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marginaliana) When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Assuming a very loose definition of "in progress" (the last two, in particular, have progressed as far as I think they're ever going to get) we have :
THE BLUE PETER ELEPHANT
TOMMY: Tommy Masters, news of whose death reached the media last night, was one of the most influential TV figures of our era. His daily show, Tell It Like It Is, was single-handedly responsible for reviving the genre of the talk show, transforming it from a despised format to a hard-hitting, socially critical exposé of the evil underbelly of society. Politicians, psychologists, social workers, police officers and journalists all joined forces in the attempt to suppress Tell It Like It Is, which exposed their cock-ups, screw-ups and… and… and other ups, on a daily basis to millions of viewers. At the time of his death, Masters was being pressured to develop a new show, provisionally titled It's Not My Fault, which would have allowed the aforementioned whinging pricks, plods, shrinks, social workers, and journos a platform on which to wank about how the evil underbelly wasn't their fault and that no-one could have helped the procession of sad cases, victims, weirdoes, perverts and criminals that appeared every evening on Tell It Like It Is. Oh yeah, and Tell It Like It Is occupied the number one ratings slot for over five years, so stick that up your back passage. Arseholes.
MUSIC II
As I hesitated on the threshold of the door, I heard a voice, raised in indignation.
"Why do I have to watch this crap? You can't make me watch this crap! It's cruel and unusual punishment! It's illegal to make me watch crap like this!"
"Now, now, Mr Rosen," – that was one of the staff, you could tell, because she sounded like a nursery teacher talking to a naughty three year old – "Don't spoil the film for everyone else."
"Spoil it? How can I spoil it for them? Their brains have all rotted away. As long as the pictures move, they're happy."
"Sssh," said the nurse. "It's a lovely film."
It was as if the universe had sent me here. Like a prince in a fairy tale, sent to rescue a princess from a dragon, it was clearly my cosmic duty to rescue poor Mr Rosen from The Sound of Music.
I stuck my head round the door.
"I think it sucks, too," I said, boldly.
An old man, who must have been the badly behaved Mr Rosen, peered round the back of his armchair.
"It fucks?" he said. "Is this good or bad?"
ANNIE
It was true that Donald loved me. And I loved him, even though he was a retard. His arms, for instance, were too short and almost completely lacking in muscle, and his teeth never grew in properly. And his coordination! My God! The boy made a dancing pig look graceful! Throw him a ball and he would drop it. Poke him and he would fall over. Dangle him upside down by one ankle and he would get a nosebleed.
A,B,C and D
"What's adultery?" asked D at tea.
"It's when you cut your cocaine with talcum powder," said B seriously. "It can be very dangerous."
From behind the newspaper, Simon snorted, in the manner of a man failing to repress a snigger.
D looked thoughtful. "But in the Bible it says there was a woman taken in adultery. Does that mean she was a drug dealer?"
"B's thinking of adulterate, darling," said Felicia. "It's not quite the same thing."
"So what does taken in adultery mean?"
"It means," said A, "that she was having a shag with a man who wasn't her husband and he came in and caught them at it."
D's eyes widened. "Wow," she said appreciatively. "How embarrassing."
"Have you ever been taken in adultery, mummy?" asked C.
"Mummy would be the world's worst adulterer," said A. "She'd keep getting his name wrong, and he'd be deeply offended."
"Oh Ben, I mean Chris, no, no, sorry, Jeff!" gasped B.
"That's enough, thank you," said Simon, whose newspaper was shaking suspiciously. "I don't think meals are the appropriate occasion to discuss your mother's sex life. If, indeed, there is ever an appropriate occasion."
PIANO PRACTICE (Sapphire and Steel)
Dear Police Commissioner,
I'm sorry if this letter goes on a bit, but I have decided to write everything down exactly as I remember it because otherwise I can't seem to get started at all. I know it will all sound rather peculiar, but I can assure you that I am not mental within the meaning of the Act.
I work for the Manchester city council housing department. Last Tuesday in the course of carrying out my duties I called on Mrs Higgins at 53 Mill Road who was refusing to move out of her house, even though it was due to be demolished.
It was a fine day, very sunny. I mention this particularly because it will be important later on.
I didn't see the people who I believe were responsible for the accident arrive because at the time I was bending over Mrs Higgins's letterbox attempting to communicate with her. Mrs Higgins was informing me that she would not allow me to enter her premises.
"Don't think I don't know what you're up to, young man! You'll wangle your way in and then you'll steal my pension book while I'm making a cup of tea!"
I am accustomed to people casting aspersions on my character in my line of work, so I remained calm.
"I'm not trying to steal your pension book Mrs Higgins," I shouted through the letter box. "I'm from the council. I've come to help you move your things out."
"I'm not moving anything," said Mrs Higgins defiantly. "The only thing moving off my property is you."
UNNAMED
MANN: 1942. Krieg.
FRAU: Europa ist in Flammen.
MANN: Die Jungen sterben für das Vaterland, die Deutschen, die Engländer, die Russen, die Österreicher, die Australier, die Italiener.
FRAU: Aber noch nicht die Amerikaner, noch nicht die Japaner. Es ist noch nicht so schlimm.
MANN: Und Paul Antschel hat nichts Besseres zu tun, als Gedichte zu übersetzen.
PRTZ THE PERILOUS
I stared at this man now, trying to see if I recognised him. He wasn't Falk, who everyone knows has red hair, and he wasn't Laszlo Five Fingers, who has only one hand, or Dzk the Dragon-hearted, who has piercing black eyes that can see into your soul. It was disappointing, but I didn't give up hope. He could still turn out to be a rising talent and then one day I could tell my friends that I had served the great Whatisisface the Sorcerer before he was famous.
PHILDELPHIA LOWELL
Had it not been for an accident of birth – the accident of coming into the world in the village of Lower Shambleton, a mile further from London than Upper Shambleton – Philadelphia Lowell would undoubtedly have been married before she was twenty five. The elder Miss Tate had secured an offer from a gentleman travelling on the post road who had spent the night in the inn at Upper Shambleton, and all of Lower Shambleton was agreed that had he stopped off in their village, it was undoubtedly Miss Lowell who would have received the offer. In the opinion that this was the only way she would ever receive an offer, they were also united, and since there was unluckily no means of bodily shifting Lower Shambleton a mile and a half down the post road, it seemed certain that Miss Lowell was fated to remain a spinster.
In this depressing conviction, the lady herself concurred.
MIRROR ROMMIR (Man from UNCLE)
"Mr Solo," he said without preamble, "what happened on that mission?"
Napoleon tried to push the clouds of sleep out of his brain. "Illya said he'd put in the first report, sir," he said.
"Did he, indeed? Well, I have not received it. Instead Mr Kuryakin has offered me his resignation."
"What?" Napoleon sat bolt upright, his whole body jarred into wakefulness. "What for? What happened?"
"I refused it, of course, and sent him down to the infirmary for a psychological assessment." Waverly's expression was as impenetrable as ever, but it was evident that he was worried. "I was aware that we were taking a tremendous risk sending Mr Kuryakin in so underprepared - no-one's fault, of course, we simply didn't have the materials for a proper briefing. Was his cover blown?"
"No, sir," said Napoleon. "At least, not till the very end." His memories of what had happened after taking that cocktail of drugs were hazy to say the least, but he dimly remembered seeing Illya pinioned between two uniformed soldiers. That couldn't been more than a few minutes after he'd been given the first drug, though, and they'd still thought he was Nexor at that point.
"Well, that accords with Mr Kuryakin's report. So he wasn't subject to interrogation or torture?"
"No, sir. Quite the contrary."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, he, um, did some torturing, sir. It was necessary to maintain his cover."
"I see." Waverly frowned. "That could, of course, have a negative psychological impact. Who was the victim?"
"Ah, me. Wasn't that in Illya's report?"
"Not in so many words. Mr Kuryakin stated that he was able to preserve you from execution by faking your death with a sleeping capsule after a simulated interrogation."
"Hmph. I suppose that's one way of putting it," said Napoleon wrily.
marginaliana) When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.Assuming a very loose definition of "in progress" (the last two, in particular, have progressed as far as I think they're ever going to get) we have :
THE BLUE PETER ELEPHANT
TOMMY: Tommy Masters, news of whose death reached the media last night, was one of the most influential TV figures of our era. His daily show, Tell It Like It Is, was single-handedly responsible for reviving the genre of the talk show, transforming it from a despised format to a hard-hitting, socially critical exposé of the evil underbelly of society. Politicians, psychologists, social workers, police officers and journalists all joined forces in the attempt to suppress Tell It Like It Is, which exposed their cock-ups, screw-ups and… and… and other ups, on a daily basis to millions of viewers. At the time of his death, Masters was being pressured to develop a new show, provisionally titled It's Not My Fault, which would have allowed the aforementioned whinging pricks, plods, shrinks, social workers, and journos a platform on which to wank about how the evil underbelly wasn't their fault and that no-one could have helped the procession of sad cases, victims, weirdoes, perverts and criminals that appeared every evening on Tell It Like It Is. Oh yeah, and Tell It Like It Is occupied the number one ratings slot for over five years, so stick that up your back passage. Arseholes.
MUSIC II
As I hesitated on the threshold of the door, I heard a voice, raised in indignation.
"Why do I have to watch this crap? You can't make me watch this crap! It's cruel and unusual punishment! It's illegal to make me watch crap like this!"
"Now, now, Mr Rosen," – that was one of the staff, you could tell, because she sounded like a nursery teacher talking to a naughty three year old – "Don't spoil the film for everyone else."
"Spoil it? How can I spoil it for them? Their brains have all rotted away. As long as the pictures move, they're happy."
"Sssh," said the nurse. "It's a lovely film."
It was as if the universe had sent me here. Like a prince in a fairy tale, sent to rescue a princess from a dragon, it was clearly my cosmic duty to rescue poor Mr Rosen from The Sound of Music.
I stuck my head round the door.
"I think it sucks, too," I said, boldly.
An old man, who must have been the badly behaved Mr Rosen, peered round the back of his armchair.
"It fucks?" he said. "Is this good or bad?"
ANNIE
It was true that Donald loved me. And I loved him, even though he was a retard. His arms, for instance, were too short and almost completely lacking in muscle, and his teeth never grew in properly. And his coordination! My God! The boy made a dancing pig look graceful! Throw him a ball and he would drop it. Poke him and he would fall over. Dangle him upside down by one ankle and he would get a nosebleed.
A,B,C and D
"What's adultery?" asked D at tea.
"It's when you cut your cocaine with talcum powder," said B seriously. "It can be very dangerous."
From behind the newspaper, Simon snorted, in the manner of a man failing to repress a snigger.
D looked thoughtful. "But in the Bible it says there was a woman taken in adultery. Does that mean she was a drug dealer?"
"B's thinking of adulterate, darling," said Felicia. "It's not quite the same thing."
"So what does taken in adultery mean?"
"It means," said A, "that she was having a shag with a man who wasn't her husband and he came in and caught them at it."
D's eyes widened. "Wow," she said appreciatively. "How embarrassing."
"Have you ever been taken in adultery, mummy?" asked C.
"Mummy would be the world's worst adulterer," said A. "She'd keep getting his name wrong, and he'd be deeply offended."
"Oh Ben, I mean Chris, no, no, sorry, Jeff!" gasped B.
"That's enough, thank you," said Simon, whose newspaper was shaking suspiciously. "I don't think meals are the appropriate occasion to discuss your mother's sex life. If, indeed, there is ever an appropriate occasion."
PIANO PRACTICE (Sapphire and Steel)
Dear Police Commissioner,
I'm sorry if this letter goes on a bit, but I have decided to write everything down exactly as I remember it because otherwise I can't seem to get started at all. I know it will all sound rather peculiar, but I can assure you that I am not mental within the meaning of the Act.
I work for the Manchester city council housing department. Last Tuesday in the course of carrying out my duties I called on Mrs Higgins at 53 Mill Road who was refusing to move out of her house, even though it was due to be demolished.
It was a fine day, very sunny. I mention this particularly because it will be important later on.
I didn't see the people who I believe were responsible for the accident arrive because at the time I was bending over Mrs Higgins's letterbox attempting to communicate with her. Mrs Higgins was informing me that she would not allow me to enter her premises.
"Don't think I don't know what you're up to, young man! You'll wangle your way in and then you'll steal my pension book while I'm making a cup of tea!"
I am accustomed to people casting aspersions on my character in my line of work, so I remained calm.
"I'm not trying to steal your pension book Mrs Higgins," I shouted through the letter box. "I'm from the council. I've come to help you move your things out."
"I'm not moving anything," said Mrs Higgins defiantly. "The only thing moving off my property is you."
UNNAMED
MANN: 1942. Krieg.
FRAU: Europa ist in Flammen.
MANN: Die Jungen sterben für das Vaterland, die Deutschen, die Engländer, die Russen, die Österreicher, die Australier, die Italiener.
FRAU: Aber noch nicht die Amerikaner, noch nicht die Japaner. Es ist noch nicht so schlimm.
MANN: Und Paul Antschel hat nichts Besseres zu tun, als Gedichte zu übersetzen.
PRTZ THE PERILOUS
I stared at this man now, trying to see if I recognised him. He wasn't Falk, who everyone knows has red hair, and he wasn't Laszlo Five Fingers, who has only one hand, or Dzk the Dragon-hearted, who has piercing black eyes that can see into your soul. It was disappointing, but I didn't give up hope. He could still turn out to be a rising talent and then one day I could tell my friends that I had served the great Whatisisface the Sorcerer before he was famous.
PHILDELPHIA LOWELL
Had it not been for an accident of birth – the accident of coming into the world in the village of Lower Shambleton, a mile further from London than Upper Shambleton – Philadelphia Lowell would undoubtedly have been married before she was twenty five. The elder Miss Tate had secured an offer from a gentleman travelling on the post road who had spent the night in the inn at Upper Shambleton, and all of Lower Shambleton was agreed that had he stopped off in their village, it was undoubtedly Miss Lowell who would have received the offer. In the opinion that this was the only way she would ever receive an offer, they were also united, and since there was unluckily no means of bodily shifting Lower Shambleton a mile and a half down the post road, it seemed certain that Miss Lowell was fated to remain a spinster.
In this depressing conviction, the lady herself concurred.
MIRROR ROMMIR (Man from UNCLE)
"Mr Solo," he said without preamble, "what happened on that mission?"
Napoleon tried to push the clouds of sleep out of his brain. "Illya said he'd put in the first report, sir," he said.
"Did he, indeed? Well, I have not received it. Instead Mr Kuryakin has offered me his resignation."
"What?" Napoleon sat bolt upright, his whole body jarred into wakefulness. "What for? What happened?"
"I refused it, of course, and sent him down to the infirmary for a psychological assessment." Waverly's expression was as impenetrable as ever, but it was evident that he was worried. "I was aware that we were taking a tremendous risk sending Mr Kuryakin in so underprepared - no-one's fault, of course, we simply didn't have the materials for a proper briefing. Was his cover blown?"
"No, sir," said Napoleon. "At least, not till the very end." His memories of what had happened after taking that cocktail of drugs were hazy to say the least, but he dimly remembered seeing Illya pinioned between two uniformed soldiers. That couldn't been more than a few minutes after he'd been given the first drug, though, and they'd still thought he was Nexor at that point.
"Well, that accords with Mr Kuryakin's report. So he wasn't subject to interrogation or torture?"
"No, sir. Quite the contrary."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, he, um, did some torturing, sir. It was necessary to maintain his cover."
"I see." Waverly frowned. "That could, of course, have a negative psychological impact. Who was the victim?"
"Ah, me. Wasn't that in Illya's report?"
"Not in so many words. Mr Kuryakin stated that he was able to preserve you from execution by faking your death with a sleeping capsule after a simulated interrogation."
"Hmph. I suppose that's one way of putting it," said Napoleon wrily.