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Probably Hornswoggle
In a remote village (probably named Hornswoggle, though I can’t recall for sure), there is a purple door, a big rectangular paint-peeling purple door, with the number 777 scrawled just above the rusty horseshoe knocker. And behind this door there is a room, a kitchen, creamy-white with lemon-yellow fittings – (sniff): Gur, as musty as an ogre’s armpit. And within this moldy kitchen there is a MAN (pacing the grimy floor), and a WOMAN (sitting at the table as prim as a snooty poodle).
Through the keyhole of this purple door goes the nosy parker EYE of this godawful tale…
MAN (arms flailing - his general appearance that of an escaped scarecrow): So what if I invited thirteen scantly clad trollops to the vicar's garden party?! So what if I decorated the church's dreary interior with upturned crosses and various other barbarous symbols?! So what if I slipped snapshots of my favorite porn stars into the pages of the Sunday hymn books?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm leaving you.
MAN (grinning like a toss-off): So what if I organized a sado-masochistic orgy on the village green?! So what if I headbutted the nice lollipop lady in the full light of day?! So what if I led a mob of rancid vagabonds through the well-to-do suburbs chanting slogans of impending doom?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I want a divorce.
MAN (goose-stepping): So what if I arranged for ten louts to ambush the brass band parade armed with knuckledusters?! So what if I pinned messages on the town hall's notice board accusing the primary school headmaster of being a secret transvestite strip-o’-gram?! So what if I dumped the slurry of a hundred sheep onto the stage of that beauty pageant and dumped buckets of pigswill on the judges’ heads?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm having an affair.
MAN: So - facking – what?!
WOMAN: With your brother.
-Short tense silence-
The MAN (whose name is probably Giles, though I may be wrong) digs up a greenie and spits it forcibly onto the kitchen table. The WOMAN (unperturbed by the repulsive ejaculation) observes its wobbly texture.
MAN (pointing with his middle-fingers): That, my dear, is what is commonly referred to as a ‘dockyard oyster!!’
The WOMAN sighs, calmly takes out a catapult from her handbag, loads it with a seriously large marble, and then twangs it at the MAN’S head.
*THWHACK*
Bull’s-eye. The MAN slumps to the floor, unconscious (he even saw stars and tweetie-pies chirping). The WOMAN picks up a box of matches, looks down at the MAN’S dead-to-the-world face and says: Now, you disgusting little man, where did I put that bottle of lighter fuel?
The nosy parker EYE of this timid tale recoils outside to the sunny cobblestone street, where a pair of Barbiesque DOLLYBIRDS clothed in skimpy anti-fashion peer through the window on tiptoe (hands positioned like blinkers).
DOLLYBIRD 1 (as pert as a semi-peeled apricot): I can’t see a flippin’ thing.
DOLLYBIRD 2 (with a rump like two squashed-together beachballs): I ‘eard somethin’. I’m gonna get that vindictive cow! (knocking on glass) You’d better not do somethin’ you’ll regret, you b!tch!
A black shoe with a little oval mirror tacked to the tip slides twix DOLLYBIRD 1’s astride white plimsoles… It belongs to the leg (and the groin) of Mister Gander the UPSKIRTIST (an advanced Peeping Tom and heavy-breathing phone-caller), who says: “Keep lookin’ luvvies, I know he’s in there. That wife of his is dangerous hoe.” He carefully manoeuvers his shoe back on its heel so as to glimpse pantie.
Over the hills and faraway away, a lorry carrying a heavy load of badminton rackets and shuttlecocks runs out of fuel and grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder. The driver, who funnily enough is the UPSKIRTIST’S stepsister’s brother, climbs out of his cab and with arms akimbo gazes at a field of swaying wheat. “Unholy Puck!” he yelps, suddenly alarmed, “Someone has stolen the figgin’ scarecrow!”
A seagull circles high in the cloudless blue, blissfully unaware of everything to do with human toolery.
The End.
In a remote village (probably named Hornswoggle, though I can’t recall for sure), there is a purple door, a big rectangular paint-peeling purple door, with the number 777 scrawled just above the rusty horseshoe knocker. And behind this door there is a room, a kitchen, creamy-white with lemon-yellow fittings – (sniff): Gur, as musty as an ogre’s armpit. And within this moldy kitchen there is a MAN (pacing the grimy floor), and a WOMAN (sitting at the table as prim as a snooty poodle).
Through the keyhole of this purple door goes the nosy parker EYE of this godawful tale…
MAN (arms flailing - his general appearance that of an escaped scarecrow): So what if I invited thirteen scantly clad trollops to the vicar's garden party?! So what if I decorated the church's dreary interior with upturned crosses and various other barbarous symbols?! So what if I slipped snapshots of my favorite porn stars into the pages of the Sunday hymn books?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm leaving you.
MAN (grinning like a toss-off): So what if I organized a sado-masochistic orgy on the village green?! So what if I headbutted the nice lollipop lady in the full light of day?! So what if I led a mob of rancid vagabonds through the well-to-do suburbs chanting slogans of impending doom?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I want a divorce.
MAN (goose-stepping): So what if I arranged for ten louts to ambush the brass band parade armed with knuckledusters?! So what if I pinned messages on the town hall's notice board accusing the primary school headmaster of being a secret transvestite strip-o’-gram?! So what if I dumped the slurry of a hundred sheep onto the stage of that beauty pageant and dumped buckets of pigswill on the judges’ heads?! SO WHAT?!
WOMAN: I'm having an affair.
MAN: So - facking – what?!
WOMAN: With your brother.
-Short tense silence-
The MAN (whose name is probably Giles, though I may be wrong) digs up a greenie and spits it forcibly onto the kitchen table. The WOMAN (unperturbed by the repulsive ejaculation) observes its wobbly texture.
MAN (pointing with his middle-fingers): That, my dear, is what is commonly referred to as a ‘dockyard oyster!!’
The WOMAN sighs, calmly takes out a catapult from her handbag, loads it with a seriously large marble, and then twangs it at the MAN’S head.
*THWHACK*
Bull’s-eye. The MAN slumps to the floor, unconscious (he even saw stars and tweetie-pies chirping). The WOMAN picks up a box of matches, looks down at the MAN’S dead-to-the-world face and says: Now, you disgusting little man, where did I put that bottle of lighter fuel?
The nosy parker EYE of this timid tale recoils outside to the sunny cobblestone street, where a pair of Barbiesque DOLLYBIRDS clothed in skimpy anti-fashion peer through the window on tiptoe (hands positioned like blinkers).
DOLLYBIRD 1 (as pert as a semi-peeled apricot): I can’t see a flippin’ thing.
DOLLYBIRD 2 (with a rump like two squashed-together beachballs): I ‘eard somethin’. I’m gonna get that vindictive cow! (knocking on glass) You’d better not do somethin’ you’ll regret, you b!tch!
A black shoe with a little oval mirror tacked to the tip slides twix DOLLYBIRD 1’s astride white plimsoles… It belongs to the leg (and the groin) of Mister Gander the UPSKIRTIST (an advanced Peeping Tom and heavy-breathing phone-caller), who says: “Keep lookin’ luvvies, I know he’s in there. That wife of his is dangerous hoe.” He carefully manoeuvers his shoe back on its heel so as to glimpse pantie.
Over the hills and faraway away, a lorry carrying a heavy load of badminton rackets and shuttlecocks runs out of fuel and grinds to a halt on the hard shoulder. The driver, who funnily enough is the UPSKIRTIST’S stepsister’s brother, climbs out of his cab and with arms akimbo gazes at a field of swaying wheat. “Unholy Puck!” he yelps, suddenly alarmed, “Someone has stolen the figgin’ scarecrow!”
A seagull circles high in the cloudless blue, blissfully unaware of everything to do with human toolery.
The End.
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Ineedsleep wrote:
> Anyway, your best efforts on here have always been dark or written to
> shock at a certain point so I hope it comes together for you.
I'm feeling better today, as I've decided to just make my novel as twisted and perverse as I can - no holding back. It will be the confession of a madman.
Having said that, my problem with writing a big "dark" story (in 1st person) is that I'm always asking myself: what would my parents/friends think of this filth?!! Stupid, I know, but it stifles my flow.
How far to go with the bizarre and the perverse worries me, but I can't help slipping in that direction. Happy-clappy-sunny stuff just doesn't come easily to me. Perhaps I need a shrink or something :)
> Anyway, your best efforts on here have always been dark or written to
> shock at a certain point so I hope it comes together for you.
I'm feeling better today, as I've decided to just make my novel as twisted and perverse as I can - no holding back. It will be the confession of a madman.
Having said that, my problem with writing a big "dark" story (in 1st person) is that I'm always asking myself: what would my parents/friends think of this filth?!! Stupid, I know, but it stifles my flow.
How far to go with the bizarre and the perverse worries me, but I can't help slipping in that direction. Happy-clappy-sunny stuff just doesn't come easily to me. Perhaps I need a shrink or something :)
Black Glove wrote:
> That bit was referring to my becursed novel.
Oops, sorry :D
I'd never dream of undertaking the effort to write a novel as right from the outset I wouldn't be able to come up with enough material to fill a matchbox, in reality. Maybe if you are that tired of it you are forcing it too much and need to sit back and leave it for a while.
Is that the kind of advice you can give to someone who is trying to write a novel?
Anyway, your best efforts on here have always been dark or written to shock at a certain point so I hope it comes together for you.
> That bit was referring to my becursed novel.
Oops, sorry :D
I'd never dream of undertaking the effort to write a novel as right from the outset I wouldn't be able to come up with enough material to fill a matchbox, in reality. Maybe if you are that tired of it you are forcing it too much and need to sit back and leave it for a while.
Is that the kind of advice you can give to someone who is trying to write a novel?
Anyway, your best efforts on here have always been dark or written to shock at a certain point so I hope it comes together for you.
Like a literary sketch show
It had it's moments, but I found it too disjointed. It was like a bunch of separate ideas thrown together to see what happened.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> What kidnapping, raping and murder? I think you posted the wrong
> story.
That bit was referring to my becursed novel
> What kidnapping, raping and murder? I think you posted the wrong
> story.
That bit was referring to my becursed novel
Black Glove wrote:
> but then it descended into usual depravity - with kidnap, rape and murder.
*reads story again*
What kidnapping, raping and murder? I think you posted the wrong story. Perverts is all I read about :D
> So I’m seriously tangled at the moment, and seriously sick and tired
> of writing.
That's bad news. Hope you find your way out of the slump soon and get back to enjoying it :(
I'm sure (well, hopeful) that you will.
> but then it descended into usual depravity - with kidnap, rape and murder.
*reads story again*
What kidnapping, raping and murder? I think you posted the wrong story. Perverts is all I read about :D
> So I’m seriously tangled at the moment, and seriously sick and tired
> of writing.
That's bad news. Hope you find your way out of the slump soon and get back to enjoying it :(
I'm sure (well, hopeful) that you will.
Black Glove wrote:
> Hornswoggle is an old America word meaning "cheap
> deception", which I suppose what this failed story is.
It is also the suname of somebody Ross from friends dated in that episode where chandler made a bet he could go without making jokes boutn his friends. sob its finished
> Hornswoggle is an old America word meaning "cheap
> deception", which I suppose what this failed story is.
It is also the suname of somebody Ross from friends dated in that episode where chandler made a bet he could go without making jokes boutn his friends. sob its finished
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Yes, definitely, other than one line there was no imagary, either
> captivating or dark, to spark anything in me.
Agreed. It is rubbish.
But I’m tired at the moment – trying to write a novel. What a curse!
It started off quite merrily: a strange outcast walking in the woods seeking unusual adventure, but then it descended into usual depravity - with kidnap, rape and murder. I can’t help thinking that the whole thing is just a perverted and deranged mess.
It’s as if the only way I can make a story interesting is by tainting it with abuse and death. It has now reached the point where I’m uncomfortable with it, almost embarrassed.
So I’m seriously tangled at the moment, and seriously sick and tired of writing.
> Yes, definitely, other than one line there was no imagary, either
> captivating or dark, to spark anything in me.
Agreed. It is rubbish.
But I’m tired at the moment – trying to write a novel. What a curse!
It started off quite merrily: a strange outcast walking in the woods seeking unusual adventure, but then it descended into usual depravity - with kidnap, rape and murder. I can’t help thinking that the whole thing is just a perverted and deranged mess.
It’s as if the only way I can make a story interesting is by tainting it with abuse and death. It has now reached the point where I’m uncomfortable with it, almost embarrassed.
So I’m seriously tangled at the moment, and seriously sick and tired of writing.
Okay - the spitting bit made me want to upchuck but that was it.
Black Glove wrote:
> One stupid story too far, eh?
Yes, definitely, other than one line there was no imagary, either captivating or dark, to spark anything in me.
But you should have left Badminton Balls in, much more fun than shuttlecocks
:D
Black Glove wrote:
> One stupid story too far, eh?
Yes, definitely, other than one line there was no imagary, either captivating or dark, to spark anything in me.
But you should have left Badminton Balls in, much more fun than shuttlecocks
:D
Yeah, get off the drugs.
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