Day 287: Five ideas for a novel that you’ll never write.

 

The day that the demons came, I was making pasta bake for Suzie Macmillan and Edwin Hall. Our lectures had finished at three on Tuesdays, so it was only right and proper that one of us made food before we all headed to the bar. This particular Tuesday, the wheel had turned once more to point to me and my sub-par culinary skills.

“Do I have to cook?” I asked as we walked away from Professor Edward’s talk on Demons in Fiction and Fact. We figured it would be an easy way to make up some credits, thus allowing us to spend more time in the pub. It turned out to be very dull and uninteresting, just Edwards droning on about representations of demons in the Catholic Church.

“Yes, Darwin.” Suzie replied, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She had a habit of doing that, as if she were using it to flick away a fly or something. Either way, her tone made it clear that I would be cooking.

I hate cooking.

Edwin had moved off to one side, squinting through his thick glasses as if he were staring at the tip of his nose. “I’ll see you guys in a bit. Meet you at Darwin’s, yeah?” Then he just ran across the green, clutching his books to his chest.

Suzie stared after him, then shook her head. “I’ll never understand that boy. Right, I’m off. I’ll be round at six, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’ll be ready.” I said, knowing two facts perfectly well. Dinner would not be ready and Suzie wouldn’t be at my place for six. She preferred to arrive… Fashionably late.

It was one of the reasons I knew something was wrong, actually. Five to six and Suzie was banging on my door and swearing at me to open the door. She’s never been on time for the past three years.

Something was definitely wrong.

The ideas here are: 

• The demon invasion
• The odd love triangle
• The strangely specific story telling
• The mentor Professor Edwards
• The character called Darwin

I’ve had a few of these ideas floating around for a while, so I thought I’d throw them all in together and see what came out.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 202: Put two people who hate each other in an elevator for 12 hours. What happens?

At 12:38 on the 8th October 2016, Simon Hoskin is walking towards the elevator on the twelfth floor of his building. In his hands, he holds the minutes for the four meetings he has sat in that day, the projections for Callahan for the next six months along with three sandwiches for Liz, Truss and McKinnon on seven. Liz always smiles at him, so perhaps this time he can actually ask her out for that drink. He balances everything carefully in his left arm and reaches for the elevator button.

At 12:38 on the 8th October 2016, James Franklin West, Frankie to his friends, is rushing down the twelfth floor hallway. He’s holding a mobile phone to his ear with one hand, clutching a sandwich, bag of crisps and a cup of coffee in the other. He’s attempting to tuck his shirt in as he rushes through, trying to swagger, saunter, smile at the HR girls as he goes by and fails miserably. The person on the other end of the phone reminds him that they’re meeting on Eight, causing him to suddenly stop and swerve back around towards the elevators, hurling expletives at the phone, his lunch and the various people around him.

It is at this point the elevator arrives with a cheery ding. Simon steps inside and sees Frankie rushing towards him, shouting to hold the door. He mimes reaching for the button to hold the doors, remembering the mountain of work that Frankie had piled onto his desk yesterday. And the day before. There was the time that he’d been put up for the promotion too. And that was as far as he got through the laundry list of issues before the juggernaut that was Franklin crashed into the small cabin and Simon himself.

“Cheers for holding the door, Stuart.”

“Simon.”

“Yeah, cool, whatever. Hit eight for me, would ya?” He lifted his cup to his lips to find that the lid had flown across the lift, along with most of the contents. Frankie’s dark eyes rolled around the lift and settled on someone to blame. Simon. “You didn’t have to spill my coffee. I’m nothing without my morning coffee.”

Simon said nothing and pursed his lips, reaching out and pressing Eight and Seven respectively. He kept his files close to his chest, wishing that the ride would be over so that he could be away from this odious man. “It’s afternoon.”

“What ya got there? Callahan’s reports? He did want me to look over them first, but I’ve just got in. You mind taking them on to him?” Not like that thought had crossed Simon’s mind and it was where he was going already. “Sorted. Cheers buddy.”

“Simon.”

“Yeah, cool.” They stood in silence as the numbers counted down. The red light changed from ten to nine, then everything went dead.

Little known to Franklin and Simon, in the basement of Callahan, Willis and Woods, a young man by the name of Eric Weedleton was prowling through the parked cars until he came to a steel door marked with the classic picture of a man being struck by lightning. He smiled to himself, then withdrew a set of picks from his jacket pocket. He expertly picked the lock, then let the door swing open. With a final look around, Eric took a small round object out of his pocket and rolled it into the room. He blinked twice, then began running at full speed. Caution had been thrown to the wind.

Impending explosions tend to do that to people.

But this isn’t Eric’s story. It isn’t the story of the explosion, or the robbery that occurred. It isn’t a buddy cop story about Detectives Paolo and Ricker who show up to investigate, or even Simon and Liz’ future romance when he finally plucks up the courage to ask her on a date.

This is a story about two guys stuck in an elevator. This is the story that began at 12:38 on the 8th of October 2016.

Definitely an opening this time. I love the idea of a story within a story, such as this. A consequence of something bigger, just two people in the middle of everything who are completely oblivious to what is going on. A side arc, as it were, that becomes the story. 

Again, my napping trick succeeded. Caught the bloody fairy as it tried to sneak past me while I dozed on the sofa. Thankfully, I had half-formed ideas swimming around my head in just waiting to be written. Landlady says I’ve got to nap earlier though. Damn size 12s! Anyway, time to take a lesson from the inspiration fairy and sneak away.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 182: A translator doesn’t want to translate what he’s just been told

‘Konurran, Shika not aluba.’ The Grenzing emissary, whose name translated roughly to Joolan Freel, spoke powerfully, his voice carrying throughout the Decision Chamber. ‘Oanoka, shup shup. Kanika!’ He drew a claw down a foreleg to reveal a piece of shedding skin, a symbol of sacrifice in Grenzing culture.

The Earth emissary, Callie O’Halloran shifted in her seat. ‘What’s he saying?’ She turned to Joe in the seat next to her and watched his lips move around the alien words. She could almost see as the information flowed around his mind and then back out of his mouth.

‘The time for peace is over. I require the brothers in arms to rise against the growing threat. Now.’ Joe North sighed. He hadn’t signed up for war declarations, he’d signed up for the schmoozing and the parties. Before yesterday, the most entertaining thing he’d had to translate was “How much Riolakka* will it take to get your earth woman into bed?” and that had been trouble enough. It had taken hours to find Senator O’Halloran again and she’d been dancing on the table with the Loputti. Damn, those Loputti bastards could drink.

The only reason he’d even taken xenolinguistics was to get a shot at a doss job and to be able to chat up girls in their native language. Alien chicks love that sort of thing.

He’d been thrilled when he’d got the translator job. Who doesn’t want to be trundling around the known galaxy with a smoking hot senator, meeting mostly cool aliens? The Europans can be a little bit standoffish, but that’s understandable considering they can only exist off Europa in their tanks. That was a language that took some learning, all dependant on the shape and size of bubbles through Convergel. Thankfully, I’ve got an ear and eye for language so picked it up in a few weeks. The enhanced lung capacity from learning to down a pint in three seconds probably helped.

A sharp elbow dug into his ribs. ‘North! I need to follow this. Get a fucking grip.’

‘Rocku, nortiliamu carn. Shoonla, britzo makiko!’ Joolan continued, sweeping his stubby forelegs around his body as his speech became more impassioned. ‘Cobbalitia Shalakan burka. Donsoota parsen. Grenzing, Loputtan, Europ. Ordan Ert.’

‘The time has come. All of us must play our part. The Shalaka have taken Gurn. Nothing else matters now. Grenzing, Loputtan, Europan. Even those from Earth.’

O’Halloran snorted. ‘What does he expect us to do, poke them with a stick? The Shalaka will eat us alive. Once he has finished his monologue, you’ll tell him that Earth will have no part in this war.’

‘But Callie. We could…’

‘We could let millions of our impressionable youngsters die for a foreign cause. I wonder where I’ve heard that before. We will not fight. We do not have the brawn or the brain at this time.’

Freel was coming to an end of his sermon. ‘Porchlu, garpin. Shalaka carnim shortuka!’ The Decision Hall erupted into applause, bubbling and the various cries and shrieks that meant bravo. Callie clapped politely, then rose from her seat and began to speak.

‘Ladies, Gentlemen, those of races where gender is neither function nor form. I would like to begin by thanking Joolan Freel. His warning has come at great cost to his people.’ She lifted a glass of water to her pink lips and took a small sip before continuing.

‘Sherken, Lotantia, shibulba shrolatta dis nekva da looni. Shebaka J’Oola N’Friel. Er ntuki shana ferto.’ North spoke in Grenzing as it had become the galactic standard. Only the Earthlings weren’t fluent.

‘I must say, in my capacity as Earth’s representative in this Decision Hall, that we will not put troops forward. Ours is a growing civilisation, that can barely fend for itself. We fight with each other, we fight against nature, we fight for survival. You cannot expect us to join in a war on the other side of the galaxy. I’m sorry, Honourable Freel, but our answer must be no.’

North looked shocked. It may be her words, but it would be his mouth they came from. This moment would be known throughout history as the day that Earth lost the war, with North as the source.

‘Shen… Calor…’ He paused, fighting for breath against the oppressive weight of the future. This was a tipping point. ‘Shen calor, canro rep Ert ara Keepo Al…’ He drew in a deep breath, then looked out into the chamber. He stood up tall, keeping Callie in the corner of his eye.

He was probably going to end up in jail for this.

‘Ert appa notika el endra toona labe nika molo.’ Earth pledges one hundred thousand warriors.

North felt the cold metal bracelets around his wrists, even as he finished speaking the final word. He smiled, straight from his eyes to the room, where every delegation was cheering.

Earth would not sit out this war.

*Riolakka is a spirit made by the Berlese. It appears that the process of putting fruit into a container, mixing it with some sugar or sugar equivalent and leaving it to ferment has spread the whole galaxy over. Who’s surprised?

Is it the words, the people, or a combination of the two that shape the future? I’m fairly sure this counts as treason, but it may have been the right thing. Will he be vilified by the people of Earth, or sanctified?

The Idiot in Tin Foil

 

Day 181: Write a story based on the title of your favourite song

The Boys of Summer

There are a lot of gangs in this town.

A ridiculous amount when you think about the size of this place. More gangs than districts and if you threw a stone there’d be a fight about whose territory it landed in. You’ve got the Harlequins down by the docks, all the fired workers and old sailors ganging up to protect their piece of the pie. Parklife over in Highfield Green, Alcatraz in the prison district. The Mechanicals, The Bootlegs, The Cartwrights, the list goes on.

Then of course, nestled in the black heart of this dirty town, you have the Boys. The Boys of Summer.

They’re the current kings of this place, around which every swirling eddy of misfortune circles. The drugs, the guns, even the banned toys go through them. That’s right, the Boys control everything here in Clifftown.

The upper echelons gather sometimes in Summerhall. It’s the fancy manor that sits incongruous amongst the factories as they belch their foul smoke into the atmosphere, coating the hall’s stone walls with a thick layer of soot and grime. The inhabitants were much like the hall, dirty, out of place and filled with secrets. The best of them would gather in the dining room, at least half of them every night, for the parties. There would be honoured guests from the other gangs, like Hercules Watley of the Harlequins. He sat at the top table, laughing and carousing with the leaders, waving a tankard in his fist as he raised his voice in song.

Mother Van Cartier shook her head shook her head at the interruption and turned back to her fellow Widows. They were in charge of the old religious district, long abandoned by the priests and the martyrs. It was now a hive of scum and villainy, just like the rest of Clifftown. Their conversation was quiet and reserved in a direct contrast to Watley’s squawking.

A gong sounded, deep in the bowels of Summerhall. The revel stopped dead, a veil of silence falling across all of the guests. They knew what the gong meant.

The King of Winter was joining them. This was going to be an important night.

Two of the Autumn Knights threw open the doors. The Knights were the elites of the gang, those who had worked their way up through the ranks of the Boys to positions of responsibility within the gang. The one to the right of the door as the guests were looking at it, was Irwin Smedley. He was the shorter of the two, broad shouldered and condensed. He wore a perpetual grimace as if the world disgusted him and every step was a stomp, a vicious attack on the ground. He could be found at most revels in a corner, in an argument and in trouble.

His companion was his opposite. Tall, gangling and he barely spoke a word. He was known only as the Stranger. He wore a mask over his face that covered everything but his eyes, eyes trapped inside two small windows of glass. They are frenzied and bloodshot and constantly roaming. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, the Stranger’s mask turns them into mirrors. They say that the King knew his real name and what face he kept hidden beneath that mask.

Smedley and the Stranger stood to attention on either side of the doorway, ramrod straight. Silence remained the champion of the room, stilling even Watley’s enthusiastic tongue.

A series of sharp ticks grew in volume, spurs clacking against the stone slabs of the hall. A figure grew from the shadows, a long coat swirling the shadows into a frenzy. As he passes, the gas lamps to either side grow in power and then dim again, as if the King gives power to his surroundings. He walked into the room and surveyed his guests, all of them sitting expectantly with drink and food raised to their mouths, conversations paused, all their interactions halted by this mans power.

He grinned and clapped his hands. ‘Don’t let me keep you from a good time!’

I’ve had this idea floating around for a while, ever since I heard a cover of Don Henley’s The Boys of Summer by Front Country. It’s one that needs some work, needs a few of those details ironed out, but as a start it works for me. A city of criminals and crime, with everything led by my mysterious Boys of Summer. I’ve put this into the Sky Pirates category as I can see this linking in with my Argent Siren stories, though it could yet be something independent.

Also a favourite song? Out of all the available music in the world? Can’t do it. I can’t even choose a top twenty, let alone a favourite. The other idea I was going to go for with this one, had I not gone with the Boys of Summer, was a collection of very short pieces based on ten or twenty of my favourites. Then I would link them together. 

That sounds a lot like hard work though…

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 174: Write a letter from the point of view of a drug addict

Jim,

You’ve gotta help me man, I’m struggling here. I just need a little bit more, just a top up. I know you can get it for me.

The police got Digger. That’s my supply down the toilet and I’m spiralling with it man, I’m chasing the spiral, round and round, all the way down to the U-bend and out and away.

Jimmy, you and me, we’re mates! You can set me up, just for a little while. I know you said you’d never deal to friends and that the best you could do is put me on to the next best person and Digger, yeah, he sorted me out for a long time but then he got busted with Blackout and…

Shit, I’m rambling again. Jim, just a short term thing, just until I find another person who can get me what I need.

Jimmy, Jimjam, Jimeroo… I need your help.

I’ll meet you at the usual spot, the usual time. Just… Get me some Blackout man.

I’m dying here.

Alby

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 173: You are going to appear on a talk show. The producer comes backstage to elicit a funny story that the host should focus on. Write the story like a monologue you’re giving on national TV.

I fell off a building once.

No, I’m serious. I fell off a building.

I should probably go back to the beginning. It started, as most of the best stories do, with a drink. I’d gone to a friend’s Pokemon themed birthday party in all my fancy dress, where we had proceeded to play drinking games like Never Have I Ever and all that.

 

The evening progressed out into town, we went to a few clubs and ended up in the traditional night closer, the grotty club where you stick to the floor, the lights don’t come on until five in the morning. The drinks are cheap, probably because half of them are all over the aforementioned floor and the only songs they can play are the big cheesy numbers from the nineties. The drink kept flowing and I danced, loved it and lost all of my friends.

So, I decided to go looking for them. I checked upstairs and downstairs, no sign of them. Eventually, I decided they must have gone outside.

I did later find out that they hadn’t gone anywhere and were right behind me, but that’s beside the point.

So, I’m outside the club. I look to my left and there’s a line of people still trying to get in. To my right is a line of people who have already been in and want to get back in. This is when my vaguely drink-addled brain decides to inform me that I am in dire need of a restroom. There’s no way I’m getting back into the club, not with a line that long outside. McDonalds is too far away so I figure that I’ll head down an alley.

The joys of external plumbing, eh?

Unfortunately, down this alley there is a couple engaging in… Adventurous outdoor activities, we’ll call it. Being drunk, I decide that the best thing to do is to head on past them further down the alley to a gate at the end. This gate is usually shut, mind you.

Not this night, for some reason. I think this is a win and wander through, finding a wall that’s about four foot high that I proceed to jump over.

As it turns out, it’s only four foot tall on one side. So that was my first fall of the evening. A practice run, of sorts.

So, I’ve landed in this yard. The wall I came over to get in is twelve feet, perhaps. It’s part of a set of three, then there’s a building. With a ladder.

My genius brain decides that this is the only way out. So I climb up this ladder and I get to a rooftop, flat and nondescript.

All I’ve done is trade one bad situation for another. I’m looking around for a way down and I see a cat. I remember this bit so clearly. It’s a fat, ginger cat and it starts running around this roof. Me, being drunk, decide to chase the cat. So there’s me, the cat and whatever the cat’s following, all of us running in circles around this roof. I got lost. Lost the ladder, lost all my bearings. Though I am fairly sure I’d actually travelled maybe two metres.

This is when my genius brain pulls its best idea yet from some kind of dark crevasse. Quite possibly, it found it in a box that said “Stupid Ideas. Do not open.” I spot, along the edge of the rooftop I’m on, some ivy or some other creeping plant. I’ve seen this in films, I know what I can do.

I get down, one elbow clinging to the edge, a handful of plant in the other, my feet dangling. I take a deep breath and take the elbow off.

Next thing I know, I’m on the ground two stories below in some patch of overgrowth. Somehow, all I come away with is two bruises. That’s it.

How I got out of the patch of overgrowth, that’s a whole other story…

Yes, this one’s a true story. One of many from my misspent youth (He says, as if he was older than 23 years old…)

The Idiot in Tin Foil

 

Day 132: You have a time machine, but it can only go back two days. What would you change?

I could bore you with the details of quantum circuits, tachyon carriers and the Friedrich equation, but I’m sure that you have better things to do. Having a life, perhaps. Instead, I’ll give it to you in layman’s terms.

I’ve created a time machine. Yes, I’m talking an HG Wells, Back to the Future, causing issues with the future time machine. Admittedly, mine isn’t quite as impressive as a Delorean, or a blue police box. Mine is more… Rustic. Homemade. It does look impressive though. Lots of blinking lights and LED displays.

But, still, it works. Not quite as well as it did at the start…

It was incredible. I have to be honest, I can’t explain how it feels to go back to the Jurassic, the Triassic. I saw the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. Once.

Seems to be a rule in that you can only go anywhere once. If you key in the coordinates of sometime you’ve already been, the machine refuses to work. The lights die and it seems to act like a petulant child, having to be coaxed out of its room to come to dinner. Thankfully, the machine did start to work again, but only after a week of apologising.

Or maybe it was just a week delay. I’m still working out the particulars on that one.

Then there’s the treacle effect. It appears that small changes can be absorbed by the rivers of history, but try to make any large effects, such as an assassination or advancing human nature, means that history fights you. Your movements slow. Events conspire against you, such as carts wheeling in front of you, or roads being closed. It’s a harsh, harsh environment.

There is of course, one final issue.  I started with the ability to go all the way back to Prehistory, then the various empires. I’ve seen the fall of Rome, the building of the pyramids. I watched Tutankhamun being embalmed and entombed.

That’s when I realised. I tried to go back to the rise of Babylon in 18th Century BC and it refused. Every time I try to go further back, it gives up.

The last time I made a trip, I got a week. I’ve been working with Garner on the decline and we reckon it’s down to two days. I can go two days back.

I should probably use it wisely.

Doctor Catherine Wallis, 13th December 2016

***

It’s time.

I write this as my last will and testament. Should this trip fail, you will read this. I suggest you use the last fifteen minutes in the device wisely.

Karen, my darling baby girl, I hope that you never have to read these words.

I have two days of time. Two days to get across the globe and put a stop to Domino. Two days of fighting against Domino’s veritable army, time and the forces of History. Treacle or no, this is going to change.

With hope that you never have to read this,

Doctor Catherine Wallis, 23rd May 2017

***

Mum,

I know you’re never going to read this, but it had to be addressed to you. You’re the only person who could ever understand. I’ve got a brilliant plan.

The Tempust is in a fixed location. Garner gave me the idea while he was teaching me to play guitar. I never gave it up. I know you loved to hear me play and sing. He taught me about feedback.

Then we came up with the idea of the Tempust feeding into itself. Going back fifteen minutes and using the fifteen minute ago version to go back another fifteen minutes. A feedback loop until we’re back where it began.

Mum, you’re never going to read this but if it all goes well, I’ll see you soon. Or technically

I’ll already have seen you. 21st May 2017. I hope you’re ready.

I love you Mum.

Karen Wallis, 12th June 2020

***

It worked.

Catherine Wallis, 21st May 2017 / Karen Wallis, 21st May 2017

So, today’s tale had my own head spinning and I wrote the thing. What would you use your two days for? 

The Idiot in Tin Foil