Sunday, 25 September 2011

Exercise 2 Story 5 The Button and The Sign

The Button and The Sign


Two men argue over their fate, as they contemplate the unknown consequences should they ignore a blatant warning and interact with the only other thing that exists in their world. 


‘I’m going to press it.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I’m going to press the button.’
‘That’s what you said yesterday.’
‘Well, I mean it today.’

Cronag rolls his eyes. Brushak has never followed up with his actions. His words hold no weight. But this felt different. An aura of determination emanates around Brushak, something Cronag has never observed before. Intrigued and frightened, he watches his friend closely, despite his apparent lack of interest. 

‘Press it, I’m going to press it… press it.’
‘You know we’re not supposed to.’
‘Press it, set us… free.’
‘The sign, Brushak. It tells us not to.’

Cronag stares at the sign above the button in question.


NONE SHALL TOUCH THE BUTTON AND EXPECT TO LIVE


A piercing chill runs down his spine. How long have they been stuck here? In this cursed white limbo? They had no want for food or water, in fact, they had no want for anything. There was nothing in here, in this white desolate landscape. Hunger, thirst, knowledge, they did not exist. There was nothing, save the big red shiny button, and that haunting sign above it.

Cronag snaps out of thought. He sees Brushak dangerously close to the button, the sign looming threateningly above him.

‘Brushak. Brushak! Brushak come back here!’
‘I must press the button Cronag. It is the only way.’

 Cronag had never heard his friend speak with such confidence before. He was proud at least, for a second or two. Anger and fear then fills his heart, and he begins to sprint towards Brushak.

‘You fool, you’ll kill us all!’
‘No. No, I won’t. I’ll set us free.’
‘Do you not see or remember what the sign says? Touch that button and you’ll doom us both!’

Cronag sees a flash of anger on Brushak’s gentle visage. His face contorts in indigination and frustration.

‘Yes I see that damnable sign. I see it! I say, screw it and screw what it says! Screw them both!’

Brushak’s voice echoes over the white empty landscape. Cronag half expects some unseen calamity to take them both for their lack of respect. Hiding his shock at Brushak’s outburst, he attempts to calm his friend.

‘Brushak... hush, please…’
‘Throughout my existence in this place I have lead a life of insecurity and indecision! I have never kept my word, never held a promise to heart! I’m…I’m pathetic!’
‘Brushak…’
‘No! Do not try to stop me. I have never felt surer about anything else before. This is, this is the only way out Cronag. I will press that button and free us!’

Brushak sprints the remaining distance towards the button, sprints under the sign and he reaches…

‘BRUSHAK, NO!’

Cronag closes his eyes involuntarily. Fear fills him to the bone. What will happen now? What horrible fate awaits them? What…

‘Cronag. Cronag! I need help my friend.’

Brushak was pushing down on the button, but his weight was not enough to depress it. The scene almost made Cronag burst into laughter. He would have, if not for the circumstances. In the unknown expanse of time they had both spent here he had never felt the urge to chuckle before. It felt good.

He walks towards Brushak, cringing at the sign as he passes under it.

‘Please, Cronag, help me. You have to trust me.’
‘What if we die Brushak?’
‘See, I have touched the button and nothing has happened! It is a farce.’
‘It is good to see you full of confidence my friend, but I fear what will happen.’
‘I too, fear the unknown. But I do not let it govern what my heart tells me. This is the only way out of this accursed place.’

Cronag stares at his friend. There was wisdom in his words, and he wondered at the sudden change. How does he know pressing the button would free them? But then, Cronag knew in his heart. No matter how they search there would be nothing here, nothing but this button. Pressing the button might free them, kill them, or even do nothing at all. Perhaps that is what he feared the most, that the button would do nothing at all. One thing was certain though.

Nothing would definitely happen if they did not press the button. They would never know.


‘Alright Brushak,’ Cronag breathes heavily. ‘we will press the button.’
Brushak smiles at him. They place their hands on the red, smooth, shiny surface.

 ‘Goodbye my friend, perhaps we will see each other again.’
‘Perhaps.’

They push down together. 

Exercise 2 Story 4 Seedreal™


  
One sentence summary:
Binky the hamster has to protect her precious golden sunflower seed from hamster ninjas and their master, the diabolical Master Hojo!



  Binky the hamster has always lead an easy and boring life.

  WELL NOT ANYMORE!

  She had the Golden Sunflower Seed in her possession now! Oh bless her luck. She had found it from one of the many Seedreal boxes now littering her entire cage, after what, eight days of hoping and anticipation? Joy. What timing too, today was the last day of the promotion. 
  What’s so special about a golden sunflower seed? What kind of question is that?! THE golden sunflower seed, mind you, was a super awesome state of the art supercalifragilisticexpialidocious transformable super action figure of the one and only Captain Seed !  The Golden Sunflower Seed was coveted by every hamster in the wide world, and there was only one in existence.
  It got all the more sweeter when Binky discovered that her arch-nemesis, the evil Master Hojo, Overlord of the other half of the bedroom, wetter of the carpet, had not found the golden seed. He threw away his last box of Seedreal  in disgust. Oooh, how he puffed those his little hamster cheeks of his. Glee, Binky thought.
  Suddenly, Hojo was aware of Binky’s seed. She stared at him across the room, gave him the stink-eye and proceeded to push the seed into her mouth pouch. She stuffed more seeds in for extra security.
  She has the Golden Seed! How dare she! It rightly belonged to him, the bestest hamster in the entire house! Had he not searched the hardest? He would claim it for his own.  HIS OWN! He gave a diabolical laugh, then squealed as he choked on fur in his throat. He growled and glared at Binky as she giggled, her full mouth pouch jiggling with all the seeds in there.
  Hojo whistled sharply, and a multitude of hamster ninjas, clad in deepest black jumped out from under the hamster bedding around him. He signaled towards her cage, and to the sunflower seed. He would have it, and his hamster ninjas would get it!
  The ninjas nod and literally slip out of the cage, hurling themselves at Binky’s abode.  She starts. Not again. She pulls a lever next to her. Catapults filled with large acorns start to fire at the ninjas from her cage.  Some find their mark, sending squealing bundles of fur in black tumbling down from the table they were running on. But the rest keep coming, jumping and dodging, spitting and throwing black sunflower seeds at her.
  She takes cover behind her dish bowl. Pushing her tiny hands into her cheeks she beings to spit and shoot seeds from her mouth at the relentless ninjas with such a ferocity that they hesitate.  Hojo eggs them on, promising to take away their supply of Seedreals if they failed. They charge again, and are promptly cut down by Binky’s seed spray.
  Reveling in her victory, she gives one final spit, and she almost smacks herself for her silliness. She just spat out the Golden Sunflower Seed!
  It hits the last ninja on the nose, clangs outside the cage, clatters around on the wooden shelf outside, bounces into and out of an ashtray, flies into some bonsai, teeters on the edge of the shelf and....

  Fishbowl.

  Plop. Binky and Hojo stare. Then they scream.

Sunday, 28 August 2011

Exercise 2 Story 3 Sunset Farm

Sunset Farm


Prairie dogs on Sunset Farm are forced to take drastic and violent measures when their elderly leader and sage meets an untimely end at the hands of the tyrannical Farmer Todd.

  Anger and extreme sorrow filled his little furry being. Just minutes ago, beloved Uncle Rupert was giving one of his droning but endearing speeches on his favourite dirt mound under the apple tree to a small group of young dogs. They loved him, Uncle Rupert. Old and  kindly, he always had those sweet little tuber treats up his sleeves. Kaiser choked on his tears, his teeth gnashing with uncontrollable rage.

 Dear old Uncle Rupert. He had exploded where he stood, telling a story about the flowers and the bees. He had burst, literally, into a fine mist of flesh and guts. The small entourage listening to him were showered with his blood, and they had stared in shock, until one of them noticed an eyeball on the ground. Panic had ensued, and they screamed and yelled and cried in fear whilst running for the safety of the holes. They had dashed past a frozen Kaiser looking upon the mound, now splattered red with blood. Another eyeball hung from the tree.

  Rupert was his grandfather.

 “Whuuuwee! Got that old varmint at last! After all these darn years I might add!”  a raspy voice spoke from a distance. “’sploded em good. Now any of you dogs done pop your cute little heads above ground imma blow em up too!” Maniacal laughter filled the air.

  Farmer Todd needed no introduction to the prairie dogs on Sunset Farm. He was a crazy demon, hell bent on eradicating every single one of them with his rusty rifle. They had done a good job in evading him so far, that is, up till now.

   He had killed Rupert with one of those hollow point bullets, the same kind that took his father. Kaiser was filled with grief and rage. But as leader of the dogs here he knew he had to calm himself. He had to stop the killings. His little heart yearned for revenge.
                                                                                                                                        

  He had a plan.

  Farmer Todd sat on his front porch, whistling to his deranged self. This week was a good week, he thought. Why just a few days ago he had popped that old varmint that had eluded him since he bought this farm. He had popped a few more yesterday as well. He had noticed they were carrying pieces of wood and dry grass in the multitudes, but the weirdness of the scence was soon driven from his mind when he started shooting and whooping like a maniac. He would get them today too if they chose to appear again, all from the comfort of his front porch.

  Smoke filled his nose as he cleaned his rifle. Fire! Farmer Todd rushed back into the farmhouse. The entire place was filled with an acrid black cloud. And prairie dogs! Everywhere! He started shooting and shouting as they scurried around the floor, on the table, even in the kitchen sink. It was a literal army of angry, furry prairie dogs, and they began to converge on Farmer Todd. He yelled in pain as they started biting at his ankles and toes. Flailing around in vain he tripped and fell into the furry mass. His rifle! They were slowly turning the barrel towards his face. As Todd struggled, a dog appeared from within the mass, and their eyes locked. Its face was filled with rage and contempt as it raised its little arm in signal to fire. Farmer Todd stared in fear, and he  screamed as a resounding crack filled the air, and the entire farmhouse collasped, its structure weakened by the consuming fire.

  Todd was not well loved by his neighbours, but the manner of his death and the destruction of his farmhouse was a matter of concern to the people living nearby. Todd’s blackened corpse was found amongst the charred beams of his home, apparently lacking a head of any sorts. Some say the farm was cursed, and that his headless ghost still wandered the fields.

  The prairie dogs of Sunset Farm know better.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Exercise 2 Story 2 Chicken Rice

Chicken Rice



A chicken rice man loses what he holds dearest to him, but finally finds happiness in the later years of his life.


  Mr. Goh was a kindly man, quiet, hardworking, and modest to  a fault. He owned a quaint, little chicken rice stall at the end of Seng Street, serving food with a passion that garnered him universal praise from his customers.

  “Goh, you should start selling your stuff over at Tiong Hawker Centre, their chicken rice there is terrible!”
  “Hah, I’m sure its not that bad. Mine isn’t that good either.”
  “Oh you’re always so modest.  Your chicken rice is the best here in Singapore! Don’t even try to argue with me.”

  Goh blushed. He certainly had a following that loved his food, and he appreciated their patronage to no end.  He gazed at the chicken he was slicing, then over at the steaming rice in the back. Simple. Perfect. He sighed, his face betraying what he truly felt.

    It was all missing something.  He meant what he had said earlier. His chicken rice was no longer as delicious as his customers made it out to be.

  His fellow hawkers were troubled, wondering at his apparent depression. Some even claimed that Goh was being over-emotional, and that he should snap out of whatever dump he was in.  He merely smiled at their concern, assuring them that all was well.

  In truth, Goh was sad beyond relief. He felt an emptiness he had never felt before , and he loathed it. He loathed the person that had left the gaping hole there, as much as he missed her and her presence.  A little girl, no more then ten, bubbly, cheerful and a joy to the heart. She had visited his stall for the past few years to buy his rice, and would bring such cheer and happiness to his simple heart that he felt it would overflow with joy. She would sit on the little stool everyday in front of his stall for hours, and they would talk about the most mundane of things, from the clouds to the animals she liked. They would joke about the fat teacher from her class, muse about what she was going to do in the future when she grew up and laugh about anything, from the flowers to the moon. She would complain and cry to him when she felt sad, and he would listen. And the day would pass in an instance.  She became like a daughter to an otherwise childless man.

  Then she was gone. Her family moved overseas. She had left a little bell on the stool the night before, a little trinket he had gave to her in younger years. The sudden and simple cruelty of it all was almost too hard for him to bear, and he had wept in private. He would never see here again. He was alone.



Now many years later, Goh closes his beloved stall. Business has moved elsewhere. Old and grizzled, the kindly chicken rice man stares at the rusted covers, at the dusty store name and the
little wooden chair.  In his hand he gripped a little bell, which he placed back on the stool. Sadness in his eyes, he turned around to leave.

  Jingling. The bell! Even now it refuses to let him go, even now it haunts him! He swivelled his head back towards the stall and stared.

  And there she stood. The little girl from so long ago. Not so little now, she had grown to be a beautiful woman. Even then he instantly recognised her, for she smiled and the tears in her eyes were like those when she had complained about how the boy in class had bullied her. Emotions welled up inside him.

  “Are..are you real?”
  “Yes,” She sniffed. “I’ve missed you.”

  It was in that shocked state that Goh embraced her.  She had come back from abroad, and had not forgotten him over the years, so much more like a father then a friend.

  “Would you like to come work for me?”
  “What?”
  “Our family needs a personal chef, and my dad misses your chicken rice.” She smiled and she wiped her eyes.

Goh’s heart filled with a familiar joy again.

  “Yes.” He burst into tears.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Exercise 2 Story 1 Spartans in the Backyard

Spartans in the Backyard 

Leon, tasked with cleaning the yard of leaves, instead recreates an epic battle of manliness and sacrifice with his trusty rake. 


  His muscles ached as he ran. Sweat from his brow clouded his vision.

  "Halt! Halt! Hold up here men."

  Armour clanked as the small group of soldiers came thudding to a stop. With one swift motion, the entirety of the troop turned about to face their enemy with raised shields and bristling spears.

   "We'll hold them off here. Stand your ground!"

  Leonydaz growled. There were too many of them. The Persians had them surrounded. They've had them surrounded for hours now. Leonydaz's band of weary Spartans had led them on a merry little chase all this while but the game was now up.

  There were too many of them.

  No! They must not fail here. They must not fail. The main army a few miles down at the Hot Gates were counting on them to hold this secret pass. How did they know? How did they find this place? Angry thoughts raced through Leonydaz's mind. A traitor! What else. A thousand curses upon his filthy hide! He will be found out before this day is done, whether they live or died. King Leonidas will grant him a swift death.

  "They're coming sir. Look!"

  An immense force of Persians were now streaming through the pass they just retreated from. They marched ruthlessly over their dead and injured, terrible casualties inflicted upon them by the Spartans in earlier hours of fighting. They smelt blood, knew they had the Spartans cornered at last, and were eager to finish them off. They were still intimidated though, and rightly so. The small group of fifty Spartans had systematically destroyed everything they had thrown at them. Their reputation was well-earned.

  "Well-earned indeed Spartans. Your abilites and ferocity precede you."

  A large, fat Persian ambassador squeezed through the front ranks. Gold bangles glittered on his arms. His horse whinnied under the strain. Leonydaz and his men stared with contempt and disgust.

  "Certainly you know when you've been defeated. You have fought well Spartans, but are moments away from total annihilation. Save yourselves, and lay down your arms! Your false King Leonidas has abandoned you, leaving..."

  His speech was cut short. A whistling spear had embedded itself in the ambassador's heart. His eyes widened, and with a last gasp of air fell dead from his horse. The troops in the vicinity stared, shocked at the swiftness of the Spartans' wrath. There would be no words. With a roar that echoed through the valley around them, the remaining Spartans charged the Persian line. They would either hold this pass, or die trying.

  There would be no words. The sudden fury of the attack pushed the Persians back, but there were too many. Blood spewed and bones were cracked, limbs sliced and torn apart. The Spartan's shields were cloven, their spears broken and swords notched. Heads were hewed from shoulders, but still, there were too many. The Spartans used their helmets, their remaining hands, their teeth.....

 

 
   "Leon? What the hell are you doing?"
   "Eh?"
   "You're trashing around in the dirt like an idiot. What the hell man? Ugghh, whatever, mum's asking whether you're done raking the yard or not, although I think I know the answer."

    Leon grinned sheepishly at his older brother, who was standing over him whilst giving him a look of utmost incredulity. He opened his mouth to explain, but thought the better of it. Standing up, he brushed the leaves off his jacket and started looking for the rake he had been stabbing the air with a few seconds ago.

   "The rake's over there you retard. You threw it and then started screaming like a bloody idiot. Been watching 300 again?"
   "Yeah."
   "Seriously man a vivid imagination is good and all but you're bloody crazy. See you later for dinner."
   "Alright."

 


  Leon stared after his brother. What did the fool know? A red mist descended upon his eyes.
  The rearguard had fallen. Betrayed by a traitor. The Persians were coming from behind. King Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans steeled themselves.

   Tonight, they would dine in hell!

Sunday, 31 July 2011

A Story: A Story about Stories

   So yes, stories. We're here to talk about them.  =3
  
   Stories are, in my opinion, a method in which an underlying message can be effectively broadcasted to a wide and varied audience while simultaneously entertaining said audience with its contents. Stories form the core and driving force of many types of media (eg. Movies, Video Games) and exist to establish the genre of their contents onto their hosts.
 
   While maybe not the most direct form of communication, stories allow the planting and growth of ideas in a reader's mind, consciously or not. They have the ability to bring out the deepest of emotions in people, serving to inspire, induce fear or to generate outrage. Feelings of sadness and joy are prevalent in stories, and the best of them have the potential to enrapture their listeners/readers. Humans are after all, full of emotion.

   A story can be viewed as an idea made manifest. It is a resource that is created to convey meaning/ethics/morals. It exists to both educate and to entertain.