Well, as the title says, this is my own attempt at a book from a while back, I've been trying to work on it but unfortunately I don't ever really have the time, so I just thought - what the hey, I may as well see what people thought of it, and if it helps get me back into it, great - It was based in its own world that I was planning to explore into (ridiculous) depth, but it really depended on how it went, as to write this I had to unlock my mind, as If you knew me, I have a completely nutty side that I gradually surpressed as it tended to stop me from getting on very well while I was in school, so I had to wake it up again, but it tended to rely on a very specific way of feeling to be able to do it well and let my (now subconscious) write for me. please excuse the swearing, as I was going throuh a stage where I did that far too much, and also the character names, as tthey werent the proper ones, they were just what I used till inspiration hit me (in the face, with a hammer).
Well. Hello, I guess? That’s a good way to start, right? Aww, who am I kidding, of course it is!
Now. Let’s make this clear – this was intended to be a book – unfortunately, the publisher said I’d have to source my own materials for publishing, and what with having kicked a tree when I was six and promptly been knocked cold by a conker, I’m loathe to risk further reprisals. so I have had to resort to having this book actually made out of the compressed life savings of mice – yes, mice – though I’d rather not have to explain how I source this potentially limitless supply of material, so let’s just say that one gang of squirrels is going to be eating well this Christmas!
Though it is rather cruel to leave you hanging like this, so I guess I’ll explain to you why it is limitless – Mice are scrupulous savers, but very rarely invest in good quality locks. Also, they are extreme optimists, so you can “borrow” as much as you like and they’ll just start saving again! This is especially great, as it’s meant I’ve received very few death threats/attempts (apart from one horrifying occasion involving a sack and 20 pounds of diluted faeces. Though I won’t delve any further into that particular instance.).
Now that that’s over and done with, I’ll give you a solution to the inevitable plethora of theoretical pot and sinkholes in my writing – just think of it as if a small piece of chewing gum covered in skittles was left in the sun for too long, then baked in a cake. Basically, it’s just like a book except much, much worse.
Steve stared, stared and stared, deeper and deeper into the brew - watching as a skin -like substance slowly congealed on the surface...
“It’s horrible, that’s what it is, cutting you out of the will at the last second like that – I hope her grave is extremely uncomfortable and 3000 years from now some archaeologists dig her up, and due to a awkward mistake say she was some form of mutated cow!”
Steve slowly phased in and out of listening while moping and moping while listening as Gingie raged away next to him, both of Gingie’s green pupils focusing in and out as white spittle flew from his lips in a cloud that slowly settled on the back of a dwarf opposite, causing a face to appear that looked somewhat like the resident God-figure of that particular region.
Finally Steve managed to have gained enough slime in his mouth for him to speak, his mouth having gone full circle from being in the process of desertification to the dripping, stinking chasm that is usually was-suddenly something caught his eye...
“I’m getting the finger from the grave...” Steve’s mouth slopped away.
“Your right, that’s exactly what it is! Gingie screamed, his ranting now having continued for so long that the resident god-figure now had his arm over the shoulder of his son.
Steve’s drowning brain welled to the surface long enough for it to casually point out;
‘He’s got it wrong you know.... then again he never had it to begin with...’
It mumbled pessimistically.
“Noo “mumbled Steve, “I’m literally getting the middle finger from the grave....”
This contradiction to Gingie’s aforementioned revelation completely threw him off his rickety tracks (which were rickety in the first place due to a mother who’d killed his father and all his siblings when she had a breakdown after years of ginger hair-related abuse and her hair -and most of her head- spontaneously combusted, setting the house and eventually the town on fire as her body rolled around like a giant badly – launched firework.).
“Yer what?” Gingie exclaimed, his eye balls nearly popping out of their bruised sockets. “What cher getting at? Wanna fight?”
Somehow Steve’s brain managed the massive feat of rising to the surface again despite the several layers of lager, beer and shots that it was buried under;
“No.” Steve replied, pointing groggily at the pissed skeleton slowly scraping down the window with its right index finger extended, alcohol dribbling from between its teeth, and with grave dirt still hanging off its finger.
***I feel now is a good point to try explain why there was a pissed skeleton scraping down a window outside the inn, and the reason is this – we’re not sure who felt sorry for the undead (seeing as they are generally evil minions to darkness) but something out there, be it the skeleton’s own rotting brains or a pointless but powerful charity decided that the undead had pretty rough time of it really, what with having no chance of getting a living girl, not being able to comfort eat ( or to a greater extent eat in general), or even just the basic function of thinking. But for some bizarre reason, the undead’s rotting brain can somehow still recognise alcohol and remembers how it tasted to them when they were alive- this still has its limitations however, as there is nothing worse for a skeleton at a party that there to be no drinks they recognise. However the outcasts of the undead race are in a very difficult situation. They are the ones that in life decided to go T-total. The problem is that they have absolutely nothing to do as their brain doesn’t recognise any of the alcohol, but they still try as hard in death as they did in life, living in shanty towns on the edge of the skeleton boneyards, drinking tea and coffee made from mice faeces in a hope they might recognise it.But now, back to life in appalling general! ***
As the skeleton disappeared out of sight through the foggy glass with a faint slop into the poo-filled mud outside,, two of his friends (or hopeful muggers) came and started to attempt to drag him away through the piles of poo. They quickly realised this was a bad plan, their feet sticking as they desperately tried to escape from the two massive ice hounds who’s surprisingly large brains had decided they wanted this hunk of bones to chew.
Gingie glanced at the widow for a split second before he was forced to return to the problem at hand – the very angry drunken dwarf who had finally felt the damp patch through his leather doublet. Rather conveniently, he started shouting just in time to block out the ghostly screams, crunching and eventual silence as the drunken skeleton attempted to kiss the closest of the ice hounds, before tripping and landing with his head in the slavering jaws of the first and dragging his two “friends” face down before the second, vainly attempting to get back to their feet as its massive iron-grey paws pressed down on their backs...
*** skeletons can’t drown (which is quite clear to most onlookers as they are quite blatantly already dead) and therefore have very little left to lose in this life – apart from that is, their dignity – even skeletons can feel embarrassment, though it normally takes a lot to get through to them-In this case however, what appears to them as having ice wolf poop forced through their iris and into their very eyeballs as they feel an overgrow dog chew their body piece by piece, is suitably embarrassing and horrific ***
“Yaah, ye stupide ginger cook, ye’ve ruined me doublet” was left echoing in Steve’s ears, accompanied by the frantic whimpering of Gingie as his eyes crossed and uncrossed in panic. Thus’ forcing Steve’s brain to raise itself from its stupor for a third time and for it to resolve to give up its attempt at staying low profile and try to stay afloat – for the while at least.
“Here I am, trying to watch Ice Hounds tear a couple of drunk skeletons to shreds, and then I have to stop to tell you what to do because the aggressive uneducated company you seem to like to keep, is trying-yet again- to get itself killed! Gods, you should have gone to Stansburg College like your parents told you - Go sort out this bleeding mess, before your friend becomes a red mess for the bar boy to clean up – or don’t, I couldn’t care less”
*** Stansburg College – one of the most prestigious college in the whole Realm, coming third in the vine league of Colleges***
His brain screamed at him.
By now the Drunken Dwarf had pulled his massive (and previously unnoticed) axe from his belt while Gingie desperately scrabbled backwards and fell off the bench screaming
“Leave me alone yer tiny little nutter, I never did nuthin!”
At the same time Steve’s tired and equally pissed muscles forced themselves into motion, moving at a climatically slow speed despite the distance of a foot or two between him and Gingie, just managing to gently shove him. This was done with such insufficient force that in any normal case that the laws of physics would have broken their own rules, just to cause a rare species of helmet to fall from the sky and promptly send him into cardiac arrest. As it was, when the Dwarf brought his axe up and over his shoulder in a blaze of singed oxygen particles, a strange combination of events occurred to save Gingie’s pathetic life – despite Steve’s pathetically drunken attempt to save him. First of all, Steve’s pathetically drunken attempt did in fact move Gingie roughly half a fly, so was not actually have been as pathetic as first thought – second of all the dwarf was almost equally as drunk as Steve, but more importantly he had a spontaneous fit of lazy eye which caused his aim to be thrown completely off, though as it is actually impossible for dwarves to get lazy eyes as the eyes themselves are so ridiculously stubborn that they just won’t move, so the dwarf didn’t register this phenomenon till after the axe was thrown, and he was half way home. Third of all, exactly half a mile away a tree fell over. Ok, the third one may or may not have actually done anything to save Gingie’s life.
These all conspired to cause the dwarf to drop the axe, catch it on the tip of his toe then flick it, narrowly missing Gingie and promptly shave half the hair off of the head of the monstrously large owner of the two Ice Hounds.
Then all hell broke loose.
-WARNING - this area was very much work in progress, and I handt really got my brain to get clunking away a full speed, so this really isnt in character as much as chapter one and the introduction.-WARNING-
“UHHH? What the....?”
The world gradually came into focus...
Two creatures stood there....
They were rather strange looking creatures it thought to itself, with white tips to their.... What, exactly? Faces? Hillocks? Yorkshire dales? Wings? Ah yes, wings sounded about right......
As they bounced about, the creature noticed something grasped in the creature’s......beak? It’ll do for now it thought...
As the two creatures continued conversing, a faint pounding began in the back of its head, causing it to notice the most intolerable aching...
***The next events happened so closely together that there are still theories whether any of this is actually real, or in fact the figment of a boozy squirrel on Christmas’ alcohol fuelled dream...***
First of all one of the creatures hopping around, noticed that It was awake. Second of all, the name tag attached to the badly scratched pair of keys held in its beak moved, causing the sunlight to catch its carved wood surface and reveal the name Steve. Third of all Steve remember his name with a tremendous roar of “OY”, and the events of the last twenty four hours. Fourth of all – One of the Magpies pulled a knife.
Steve vainly tried to scrabble to his feet, slipping and sliding in the dirty mud and muddy dirt, all the while with the magpie bearing down on him at a rate of hops, the vicious blade gleaming in the Saturday morning sun. Gradually the pounding got louder, causing Steve’s migraine to ache to ache even more. The magpies closed in for the kill, leaving Steve’s life flashing before his eyes;
Steve’s brain thought to itself as no life flashed before Steve’s eyes.
“Oh wait your drunk”
Suddenly a foot crashed down out of nowhere, accompanied by the frenzied roaring of an extremely hung over ginger. The other Magpie, suddenly having no peer to pressure him into any act of violence promptly started running, only to be crushed by yet another foot in a yet ANOTHER sickening display of gore, especially for a creature as small as this. However in this case the foot was only constructed of bone, as Gingie was hounded down the street by a gang of campaigning T-total skeletons.
as a final note here, I'd just like to point out that this was written by a me who was going through a very stressful period and so (naturally) became extremly childish - oh, and I'm SO sorry about all the stuff about gingers in here, no offense is intended in any way, shape or form.