automatically translated text

Worldbuilding

2008-06-01T10:24:37Z

Today I went to a workshop put on by the Queensland Writers Centre all about building believable sci-fi/fantasy worlds for stories. It was run by Sonny Whitelaw--author of a heap of Stargate SG-1 and Stargate Atlantis novels that, I think, were also turned into episodes of the series.

It was really really good and gave me a lot of things to think about in regards to Wingbones and other manuscripts I'll hopefully write in the future.

She also gave me feedback on chapter 2 of Wingbones (we were able to email her ten pages of our manuscripts prior to te workshop to get good feedback) and she was really optimistic about it and said lots of really positive good things about it. That was really exciting to have a 'real' (ie, profitiable) sci-fi writer be supportive of my work. It made me smile like an idiot.

Really want exams and assignments to be other so I can just focus on getting Wingbones done....

An Update

2008-05-27T11:27:43Z

Should probably update my journal again.

Life has been pretty boring the last couple months. A self-imposed boring, but boring nonetheless. Just been hammering away at uni, and wasteing time that I should be using to hammer away at uni.

I'm down to two exams and two assignments, then I only have one semester left and it's all over.

One assignment is all critical theory and stuff and going to be really hard... will probably be comparing Butler's Gender Troubles, Halls's something-or-other and Said's Orientalism... of nothing else, this course gives me some good wanky namedropping potential.

My other essay looks exciting. Its meant to be a research project that we develop ourselves out of the internship we've been doing. I was doing a journal called Media/Culture and I will proably be doing an essay on online copyright and Creative Commons and looking specifically at Nine Inch Nails and how Trent Reznor has been releasing all his latet albums under Creative Commons. Might be interesting.

I have also begun typing a second draft of Wingbones. This might seem odd as I was yet to finish the first draft, but I think the first third that I have written really needs to be better...stylisied before i continue. Get the foundations right then the rest should fall into place, is the belief. Plan is to hammer Wingbones over the holidays, get as close to a complete draft as possible.

That's really it for now. Wil update again in another few months, if anything exciting happens..or if it (more likely) doesnt.

keogh123 @ 2008-04-15T15:04:00

2008-04-15T05:08:41Z

So I may not have updated this journal for three months.... whoops, sorry about that.

Life is going well. Uni is alright... some really boring subjects with no use, some boring ones with lots of practical use, some interesting ones, and some interesting ones with practical use... so it all balances out to an average semester, I guess. My use of plurals in that sentece was horrible, by the way, as I'm only doing four subjects this semester.

Anyhow, in other news. Wingbones is now over halfway (I hope). It's up to 52,000 words, and I'm currently two thirds of the way through my second version of chapter eleven. Eleven! That's double digits, crazy stuff. I've also sketched a map of the city, Kaigali. One day I'll get Helen to scan it and I'll work out a digital version in photoshop.

I had a birthday about a month ago.

I quit deli and transferred to checkouts. Sounds bad but its a lot better and I only ahve to work two days a week to make enough to survive.

And that's the last three months.

New Wingbones Extract

2008-01-09T09:23:36Z

This is a draft, I only wrote it today.. but I'm really excited about it. FInally, some action! So I thought I might go and post it.

“This is insane; we have to turn back!”

First Officer Jack Thompson of the Airship Ownwind was about to rebuke the crewman for talking out of line when a whip of lightning tore through the sky, ripping open an explosion of thunder. Rain was falling in sheets and hammering the Ownwind’s ellipsoidal balloon like a rapid-firing snare drum.

“Get back to your station!” Jack pushed the crewman back towards his machinegun. The crewman stumbled and tripped on the wet deck.

“We were ordered to patrol the mountains, and we will continue to patrol the mountains until the Captain says otherwise.”

Standing, the crewman was no more drenched than the entire crew already were: hair stuck to foreheads, water weighed down sleeves and filled boots. The crewman turned to hold his turret, aiming at the darkness and the crawling neon-white veins flashing over the sky.

The Ownwind had been patrolling north of the Kaigali Ranges when one of the mountains’ infamous storms swept over them. Mid-afternoon, the sky was still blue and innocent, but, as the sun sank, purple and black clouds marched down the mountainsides and over the plains.

Despite the commanding tone he held over his men, Jack shared their anxiety. They certainly shouldn’t be out here in this weather. However, that’s what it meant to be First Officer: he had to keep the men in line regardless of his own misgivings.

He decided he would talk to the Captain; find out what was happening. If his men were going to remain loyal, they at least deserved to know why they remained out here.

He turned to the hatch that led to the bridge when a split second flash painted the world white. A lightning bolt had shot towards the Ownwind’s bow, dissipated around the airship and came back together behind the rudders. Any cries of surprise by the crew were smothered by the storm.

Not for the first time that night, Jack praised his luck that the Elementalist Squad assigned to the Ownwind included an electryctian. Jack look towards the man, silhouetted against the flashing sky. He had been standing at the bow of the ship, his black guardsman uniform anchored with rain, since the storm began. He stood with arms tensed by his side—one food forward, one foot back—as if in the middle of a brawl, waiting for his opponent to take the next swing.

Jack heaved open the hatch, water pouring through the opening and down the steep stairs. The Ownwind’s bridge jutted out beneath the hull, a glass cage from which the pilot could see almost every angle except directly behind the ship. However, the layers of water pouring over the glass smudged the sky into a vague stain-glass pattern.

The pilot was standing at the front of the room, eyes glancing from window to window. Behind him, the Captain leaned over a table strewn with maps and skycharts, corners held flat with books and bottles. She studied them intently, oblivious to the water dripping off her nose and smudging the ink.

Jack had a lot of respect for the Captain. He had been her First Officer for many years, despite the constantly changing crews. They had been trapped in a storm before. He had faith that she knew what she was doing.

She tapped a region of the skychart and ordered, “Jenkins, change bearing thirty-five to twenty, starboard. Increase altitude ten percent.”

“Aye aye, m’am,” The pilot replied. “Though it would be a lot easier if I could see what I was doing.”

Jack flicked his hand and all the water jumped from the glass, giving the pilot enough time to correct course before relentless rain returned.

“Thanks, sir,” The pilot called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off his charge.

Jack stood at attention behind the Captain and saluted, “M’am, the storm is intensifying.”

As if to confirm his point, an explosion rocked through the Ownwind’s hull; the Captain held firmly to the table, but Jack fell to the ground, the air pushed from his lungs.

“Fuck,” started the pilot, “I think we just-”

A crewman burst onto the bridge, thin diluted blood running from a gash in his leg, “Lightning struck the bottom deck! We’ve lost the port-side rudder!”

Jack reached for the side of the table and pulled himself off the ground, his other hand cradling his ribs. That was going to bruise.

“M’am, with all due respect, we have to return to the hangars, we aren’t going to survive this battering much longer.”

She shook her head, not looking up from the skycharts, “It’s impossible; we can’t navigate through the Ranges with this wind. We’ll be thrown against the mountainside.”

Jack knew she was right, but he shared his crew’s yearning to just turn and run home.

“Yes, m’am. So what is the plan?”

She waved for him to come and look at the skycharts, “We have to outrace this storm, get out of the worst of it. According to these maps-”

“Captain!”

Another crewman entered the bridge, interrupting the Captain.

“We... we have a contact.”

For the first time since Jack had entered the room, the Captain turned from the table.

“A what?”

The crewman shuffled uneasily, “A… a contact, in the clouds. Starboard side.”

Jack and the Captain both marched to the side of the bridge, Jack cleared the glass for them to see out.”

“Second Turret spotted it; don’t know what it is. Might just be a cliff-claw or a mountain bird,” the crewman stumbled nervously.

“You won’t get cliff-claws in this weather,” the pilot called, still not turning.

The Captain opened her telescope and peered up into the clouds; Jack followed her gaze.

A black dot, far higher than the Ownwind sunk beneath the clouds, cart wheeled and shot back up into them, disappearing.

“There,” Jack pointed. “It’s in that cloud.”

It dropped down again, almost invisible on the dark purple sky.

“I see it,” The Captain muttered. “What the hell is that?”

Lightning streaked across the sky, putting the entity on a whitewashed background. Even without a telescope, Jack could make out the faint shape of wings.

He laughed, “It’s just a bird. Gods know what the hell its doing out here in such a storm.”

“Gods know what we are doing out here in such a storm,” the pilot grumbled.

Jack expected the Captain to rebuke the man, but she still watched the bird through her spyglass. Her mouth was hung open.

“M’am?” Jack queried.

“Change course, straight for the hangars,” was all she said.

“M’am?” the pilot looked over confused then, “Aye, Captain, correcting course.”

The bird had plummeted straight down and disappeared into another cloud just higher than the Ownwind but still many dozen metres off the starboard side. The Captain sheathed the telescope and looked at Jack, all the blood drained from her face.

“That was no bird, Jack,”

The Captain was a strong woman, after a few pints and a disregard for rank, Jack had often joked she had bigger balls than most of the men in the air-fleet. He had stood by her in pub brawls; swung down ropes beside her to attack smugglers entering Kaigali; Gods, he had even seen her jump from the deck of her own ship into a lake simply because she was put up to it. But Jack had never seen an expression on her face like this one. It was pure fear.

“Incoming!”

Out of place against the palette of greys, purples, and black of the sky, the cloud the shape had fallen into began to glow orange. A moment later, a ball of fire ripped open the cloud and shot straight towards the Ownwind.

Jack didn’t have time to think about it; if he had thought about it, they would’ve all been dead. He instinctively raised his hands and concentrated. At that instance, all over the Ownwind, thousands of raindrops halted in midair, turned, and shot towards the fireball. They merged together as they sped forward, snowballing into a great sphere of water. Jack could feel the energy tingling through his arms like pinched nerves as the two balls slammed together. The fireball tried to push through and smothered itself into nothing. The water had all turned to steam and drifted away on the wind.

The Captain patted his back, “Good thinking Jack,”

Jack didn’t have the energy to reply.

The Captain walked over to the pilot, “I’ll fly us home, I need you to focus your power solely on compensating for that lost rudder.”

“Aye Captain.”

“Jack.”

Jack turned and looked at his Captain.

She ordered, “Get back on the deck, have the guardsmen on alert and every turret manned. The men are ordered to fire at will at any contacts.”

Jack could feel his energy returning but still didn’t have enough to mouth a reply. He just nodded and ran off the bridge. He jogged up the stairs and forced open the hatch, water pouring down on him.

The deck was chaotic. Half the portside turrets were unmanned as all the crew stood stupidly on the starboard side, staring off into the distance.

“All of you, back to your stations! Fire at all and any targets, go!” he found the power to force the words. “Guardsmen, two to the bow, two to the stern!”

The rain was pounding heavily, giddied by the night’s events. The thunder roared and the lightning danced.

The Ownwind lurched forward and dropped several metres; Jack grabbed onto a mast and kept his feet. Another fireball whirled just metres over the top of the balloon, where they had been seconds before. Long shadows twisted over the deck.

The shot had come from the portside. Either there were two creatures—whatever they were—or it could manoeuvre with amazing agility. Jack was just happy that the Captain’s alertness had kept up with it.

The portside turrets crackled to life, sparks of gunfire biting into the darkness. The ship turned again and empty shell casings rolled over Jack’s feet.

A straight bolt of lightning struck up from a low-lying cloud and hit one of the guns. The electrycity ran along the barrel and into the gunner. Before he had even finished falling, the bolt jumped from him to the ammo-feeder, dropping him as silently. From there, the bolt was mid-leap to the next gun before it jerked and shot off into the clouds—another point for the guardsmen.

A turret on the starboard side exploded, ripping chunks of timber into the sky. The crew weren’t to be seen. Jack directed the rain and put out the fire.

All the turrets began firing in a blind panic. Every shadow, every crack of thunder became a target. Jack’s calls to ceasefire were mute against the crackling guns and the roaring storm.

The next explosion Jack felt more than heard. It felt like an earthquake below his feet. A second later, the hatch to the bridge ripped from its hinges and flew into the air on a stream of fire. Jack ran to the bow and looked off the edge just in time to see the melted blob of glass and metal that was the bridge smash against the distant ground.

Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating triangle silhouettes directly in front of the Ownwind.

So close, thought Jack. We were so close.

As another turret exploded, Jack ran to the guardsmen at the stern, praying that at least one of them was an anaximenist.

Two white eyes peeked out from a black cloud to watch the Ownwind crumple into the side of the mountains. There was no fiery explosion, no fanfare. Without navigation it just flew straight into the impending rock, splintered, and rolled in a wreck of timbers, metal, and corpses to a grave among the Ranges’ many crevasse.

A weak machine; a stupid machine—giving the responsibility of flight to those who didn’t understand the intricacy of the art was foolishness.

Giant wings that had been invisible when static against the cloud, stretched to life and swooped in a great arc, splitting the cloud into spirals of water. The eyes disappeared.

The storm continued to rage, uncaring of the events under its hearth.

Wingbones

2007-12-19T07:12:49Z

A while ago (or, four posts ago because I'm shit at updating) I posted the prologue of the steam-punk novel I'm trying to write, Wingbones.

As of today, I've finished chapter 5 and am now looking for some feedback before I go on. Basically, I want to know if you read this much of it, would you pay to read the rest? Though I think if anyone was kind enough to read this much of it and if it ever actually got published, you may be owed one free copy. But still, woudl you pay for it if you had to?

If anyone is willing to read it for me, just comment and I'll email it to you. I'm sure I have everyone's email address anyhow. Am looking for any amount of feedback from a simple "That's great/good/bad/shit" to detailed, line-by-line nitpicking.

It's about 60pages (1.5line spacing, 12pt Times New Roman) or 20,084 words.

Thanks to anyone willing. :)

Quick Political Rant

2007-12-19T02:53:21Z

So flicked on ABC while eating lunch and the National Press Club was on. Some Liberal personal taling about why they lost the election, blame the unions blah blah blah.

He made a statement that the unions spent more on advertising in the past YEAR (30million, or something) than either Liberal or ALP did during the campaign.

.... ooh, a union spending more in a YEAR that Liberal spent in a month... wow... go political spin, go. SO how much did Liberal spend in the year? According to ABC's website... they were spending 100million on the advertising campains they were running in may, plus 34million on 'non-campain isues'. ANd thats not including campaign spending. Just the stuff taxpayers had to pay for.

Fucking losers, that's why you lost the election. Go to Iraq and die.

Okairi!

2007-12-06T23:15:06Z

We got back from japan yesterday morning.

WIll write a big blog about it when i get around to it... or helen will and i will just link to hers.

Twas all awesome.

Found out during the trip that i somehow got 3 distinctions this semester... not sure how i did that.

Dentist today... big ugly hole on my tooth... then back to woolies :(

keogh123 @ 2007-11-14T10:58:00

2007-11-14T01:00:13Z

Got 38/50 for my Screenwriting assignment (the script). Which is -just- a 6 (distinction). My overall mark for the subject is 75%... which, also, is probably -just- scraping in at a 6 for the subject.

I'll be happy with that seeing screenwriting is my least favourite form of creative writing.

Wingbones

2007-11-14T00:54:04Z

So I just retyped (again) the intro to my novel and am now confident enough to post it. It's still far from finished and still needs some ironing out but the idea is all there. Basically the entire story is in Third-Person Past Tense but the intro is First Person Present Tense. I have my reasons.

Oh, and I've just done a straight copy/paste from word and I'm too lazy to go through and do a proper reformat. Just ignore the yucky linespaces between paragraphs.

-------------

Nephaves.

That’s what we call it in our tongue. Nephaves: the way the clouds part in a panicked rush as your wing slices through them before they lazily swirl back together as if nothing ever touched them.

I love watching the millions of little, suspended crystals, disturbed in a chaotic pattern, darting out of control in every direction before lazily drifting back together. It’s an art. I dream of becoming a Nephavist: of manipulating the swirls and blooms of clouds into things of beauty for the seconds before they reshape. The immediacy of such an art cannot be topped.

There are many clouds today. Or is it just one cloud? One cloud smothering the world, hiding it away, refusing to let it go. A storm far below the thick mist echoes through my feathers. On a clear day, all five of the great islands would be visible from where I stand on the balcony of my father’s perch. I would be able to see the towers reaching up even higher towards the sky; I would be able to see the landings and balconies of a hundred perches on the underside gazing down towards the clouds. But today my eyes can hardy define the grey outline of the next island.

Today the clouds are everywhere.

Today the entire world could be my canvas.

Nephaves.

I stand up and stretch all my joints to their extremities. My toes inch forward, my fingers pull me left and right, and the tips of my wings reach out at the sky in impatience. I yell over my shoulder to my mother that I am going to fly over to se Apheus. Her voice is carried back to me through the walls. She warns me to be careful in this weather. She warns me not to go crashing into Old Man Mentus again. I remind her that wasn’t my fault and dive headfirst off the balcony.

I fall, fall, fall. Most people hate freefalling, but I love it. I love the way your very being is clinging onto your ribs, carefully not to fall away from you. I fold back my wings and dive down into the thick cloud. I’m blind and surrounded by white. It’s dizzying. I can’t tell which way is up. It feels like freedom. Already I can hardly make out my family’s perch. The clouds press in around me, no longer white but a dirty shade of grey as I fall deeper towards the storm.

But I can’t freefall forever; else I would enter the Undercloud. I stretch my wings out suddenly and feel the air trying to rip them out from my back. I adjust and rotate them so that I hook around and fly forward without losing any speed. I want to feel like I’m freefalling; I wish I were still freefalling.

I pretend the muffled roar of the Undercloud thunder is applause for my speed. I am a fast flyer for my age. Already I can outrace all but the oldest of my brothers across the city. They always shrug off the defeats, but the blushing in their faces betrays them: embarrassed at losing to their younger sister.

I fold my wings back flatter and flatter against my spine so that I can feel the outmost feathers whispering against my toes. The wind passes over me without interfering. The clouds are distorting up and down and fast and slow; I may as well still be freefalling. But the laws are strict. I cannot enter the Undercloud.

The hunters may enter it. My brothers have entered it. They have told me stories about the island that isn’t an island at all; the one I can glimpse from the city only the blurriest rumours on only the finest day. They say it stretches on forever in all directions and instead of stopping, it turns into water and then, eventually, more land.

I have heard them describe the ancient mountains beneath our city where the abandoned perches of our grandparents honeycomb from the highest tips to the lowest roots. I have their hushed, hesitant tales of how, on the clearest days, the hunting parties would chase a flock of cliff-claws too far to the south and see the city of the Grounded Ones creeping out of the horizon.

They say it is a great, sprawling mass of stone and dirt and glass and concrete and smoke and noise wedged between the holy mountains and the southern waters. They say those that live there don’t have wings but instead have to pull their weight over the ground on strained legs. The only way they can leave the ground is in large, clumsy machines fed off fiery engines and battered by the winds.

Such strange creatures that dwell down there in the Undercloud. It is hard to imagine our grandparents once lived down among them. I would love to glimpse such a creature though I hope I will never have to meet one. I think I would pity such a creature as much as I have been taught to fear it.

I adjust my wings and twist my torso so I have done half a loop and am flying back the way I came from. I still hold my speed. I don’t look yet, but I know that behind me the clouds are spinning and silently calling out to each other where I banked and tore them apart.

I turn again and again and again; such dizzying movement! I can feel my skin jerking my bones this way then that way then back this way, I can fee the separate feathers in my clutching on.

I eventually slow and look back the way I have flown. The clouds are spiralling and dancing in a plethora of patterns and shapes all around me. All the greys and whites are mixing together into a mosaic beautiful in its impermanence.

I smile. Surely I could become a great nephavist. Qwae—the first great nephavist of New Kaigali!

I flap slowly in big, gentle arcs, allowing myself to hover and regain my energy. I synchronise my breathing with the movement of my wings, just as my father taught me years ago. Breathe in as you raise your wings; breathe out as you lower your wings. It’s a meditation method to maintain stamina, he always told me. Our ancestors used it if they ever had to travel vast distances over dangerous lands. These days all lands are dangerous to us except our city and all but the hunters are forbidden to travel far, but still the old ways are taught.

There is a breeze. All my patterns, all my designs, are blown back into the random-logical order of the sky. This doesn’t worry me: the true art of nephaves is when the clouds return to their original shape. It is a temporal art, expressed in its own inconsistency.

But the breeze brings new feelings. I can feel it tickling and whispering over my ankles and prickling my legs. This is a new wind, a wind I haven’t felt before, but immediately I know what it is.

I am too deep. My feet are in the Undercloud.

At first I panic, darting upwards. Scared that beasts I have never heard of will grab my feet and pull me down into the unknown. I shouldn’t be this deep. I have never been this deep. It’s forbidden for me to be this deep. How could I be so careless? How am I so far away from home?

I calm down. I know there are no beasts. At least, not this shallow, not this high up. I am already here, after all; I could just have a look. I won’t go too low.

I descend nervously and again feel the strange air brushing over my feet as they sink beneath the clouds. It is a strange, naked feeling that fingers its way up my legs and over my hips as I descend slowly but steadily. The clouds around my eyes are a shade closer to black than grey. I can feel the thunder of the storm through my entire being.

And then I am through! I am in the Undercloud! I am lower than any from our city, save the hunters, have been in generations!

The shade of the clouds blots out the sun but I can still see the ground in such detail. It is so massive! Below me the mountains are stretching east and west towards the horizons. Even the smallest of the mountains seem larger than any of the great islands. It’s a scale my mind refuses to comprehend.

Towards the south I can see the edge of the land where the sky starts again. No! It isn’t the edge of the sky but a vast expanse of water!

The mountains and the water hold my attention so fully that at first I don’t notice what’s right under my toes. But then I look straight down, straight past my ankles and my feet and my toes and I can see what has to the cit yof the Grounded Ones. It can be nothing else.

It’s a big black-brown-grey-white stain larger and more indistinct than the storm clouds above me (above me!). Specks of grey and brown and off-white are intersected by thin veins of black and other-grey. It reminds me of the clouds: the millions of little specks of crystal that fall together randomly to make something bigger.

But this city wasn’t light and beautiful like the clouds. This city was solid and jagged. You couldn’t rearrange it into something beautiful. It was a mess. A violent mess.

It scares me.

It was reckless coming this low. It was risky. It was stupid. I have to leave. I have to go home.

I turn away from my city, intending to rise as quickly as I can and fly straight to my father’s perch. I’ll swoop inside and never wander so far away again. Never! I never want to see this city again!

But then I feel it: ripples of air being pushed aside by something that doesn’t belong. Like an intruded squeezing itself into a sky that doesn’t want it, I can feel it coming.

Closer. Closer.

The thing is coming from the tallest mountain, the one touching the northern smears of the city-stain. It looks like a large, blimpish, feather. Propellers spin perpetually on its extremities. It’s rising fast and fills me with dread.

As I push myself upwards, a spotlight from the great machine splashes over me. My shadow splashes across the clouds above me. They’ve seen me.

A klaxon wails through the Undercloud, reverberating and rolling off the bottom of the clouds. Through the air, from somewhere below, another klaxon replies. Then both are drowned out by my own scream.

There is a jagged, angry pain shooting through my right wing, and I am no longer rising. The clouds are getting smaller, less clear. The pain is creeping over my vision but not before I make out the scorched, burnt hole through the base of my wing; a glowing orange outline threatening to set my entire wing on fire.

I turn as I fall. The clouds were becoming a blur but now the city is becoming detailed. Not little specks of grey crystal but giant blocks of cement towering towards the sky; towards me.

Reaching out to grab me.

There will be no nephaves when my feathers go through this city.

Panda's Adventure (or, I Turtle You)

2007-11-05T01:25:36Z

Had to write a story for one of my japanese subjects based on a childhood memory. It's twice as long as it is meant to be, but here you go.

(Of course, fluent google-translation included :p)

パンダくんの冒険

ブレンダンくんが五歳の時、家族は海の近くの町に住んでいた。ブレンダンくんの一番よい友達はおもちゃのくまのパンダくん。ブレンダンくんがどこかに行くと、パンダくんも必ずついて行った。

ある日、ブレンダンくんの家族は近くの島にフェリーで行った。ブレンダンくんとパンダくんは一日中遊んだ。本当にすごく楽しい日だった。

家に帰るフェリーに乗っていた時、ブレンダンくんとパンダくんは海に見とれていた。透明な水でいろいろな魚が見られることができた。急に、大きなカメがフェリーの下に泳いだ。パンダくんがカメを見たことなかったから、興奮してきた。よく見るために、フェリーの側から身を乗り出した。

ちょうどその時、フェリーが波で前後に揺れ動くと、パンダくんが海に落ちた！ブレンダンくんは見たり泣いたりしかすることができなかった。

その日から、ブレンダンくんはかわいそうだった。母と父は他のおもちゃのくまを買ってあげたけど、ブレンダンくんはパンダくんばかりほしがった。

何日か後、母は郵便箱にブレンダンくんあての変な小包を見つけた。ブレンダンくんは開いて、パンダくんを見た時、本当にびっくりした！ちょっと臭くて、きたなかったけど、本当にパンダくんだった！

ブレンダンくんはすごく嬉しかったので、パンダくんの下であった手紙を見なかった。母は取り上げて、読んだ。

「ただいま！僕は遅く帰った、ごめんなさい。しかし、いろいろな冒険があった。。。」

パンダくんは海に落ちた後で、海底に座った。ずっと上でフェリーの船体を見えたけど、だんだん見失っていた。

（これは大丈夫じゃない。くまが海に住むことがダメ。ぬれた過ぎる！）とパンダくんは思った。と言っても、パンダくんは泳ぐことができなかったので、座って待ちしかできなかった。

「え？これ何？くまじゃない？」

パンダくんの後から、カメさまが泳いでいた。パンダくんを疑わしけにじっと見つめていた。

「うん、くまだよ」とパンダくんが答えた。「だけど。。。本当のくまじゃなくて、おもちゃのくまだよ。名前はパンダくん。」

カメさまはパンダくんを中心として、まるでおよいで続いていた。パンダくんがくらくらしてた。

「パンダくん、な？おねがい。俺はカメさま。なぜパンダくんは海でいる？」

「それは誤解だよ。僕は海で入りたくなかった。フェリーから海で見込んでみていたが、ちょっと近すぎるに見た。」

カメさまは笑った。「そうですね。」

パンダくんはまだ船の船体を見ることができない。

「パンダくんの家はどこ？」カメさまを聞いた。

「僕の一番よい友達と住んでいる。町の名前を知らないけど、海が近い。」

「海の近くでたくさんの町があるよ。」カメさまがいった。「しかし、おもちゃもくまも海で住むことができないので、パンダくんの友達の町を一緒に頑張って見つけてみよう。」

パンダくんはカメさまの甲をつかんだと、カメさまは泳いで始まった。

ブレンダンくんはパンダくんの冒険について読んでいる間、だんだん興奮してきた。（いいな。。。パンダくんの冒険。もし、あの日、おれもフェリーから落ちたら、それのほうがよかったのかも。）と思った。（おれもカメと泳ぎたい。）

だから、今日まで、まだブレンダンくんとパンダくんはいつも一緒にいる。パンダくんがどこかに行ったら、ブレンダンくんも必ずついて行く。

Panda adventure kun

Brendan kun was five years old when the family was living near the sea in the town. Brendan kun's best friend is a toy panda Bears kun. Brendan kun has somewhere to go and, as always TSUITE行TTA panda kun.
One day, Brendan kun family was close to the island by ferry. Brendan panda kun kun and played all day long. It was really a fun day.
Home ferry was at the Brendan kun kun panda and the sea gloatingly. Clear water in a variety of fish could be seen. Suddenly, a large tortoise under the ferry to be added. Panda kun turtle is not seen from the excitement. Good to see the ferry from the side leaned forward.
At the moment, the wave ferry back and forth to and fro in the panda kun has fallen into the sea! Brendan kun sees only one or crying or could not.

From the day, Brendan kun is a pity. The mother and father of the other toys Bears bought, but I just want Brendan kun kun panda is wanted.
A few days later, my mother is a mailbox Brendan kun got to find a strange parcel. Brendan kun will open the panda kun when we saw really surprised me! A little gets smelly, KITANAKATTA, but I was really smoked Panda!
Brendan kun are very delighted because the panda was under the letter did not smoke. My mother was picked up and read.
"Hi, honey! I returned late, sorry. However, a variety of adventure. . . "

Panda kun has fallen into the sea after the submarine sat. Much on the ferry's hull to see, but not quite gradually.
(This is not OK. Bears live in the ocean it is not. Too wet!) And the panda was kun. To say that the pandas are kun could not swim, and could only sit and wait.
"Huh? What's this? Bears? "
Panda-kun after the turtle you are swimming. Panda kun suspicion still looking at the float.
"Yeah, I go through it," Panda kun replied. "But. . . True, but for the Bears, toys Bears. The name of the panda-kun. "
You turtle is mainly as a panda-kun, as OYOI continue. Panda kun is KURAKURA was.
"Panda-kun? Please. I turtle you. Why panda kun in the sea? "
"It was a misunderstanding. I入RITAKUNAKATTA sea. Ferry expects to see from the sea, was a little too close to see. "
Turtle you laughed. "That's right."
Panda kun ship's hull was still could not see.
"Panda-kun's house Where?" You heard the tortoise.
"My best friends lived. The town's name to a stranger, but it is near the sea. "
"Many in the sea near the town there." You are the tortoise. "However, the toys also comb the sea, can not live with the panda kun friends in the town together to try to keep up my find."
A turtle you kun panda is seized and the turtle you are swimming in the beginning.

Brendan kun kun panda is the adventure of reading while the increasingly agitated. (OK. . . Panda kun adventure. If that day, I also ferry from the Dog And Glory, it might be good it is.) I thought. (I also tortoise and泳GITAI.)
So, today, and yet Brendan kun kun panda always together. Panda kun will go somewhere, Brendan kun also always keep up.

Retail Therapy

2007-11-02T04:29:58Z

Spontaneously bought a Nintendo DS with the new Zelda and Mario64 yesterday. :)

It was a good choice... zomg so fun :D

I canjust change the language setting to japanese and say i'm still studying n_n

Ring Road

2007-11-01T07:15:27Z

(why I love Underworld so much)

I want you to be the way I want you to be

and when you’re not it hurts me

shredded tape something sticky

for

security

wrapped tight

around a metal box to imitate

security

there’s a blue sky over me

but the fear is on me

in a place where ball games are strictly forbidden

luxury two bedroom departments

overlook the trafficlights next to the rails

it’s a hot day

it’s a

it’s a hot day

a lazy day for some

but I’m bringing from the inside all these things

I see a wall

I know’s gonna fall down

maybe hurt somebody

after it’s been

tagged

a flyer posted

it’s a rushed job

it looks good for long enough

knock em out and sell em

move on it’s a

fast buck

and the race is on

to get in get out

get what you want get out

it’s the short term

the long term can look out for itself

unless you happen to be living here

I gotta stop

people are squinting to block out the sun

complaining or sucking it up

praying for rain the next minute for a sun-scorched earth

what’s it worth

enough is never enough

let’s have a little ?moment?

put the world to rest

sit back and watch it all slide by

it’s the view from a train

pay somebody else to drive

see the suits

passing the suits

sunning themselves on the steps of the supermarkets

and I think of you and I’m alone like this

burning from the inside

I found a new door I didn’t know where it went

I went through I came out in this shopping mall where

boys wear England shirts

and Westham shirts

and Isenham shirts

and the boys from Dagenham where jackets

called Harlem

grinning at the door of the

handsomest sex-shop

it’s St George’s day

and all the old people smile

the young people look hungry

looking for a new door

I’m in the sun at the back of the shops

where the purple wheelie-bins

are pushed up against the doors that say

fire-exit

the smell of grease

there’s a broken glass thing under my feet

the boys stop for a smoke in the sun

and watch girls cross from the job centre

to the station

a drunk stands in the door of a pub

a bunch of peasticks in one hand

a Cheery carrier-bag hanging in the other

hanging in the other

girls in England shirts read the papers

and giggle at the table in a café

offering home-made dinners

it’s good food

but your clothes come out smelling of grease

I got my back to the rail at the end of the alley

by the bypass

you might just see me

scratching all these things

inking it out

deliver us from temptation

and doubt there is an abandoned trolley

called safe and radio one and on and on and on and on

and on and on and on and on

and another

England shirt out in the sun

spring falls in pink

on the blacktop and cracks

black and yellow tape covers the scene of a break-in

and every time I think of you

I get my peace back

people are squinting to block out the sun

complaining or sucking it up

praying for rain the next minute for a sun-scorched earth

what’s it worth

enough is never enough

let’s have a little ?moment?

put the world to rest

sit back and watch it all slide by

it’s the view from a train

pay somebody else to drive

see the suits

passing the suits

sunning themselves on the steps of the supermarkets

and I think of you and I’m alone like this

burning from the inside

The Robber Queen

2007-10-31T05:22:53Z

"Climb down out of your brain, poet. You're tangled in the cobwebs of your dreams. Welcome to the land of your body, with all its guilt, with all its ecstasy."

keogh123 @ 2007-10-25T20:30:00

2007-10-25T10:32:32Z

My script is currently 2235 words long.

The word limit is 2500 - 3000... with a 10% leniance either way.

That's close enough for me n_n

*sleeps*

Wartrain

2007-10-24T04:17:24Z

Hopefulyl when you read the title of this post, you envisioned huge trains going to war.... not warts raining from the sky.

Otherwise i may have a very confused tutor marking my script on friday....

Some random writing...

2007-10-22T07:18:34Z

As my script has stalled and I'm sick of writing out the same list of kanji characters over and over, I decided I would try to write a story. I've had several images stuck in my head for a few days and I was curious to see what would happen if i just stuck them all inthe same, weird, random, story.

_

The elderly couple at the next table looked over at the sound. As if disappointed at the lack of messy chaos, they returned to their meals. They reminded him of cows chewing grass. Toothless lips squishing potato chips into a white pulp before swallowing. Each wore a separate pair of earphones plugged into identical AM Walkmans. He wasn’t sure how they had heard the ring hit the tiles over the blaring static.

He bent down and picked up the ring. It had bounced twice before rolling into the little gap between the tiles, cushioned between a cigarette butt and a receipt crumpled into a tight, marble-sized clump. He slipped the ring back over his middle finger. It slid back on as easily as it had slid off. He shivered.

The waitress came and took his cup as the Story Bridge collapsed into the sunset.

Walking down Edward Street, an electric-wheelchair-man is blowing red-faced on an electric-harmonica plugged to an electric-amp. He blows the same note again and again, as if he hopes that if he blows hard enough a song will come out.

People throw change at his useless legs.

All the foodcourts in this city are downstairs. Did you ever notice that? Down escalators and elevators and stairs and wheelchair ramps. Bomb shelter foodcourts. It comforts him that if the city was blown apart tomorrow, there would still be sushi and juice bars.

An unmarked police car goes through a red light on Edward and wipes off the door of a taxi going through a yellow light off Queen. People gathered around. He could see the elderly couple with their separate earphones. Their faces were the solemn expression required for a car crash scene, but someone in their Walkmans said something funny and they both laughed simultaneously, an awkward duo among the crowd of solemn expressions.

He decided he would rather walk on Adelaide Street, and wondered if radio waves were funny, even if you couldn’t hear them. Walking diagonally across roads, the distant sound of harmonica bouncing off buildings almost sounded like a Bob Dylan’s song he never knew the name of.

Writ0rzzzz-block3d

2007-10-22T04:21:56Z

my stupid script is arrogantly refusing to write itself.

Explode, head. Explode.

2007-10-17T01:44:45Z

My head feels so crammed full of stories at the moment that I think it is going to explode. Which is a good thing, I think, because it means I have a lot of stuff to write. But I'm scared a chapter of Wingbones (my novel) or a character of Derailed (my script for uni) will just fall out of my ear and I'll lose it and that chapter or that character will be lost forever to everyone.

Logic says to just write down everything in my head.. but it doesn't work like that. It has to boil away for a set amount of time in my head first. Kinda like boiling an egg: if i take the ideas out too early, i won't realise its too early until its too lat to put them back in and i just get gooey idea-yolk all over the page.

So, point is, I have an outline of how I want to end Wingbones in my head.... which is good seeing as how im 13,000 wods into it, I should begine to have an idea of where it is going. I have also spent this morning writing the first draft of my film script (first 10pages-ish due next friday) and the more I write, the more it solidifies in my head and the more ideas I have, and those ideas are fighting with the Wingbones ideas! Aargh!

Also got my Between Blinking short story to retype with an extra 1000 words to become more Brisbane-y for a competition. And I havent writen a fan-fic yet this week, but I still have time.

Oh, and the 1000-character childhood memory narrative to write IN JAPANESE in two weeks... but that won't be too hard. It just sounds daunting.

In under four hours I have my job interview at the ABC Shop... how exciting. I'm nervous, but not rediculously (go spelling) so. Like, I'm going for this job because I want it, not because I need it, so I should be able to stay calm and controlled in the interview, which will probably work in my favour.

Will let you all know how it goes tonight :)

Enough ranting, back to work.

ogmosh

2007-10-15T02:03:37Z

Helen informed me on thursday that the ABC Shop in the city opposite Oxfam had a sign up looking or retail staff and I thought f-yeah, I'm over woolies... time to leave. Si U threw together a resume and cover letter and handed it in friday afternoon.

This morning, Monday, i got a phone call and I have an interview on wednesday at 3.30 :D. It soudned really promising, the manager lady laughed on the phone and sounded quite the reassurance. SHe said they were interviewing a few people on that day but still...tis exciting. THe idea of working somewhere that isn't woolworths is daunting....

Writing Writing Writing

2007-10-11T03:02:35Z

This week I am newly-motivated to get back into writing. And not to just get back ni to it, but to get serious about doing it properly and professionally. THe only way that is going to happen is if I write more. A lot more. So expect to see me start posting more short fiction. Most of it will be fan-fiction for games or books, simply because the worlds and characters already exist and I can throw out a story without too much effort. I wil be doing this more for the writing exercise than the hope of getting thing of publishable quality. Still, if you feel like reading anything I post, it is always much appreciated. Jut below this post is a story i wrote this morning, based in the Elder-Scrolls universe.

In other writing news, the steam-punk novel I'm trying to write, Wingbones, is now over 13,300 words! Crazy stuff. I've got drafts done up til the end of chapter three... I might begin posting them soon as well.

And in other (lack of) news... I still haven't started my script wich is due in two weeks... i should be using all this motivation to do the writing thats actually going to be assessed...but oh well.

peace-out.

Assassins By The Water

2007-10-11T02:52:50Z

Universe: Elder-Scrolls
Words: about 800

The small boat slid through the water with insect caution.

The reflected moon and stars sprinkled across the surface hardly wavered as the khajit dipped the oar. His feline head snapped back and forth impatiently over his hunched body.

His passenger stood firm and quiet at the stern. An in-descript figure, a slim shadow, a person-shaped hole in the universe.

To the north, lights hung low over the water, smeared and stretched down over the ripples.

The khajit purred softly and itched his whiskers, "here. This is Smuggler's Coast. I go no further north. Too dangerous. Too many guards. You get off here. Unless..." the word trailed into a hiss, into another purr. "Unless you have another bag of septims as heavy as the last."

The passenger didn't reply, just continued to observe the coastline.

He growled, "Very well, sera, I go no further."

The soggy timber cringed and gargled as it grinded over the shallow rocks. The khajit stepped out carefully (inward-bent knees awkwardly trying to not disturb the water) and pulled the boat ashore.

With a smoothness of motion, the slim, black-coated figure stepped onto Vvardenfell, the soil hardly pressed beneath the light footfalls.

The air smelt like mud.

North, past trees that dripped down slithering vine sinto swamps and puddled grass, the lights of the costal town jutted out over the water. South--past more trees, more swamps--more lights resisted the night.

The figure looked to the khajit, already pushing his boat back into the water. Tight pale cheekbones and silver wood-elf lips were painted beneath the stars. A strand of purple hair peeked ou from under the low hood.

"I need to get to Balmora." The voice was soft, feminine, but it slid over the khajit like cold daggers.

He hissed and glared back, "That isn't my business, sera. You paid; I rowed. I am not your guide. I don't stay on Vvardenfell. I don't die on Vvardenfell."

There was a flitter, a whisper-buzz in the air, and a clumsy splash: the khajit had had one leg already in the boat when the arrow pierced through the golden fur beneath it's ear. The wood-elf held the second arrow, the one aimed at her, in her left glove. A short dagger flirted with the fingers of her right. Every moon-cast shadow had suddenly become a hidden threat.

Then, between breaths, as she was distracted by a shivering leaf, cold metal licked against her throat. She paused like a statue. Her eyes didn't budge. Her hairs disobeyed the breeze.

"Must be quite a contract," spat a dark, guttural voice in her ear from behind the blade. "Quite a contract for the Dark Brotherhood to step onto Vvardenfell."

She didn't reply. She didn't turn. There. There was a faint sound of twig scratching leaf in a shrub on her right.

Her captor pushed the blade tighter against her skin, "Name, n'wah."

She turned and looked into dark-elf eyes, an empty, flame-red against dark grey hair and ash-coloured skin.

"Qwae," she said. Her voice smooth and unbroken, hiding her caution well.

The dark-elf sneered, "Aah, the Brotherhood sends a sister. Tell me, Night Mother, what hunt is worth Mephala's wrath?"

Mephala... the Morag Tong... Only one foot onto Vvardenfell and the Morag Tong already had her. She had underestimated the assissnation guild's monopoly of the island--A mistake, she told herself, she wouldn't make again.

"Who do you hunt?" the Morag Tong hissed, frustrated at his unwavering hostage.

"A rumour," Qwae replied.

The dark-elf spat into the mud and nodded to the north, "You see those lights, bosmer? Gnaar Mok. Imperials. I'm allowed to be here, n'wah, you are not. Now tell me, whose life do you seek that is worth risking the wrath of the Morag Tong?"

Qwae breathed in. She could smell the poison in the blade: the green thaumaturgic ripples dancing excitedly just beneath the metal, eager to get beneath her flesh, to run through her veins and leave her fallen limp in the dirt. As she grinned, little crow-feet dared crawl from the corner's of her mouth and onto her cheeks.

"Just the blood of one Morag Tong is worth such a risk, dunmer."

Before the dark-elf could thrust his blade up through her neck, before he could even twist his face to match the fury seething through him, Qwae had already rolled to the side and in one fluid motion, guided a dart from her belt deep into her captor's neck. As he fell screaming, she threw a second dart into the shrub-shaped shadow hiding the archer. He fell noisily, snapping branches and rattling leaves.

Qwae held a third dart ready and listened. Nothing. Silence.

She slid the dart back in to her belt and picked her dagger out of the mud. In the sky she found Evening Star are her bearings. Imperials were north. She would head east, find a path, find Balmora--find the Nerevarine.

The night embraced her and forgot her into the darkness.

Life Update

2007-10-01T01:07:11Z

Been a while since my last update, my apologies.

Life's going well.. bit uneventful save for little bursts (splutters) of creative moments where my story crawls forward and the excitement that is helen's life.

Only four weeks till the semester is over, thankfully.. once that is out of my mind will be focusing a lot more on my story.. may even post a chapter-draft or two to see what people think. Been a pretty shit semester.. just boring subjects and lack of inspiration but meh, i'll pass all my subjects..except the one i gave-up on and dropped.

In more positive news, I've written about 13000 words for my story, Wingbones (working title..we'll see how i feel about it in a few months). I've written an intro section and thrre-and-a-bit chapters. All quite drafty and a bit messy but it's coming together nicely... it's getting to the stage where i'm going to have to figure out how i am actually going to end it before i go to far.

Finally finished reading the Dune Trilogy... its scope blew my mind somewhat... pretty amazing. Now just got to read the other 2 trilogies and acompanying texts and what-not.
Am currently reading The Iron Council... China Mievielle's third novel in his New Crobuzon series which is amazing, imaginative steam-punk which is inspiring my own writing as much as it is demoralizing it.

Me and helen are going to japan in 6 weeks....fuck yeah.

I just got my hair cut.

Halo 3 is the digital equivalent of ejaculation.

that's about it.

:)

Unfortunetly....

2007-08-31T04:21:15Z

Is my new favourite word to hate.

Just got two letters from the Queensland Writers Centre that could only be baout my poetry manuscript and the three poems in the singple poem competition. I had a hopeful moment that htey wouldnt waste time sending rejection letters and would only bother telling me if i was successfully shortlisted.

.....nope.

All rejections... and three seperate rejections in the one envelope for the single poems one.... that hurt, lol.

Oh well, since netering the manuscript I've become less and less happy with it, so now I have an excuse to rip it apart and piece it back together as something better and try to get it published or try again next year, i guess.

Still have a couple of other competitions that I'm still waiting to hear from...

And It's Not Quite Right...

2007-08-28T01:04:55Z

Super-laggy computer is showing what i type whole seconds after i press the keys so this could get interesting....

The weather is pretty today. It's sit around the pond and get baked while writing poems weather... not coup up in a stuff library and memorise kanji weather... though unfortunetly i will probably hav eto do the later before i do the former.

That is all i really have to say.

That and Silversun Pickups are very pretty,

That is all.

Oh, oh, and that i have now got like over 8000words worth of steam-punk novel written down :)

Untitled (Working Title)

2007-08-19T02:27:28Z

he slides into tomorrow like so many yesterdays
piece of shit never couldsurvive sunsets
fits him like a new skeleton skin clinging
with a lacking passion equalled only by bus drivers
where's your id, student, where's your id?

they'll say he never did handle today well with
his earphones not so quiet to hear whispers not so loud
to wake sleeping train drivers driving wrongway freeways
suicide overpasses and grey veins drizzling between the brick

today gave him influenza punches to the cheekbone
(dance you fucker) gave him cardboard bruises
dancefloor prayers and calm two-minute warnings

in the morning greypink it smothered him coldsweat

by afternoon it hung him out to dry colour-running

in the evening
read bibles in train carriages (sleeping driver preaching whispers)
pale midnight profound vacant stares into nothing

the stars buy another round one more drink
dance you fucker and dive headfirst into tomorrow

(c) 2007 Brendan Keogh

------------------------------------------------------------
I guess this is still a work in progress... i just jotted it down on the train yesterday then fiddled with it on my lunch break. But i havent posted any writings forever so i thought i would post it anyway. :)