does one bluebottle spawn, and how many maggots does it take before a carcass is soft-material free? It's both disgusting and fascinating, like a toddler intent on scrutinising dog turds.

What do you get if you cross Christian Bale with Cliff Richard?

Ziggy from Big Brother! Am I the only one who's noticed this? (Yes, I know I decried BB, but I have a lot of time on my hands now - what's a lazy girl to do?) Seriously, he looks like Christian Bale with longer, bleached hair, then he begins to talk and his mouth makes Cliff Richard-type shapes. Maybe there's a bit of Macca there too. Tres unsexy.

I forgot

Look how much my Yorkshire puddings rose! It's ridiculous! It meant they didn't taste quite right. Nice though.

Update

I feel extremely groggy today, so I took one of Ian's hayfever things to see if it was that, but I still feel heavy in the head and have a sore throat, so I'll put it down to illness instead.

There's just been a massive downpour here - only ten minutes or so, but at times so heavy that the rain bouncing off the ledge outside comes up through the open window 3 and a half feet up. I love torrential rain, particularly when it's accompanied by thunder and lightning. There's just something satisfyingly cathartic about it. Plus it gives me the excuse to laze around rather than actually tax my brain cells and do something.

I have been doing some things though:
* I've lost count of how many bluebottles I've swatted.
* I've trussed up the tomatoes out back (that's what I was doing when the rain came a-tumbling)
* I've become mildly addicted to Facebook and then filled with anxiety at the idea of having to communicate with many of the girls from Fenham's "Catholic mafia" (as they have been termed by a family member)
* I've made a grate for the drain outside (I'm trying to block off rat access points)
* I foam-filled the rat runs behind the washing machine
* I potted plants up
* I made an ace CD sleeve for a mix-CD I made
* I spray-painted a tall lamp stand that me and Ian found which will become a coat/hat stand in the future.

Actually, that's probably about it. In fact, I've been horrednously slack and therefore bored. I was so bored the other night that I ended up cutting a fringe into my hair. It doesn't look too bad though:


My eyes look extremely scary in these pictures, but you can also make out my freckles which are much more visible this year. Bless.

I'm going to go and take some paracetamol I think, then I'll pretend I'm motivating myself to do something, when actually I'm just going to make a cup of tea, dunk biscuits and watch TV.

Unfortunately there are no pictures of how ace I looked as Alex from A Clockwork Orange at my end-of-PGCE party! Gutted. I'll post other pictures soon though.

Arrivederci.

Now I'm REALLY in a mood

As if it isn't bad enough having to prepare an extremely boring presentation for a college day tomorrow, two terrible things have happened: -

1) They killed off Stingray! How could they?

2) Scrubs no longer has the 6pm slot on E4 thanks to Big Brother.

It's enough to make me scream . . .

And another thing

I was shocked by the ending of Desperate Housewives last night. I can't believe that Edie Britt would kill herself. I know they were working on developing her vulnerability and that, but suicide? Please. I hate it when shows don't obey their own internal laws . . .

RIP Edie.

Birds

Yes, birds. I could watch them from the "study" window for hours. They're just sparrows and blue-tits, but I like them. It's nice to have some wildlife for a change: it was depressing having to throw out bird feeders last year because the seed inside had gone mouldy - so many cats made for a trepidatious (is that a word?) bird population. It's good for us too: they pick off the snails and slugs. Speaking of which, while repotting an honesty plant I found a slug egg, squished it between my fingers and it squirted into my eye. Nice. Karma, perhaps, for taking pleasure in killing so many of its brethren . . .

Script Frenzy

I'm very excited about this. I keep having lots of script ideas and, I have to confess, I've already started on a couple of things despite the fact that you're only allowed to work on the project during the month of June.

I described the project to my younger sister (aged 19), and she was completely bemused by the idea that you'd want to write a script for no reason at all.

If you're creatively minded in any way at all, I urge you to sign up: www.scriptfrenzy.org. I've already written more (and of a higher quality) than I have in the past god-knows-how-many-months put together. Creative writing, that is. Not the snore-worthy stuff of PGCE-styled academia . . .

On which subject: how come the half term is almost over? Life is soooooooo unfair. After this brief holiday I don't know how I'll be able to stand the tedium of two weeks' of school . . . the abject misery ahead . . .

And the Big Brother gimic for this year is . . . .

An all-female starting line-up.

I just channel-hopped past E4 and was surprised by the number of girly-girls in their early twenties. Not that I watched it last year, or the year before for that matter, but it looks like Channel 4 have managed to cook up a recipe even more dull than anyone could ever have anticipated.

Snore.

In the GCSE Anthology there's a poem called Vultures, in which there's a description of the commandant at Belsen with "the smell of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils."

This came into my head because wherever I go, the odour of rotting rat permeates the air, very much like the smell is stuck in my nose. It's really revolting.

On top of that I don't feel well. I've had two lessons this morning thus far, and in each I almost cried and almost fainted. (Actually, at one point I felt like pretending to faint, just to get the little bastards to pay attention.) I'm not sure whether it's just tiredness or actually something wrong with me. Either way, I don't feel up to yelling at a class.

I can't believe it's only Thursday.

10.5 days to go.

For those who are interested . . .

. . . dead rats smell like rotting cabbage. I gained this knowledge when I came home from school, immediately noticed the stench, then noticed an unusually large gathering of bluebottles. I was scared to move the plinths to look under the kitchen units, but when Ian came home we did, but thre was no rat to be found. There are, however, holes in the flooring so we assume the body(ies) are below.

Ian's dad has informed us that it'll take ten days for the carcass to dry out, but the smell is already vomit-inducing, and I seriously won't be eating anything at home if it gets any worse. Ugh.

Busyness

Yesterday I got a job - hooray! It's at a very high achieving school, but no one appeared to be snotty and the head of English described herself as a heathen, which I liked. I felt very strange once I was offered the job, possibly because the day was so informal and I hadn't even taught a sample lesson. I mainly feel relieved with a mix of trepidation and anxiety . . .

The Weekend

On Saturday I got shouted at by a woman with an autistic child at Chester Zoo. She obviously assumed that my squinting face was a screwed up expression of disgust at her ugly, whining offspring, but it wasn't. The zoo was good though. We could have watched the baby chimps playing for hours, and the bat cave is amazing too.

Also on Saturday I had to partner with the very drunken singer from HCdeP at his dad's 60th birthday ceilidh. Quite hilarious. Ian's dad almost danced for the second time in his life, but he chose the most complicated dance of the night and got fed up with the ridiculously ill-explained instructions and gave up. Almost history in the making.

Update over.

12 working days left.

Get in.

Unwelcome House Guests

This is a week late as I've only just imported the pictures off my camera.

I was drying my hair on Sunday morning, and heard Ian yell out. I thought he was cleaning the bathroom and had probably knocked something over, so I carried on. Then he came into the room looking pale and shaken.

This is who he'd encountered in the cupboard under the sink whilst looking for cleaning sponge:


It was dead, of course, and, as you will have noticed, it's a full-grown rat and not a mouse at all! Poor thing. I was surprised by how soft it's fur looked and how squirrel-like it's head was. Pet rats are completely different creatures and are more like large mice (RIP Snoopy).

Anyway, thought I'd share that delightful picture with you.

Morons

I'm referring to my next door neighbours. No, it's not because they're PE teachers: I'm not quite as prejudiced as that. Nor is it because they randomly roar out like they're playing Smackdown or some such console game. No, it's because they have to constantly bombard us with their crap taste in music at random periods: Hard-Fi, Stereophonics, Bon Jovi, Oasis, Jamiroquai, music to make your stomach heave. What does one do when aurally assualted in this way?

History

I'm no sentimental, but Blair's resignation really does feel like the end of some epoch. And not just because all the TV stations have already put together montages and obituary-esque "This is Blair's legacy" pieces (which, in obituary fashion, they'll have had together for the past two years). I think people do have short memories, and though many things today need improvement (dentists, public transport, education, house prices, the slide towards the semi-privatisation of everything . . .), things are better than under Major (ha! remember him!) and much much better than under Thatcher (when is she gonna die so we can start street partying?): Northern Ireland, NHS waiting times, minimum wage, general spread of affluence, green issues (at least they're on the agenda, though sickeningly, Cameron's probably responsible for that) . . .

Anyway, it just feels weird. I suppose it's because TB has been prime minister throughout my proper mental development and struggle with maturity (granted, I'm not there yet) and blah blah blah: from the age of 15 to 25. Bizarre.

I wonder what people will think of *now* in ten years. I doubt it'll be what the BBC's pouring out on News 24 at the moment. Speaking of which, I probably scared the people in the shop downstairs earlier. I was watching News 24 to catch up on what had actually been said in the speech, but instead I got an interview with George Galloway. It was so melodramatic and irritating that I suddenly and involuntarily shouted, "Oh, fuck off!" and switched channels. I surprised myself with my outburst.

So.

Only 20 days to go. Sssssssssssss. (You know, as in the end of "Yessssss")