Pix

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The Tale of the Dead Pigeon and the Brownies

The evening of the summer of the year of our choice, the evening of the summer of the year of our choice, the summer evening of the year we all got stoned... the summer of the evening of the brownies and love songs. The Evening of the Dead Pigeon and Alex the Third's last stand.

12:44 am Saturday.
Thomas T Thompson, affectionately known as Mr T., but not by his friends, sits moaning in the corner of the Lennon- and Marley-lined cavity called Home.
"Being stoned is not mandatory", Max murmurs, drooling smoke from the corner of his mouth and smiling softly.
Even after being plied liberally with brandy and carpet space, Tom seems little comforted by this remark. Shirt glued to his skin with bong water, his outbursts are somewhat subdued by the reeling sensation his head tells him has something to do with the warm wet stuff in the plastic beaker and in his brain. He can only moan quietly of what was, and what will be, and what is to come.

* * * *

The story must be told, but not by sober, grinning Max. Max, conquerer of a thousand unguarded doorstep pints of milk; Max, Maximillian, lord of the dance settee, lord of the dance, Mix-y Max-y, sliced jeans and smoky rooms; Max, overlord of Hull itself, and underlord of the undefined and undeniable. Max "Judy" Dench is a middle sized middleman of the worst kind, the link between producer and consumer, he supplies the goods to one-third of the population of the inmates of this university. Quiet and grinning, middle sized, middle-build, blue-eyed wonder boy in jeans, boots and shirts, he wears the headphones from his mixer round his neck as a trophy of his turntablist skills, and pretends to his friends he knows everything but says nothing.

* * * *

7:43 pm Friday
It was all TV in the Alex and Maxn household. Alex dancing manically round waving a BB gun and shouting along to the theme tunes. Max looks on with an affectionate but superior air, half an eye on the TV screen to find out the puerile but amazingly less-than-trivial answer to all his problems. Because TV can answer all your problems, reasons Max, if you watch enough of it. And it's Friday. That's the answer, mon cheri, the answer to life, the universe and everything, is 42, and is not 42.
"Messy time". Max smiles to himself. Touching the ends of his fingers together, he breahes, "excellent".
Wolfie saunters in through the kitchen door, and presents Max with a well-sugared tea and piece of cake. Together, they watch Alex until he stops in embarrassment. He takes the BB gun in his mouth, poses in three ways he believes to be ninja-like, and then climbs out the window.
"The kid should take less speed."
Max nods distractedly.
People are hammering on his door.

Alex, a small, skinny, young looking (for his nineteen years), madcap speed freak who never appears to do anything but run around not unlike a five-year-old, shout randomly at passers by, and play bad air guitar along to TV theme tunes. Alex, like a lobotimised monkey with guts. He had been known to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Alexander Lucas Quail Sanderson the Third, his full title, and that by which he signed his name, rumoured to look like a Midwick Cukoo but without the red eyes.

8:27 pm Friday

Max grins amiably at the queue of young, cold, wet students at his door, and removes the long joint, courtesy of one Wilf "The Wolf Man" Harris, from the corner of his mouth.
"And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he enquires pleasantly. The head of the queue, a girl who prefers not to be called Aileen Duncan, smiles back, baring her teeth in a fanged grin. Her gothic skirts gather dust and drug-related crumblings from the carpet. Her green and yellow eyeliner nauseates.
"Max, dearest chum, I do believe it's Friday night," she remarks, as if it had almost slipped her mind. Max exhales the thick blue smoke nonchalantly.
"Why, I think you might be right in that respect, mon ami." He tips his head on one side. "But for what reason should you darken my door?" His mock innocence fools no one, but it is not intended to. Max's relationship with those he sells to is maintained meticulously on his part. It amuses him, and his student loan would not even begin to cover his expenditure.
The relationship between the students and the newly discovered wonders of Max's airless dialogue amuses his further.
Aileen widens her eyes, increasing the effect of the eyeliner. She holds out one black-talon'd, silver-talisman'd hand expectantly.
"Anything for the lady." Max reaches under the chair for Max's Magic Box. "Tens on the eigth, dear girl."

8:27 pm Friday

Alex pauses for another bite of cake, diving from space to space in a hands-width second, mouth full after one, ninja pose on two. The view up here is remarkable, remarkable, Alex fails to remark, blasting the gun at a pigeon and almost falling from his roof-top perch, a rolling fall and up on his feet. Slice, the silence shattered with his screams and leaps, he slithers to his heels, firing randomly, and eats more cake.

Wolfie, a tall, lanky, guant young man, looking ten years older than it says on the tin, Wilf "Wolfie" Harris looks before he leaps and lopes when he walks. Wolfie "The Wolf Man" wrestles like a bear when drunk, Wolfie "The Wolfmeister" skins up with Brain Surgeon's fingernails when stoned. Wilf, grey stubble rampaging over his chin, eats Cheerios from the box, his long slick hair looking permenantly wet: the tousled rain look: after he read somewhere that if you don't wash your hair for long enough it washes itself. No one has followed his example as of yet.

9:59 pm Friday
The point at which Wolfie realised he could feel his stomach beating like a heart, and he began to see intricate heiroglyphics in Max's tea-stained carpet, was the point at which he realised it was time to intimidate the locals.
"Out of cake, Rizla, no munch whatsoever, ma frienn..." Wolfie drawls at Max in a mock Southern Baptist voice.
The 24-hour garage should be pleased to see him at such a quaint hour of the evening, he remakrs to himself as he stumbles out the door, wobbles carefully, and falls headfirst over a dead pigeon.

The Time, Mr Wolf, is 10:03 pm.
It is a Friday night. The ghouls are out tonight. Out for what they can get. Out for what Max can give them. Max and others like him, shadier others, others who don't playfully banter with their guests. Others who don't smoke away so much of their profit. Others who don't give a damn. They'll slit your throats, Wolfie, you and your mutha, they'll cast you aside.

But Max is different. Right?

Wolfie does not make a habit out of falling over dead pigeons.
He was a falling over dead pigeons-virgin.
Until now.

11:54 pm Friday.
The arrival of the one known as Thomas T Thompson is not always one that is greeted with much joy, nor much surprise. Sweatily, bursting into a room unannounced, T. T. Thompson falls over Wolfie and into a pool of bong water, screeching in octaves before unknown to the human ear, crumpled T. T. Thompson burns to a halt on the carpet next to a dead pigeon's head.
"Greetings, fellow traveller. I trust thy journey was well made?" Alex stomps on the window seat, doing the moonwalk. "Eat the Flowers!!!" He screams, giggling and attacking the head of the guest.
"Alex, calm yourself. This is not Alice in Acidland, however much you'd like it to be so." Max has emerged from the kitchn, munching slowly and thoughtfully, eyes hooded. "Dear God," he remarks, without enthusiasm.
"Hey, Max?" Tom gains footing on the carpet, liberally stained with bong water. "What the fuck is going on?!?!?!?!"

Flute is a shy girl, half dressed in blue and white, and half-falling over herself in her drunken state of eagerness. Flute lies wantonly, Flute lies wantonly, like the lillies in the field, white and pure Flute sidesteps anarchy and all it can give her, for a stronger Truth. Flute adjusts her blue spectacles and casts a glance at Max from the doorway, Bambi-brown eyes on milk white skin. Flute lives for this. She lives for this and loves for nothing, she is an anarchist. She is an angel in blue suede boots, an angel with daffodil wings, and she lives for this.

Max. Max, wake up. This is not the real you.

1:05 am Saturday
"Max. Max, wake up". Flute kicks him squarely in the jaw until he resists.
"Darling Flute. And I thought it was only morning." Max mumbles, falling off the window seat onto the floor. Wolfie still lies next to the pigeon, barely drawing breath, not drawing breath. The pigeon's gona, man, it's had it. It's dead man, dear god...
"Max, you're utterly fucked." Flute proposes this idea not for the first time, and Max sidles up to it with a distrustful knowledge of the concept. "Tom is not a happy bunny."
"That being so rarely the case," Max attempts sarcasm, and finds he has bitten his lip and the blood tastes sour. He sweeps a slow and half-closed gaze around the room until he locates the collapsed house-of-cards which is T. T. Thompson.
"Tom is an exceedingly happy brandy-soaked bunny who will sleep very weel tonight and forever and ever and ever amen," Wolfie sighs, rolling onto his back and grinning at Alex's upside down drooling face. Alex snores audibly.
"You ate all his brownies," Flute begins.
"They were his? What a kind patron of our establishment he is, indeed, that he'll even leave a plate of brownies for his gracious hosts." Max grins lopsidedly, admitting to himself that he is far gone, far gone away over the clouds and into oblivion.
"Max, you're rambling. They were Tom's hash brownies."
"Indeed they were, a bloody pope-on-a-rope they were and no mistaking his intentions he'll kill us all..."
Flute regards Max thoughtfully and he and Wolfie dissolve into giggles. "Thus endeth Maximillian. See you on Sunday morning."

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prolly millions of typos, so sorry about that... I'll correct them later when I'm not 17 minutes late for class... :/

see any major flaws, at all? I know it doesn't really go anywhere, and the time order's all jumbled up (intentional) - the plot not going anywhere was also sortof intentional... but more because I wasn't interested in plot. In this piece, I was going for interestig character development (trying to describe a character without the whole "well, he's 5'8", slim build, blue eyes, brown hair, and he likes Aerosmith" thing...) and wordplay and more wordplay... ;)

anyhow, cheers for reading it, I know it's hassle to sit down and troll through other people's work!...

The way each character you described was great! You really put the image of the characters into the readers head. Sweet X3

What I thought was or there was little of were the description of surroundings they lived in, but I think that really comes down to his/her own style of writing. Not everyone does the same thing :3

Buut I gotta say it is a wonderful piece and one for me to learn from, especially the way you describe your characters XB

but aside from that you are a very talented writer and it is very easy to read and like neo said if this is what you wrote two years ago id love to see what you can do now

Katelyn Saint/ Fermion/ 22/ 4'4"
The main character. Impulsive, reckless and the finest cop M1PD have. A mix of demolition man and Judge Dredd.

Abbey Piermont/ Human/ 19/ 5'1"
The voice of reason. Glasses wearing abbey is kind, reserved and helpful. Katelyn and Abbey are an odd couple but it works. Abbey=brains Katelyn=brawn.

Neo -

quote:

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Im not as talented as you but ill try do a real story here too when ive got time. Hope you dont mind pixie. Expect it soon.

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"talented" - don't be silly. I'm looking forward to it already, man... and OF COURSE I don't mind, I'd be very interested to see your work. And it's got nothing to do with talent, it's just... a style thing - sometimes people like it, sometimes they don't. That's why some people read airport novel trash, and some people read Tolkien...

your idea definately sounds interesting - inspired by?

I usually don't start with characters (all the characters in the above story are based VERY loosely on people I know) I start with words and form. But that's just me, I guess...
I have a few starting points in my head at the moment... one of them's a piece set in a mental asylum... "a few nuts short of a case" - thought that was quite good when I thought it up!

I must say I like it, its maybe a bit chaotic but in this case it adds to the subject.

Style wise it somehow reminds me a bit of terry pratchett and douglas adams(yup recognized the reference).
Which is a good thing in my eyes, I love this way of writing.

Only critic are the typos, made it hard for me to distinguish beetween words I know and slangwords I have'nt learned yet.

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Wer nicht vom Meister lernt, lernt nie etwas.

Fermions are gene altered with software in their
bloodstream and brain. Nanomachines capable of jacking
electronics and healing. Katelyn is super agile and
strong but not superhuman.

Added the mysterious Raven, a grey skinned, white
haired fermion whos Katelyns Nemesis

Added an Australian called Bruce Warrell whos
a gene altered bad guy. Think spike from Buffy and
thats his character.

And finally Joseph Carter, the man Katelyns got
her eye on. Swat leader.