Well, looky here, 1000 posts. Thought I'd do something a bit different (to what I normally do)
Here comes a story I wrote for an English assignment last year, and I'd like to share it, and have you rate it.
I tried putting it in spoilers, but that screwed it up beyond belief.
Sorry if the layout is a bit dodgy, It's the best I could do when converting it to work on this site. The little footnotes show the page divides. Right-o, here it be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(I need a title)
There were two men in the town, a deaf man and a drunkard. Their names were McCoy and Goldberg. They were 'information specialists'. People will talk freely around a deaf man, safe in the assumption he can't hear them, they may even confide in him, it is much like speaking to a cat or a dog to them.
When a person's body is so full of alcohol, their minds begin to wander and deceive the owner. It can make them think the person next to them is their best friend and then buy said person a drink. If someone could control these effects, but keep up the illusion of drunkenness to those around him, he could discover a large amount of information.
Sangria in the 8th century was a rough place; crime was job for life, but not for long. When walking down an alley late at night, you just might hear the muffled cry of a man about to cut your throat being gutted himself. There was no honour among thieves. There are no records dating before 20BC (Before Chizzy) but it was widely assumed by the religious society that nothing existed before Chizzy's father, they believed that Chizzy was the son of the great creator and that he had performed great miracles, such as turning wine into water, and making a single fish be enough for two people. Chizzy was beheaded for his ideas for communism, and failed to avenge his death in anyway. The majority of the population believed in demi-gods and patron saints, such as Dan: the patron saint of dung spreaders. Goldberg and McCoy were in Danhurst, named after the aforementioned saint, which was situated on the plains of Dan. The houses in Danhurst were of timber construction, and the cobbled streets lit by flame lamps.
There was also a very vertically challenged group who believed stabbing themselves in a public place would applease the Mighty Bill, whom they had never seen, heard, or have witnessed any evidence of his existence.
Upon entering a city/town/village/muddy hole, McCoy communicated with writing, or that monotone a deaf person uses, and basically convincing people of his deafness; he had learnt much at the school of assassins. Goldberg, on the other hand, knew how to act drunk, and inserted himself into various taverns, Inns, and bars. It helped having two livers.*
They made their living travelling the country, visiting towns and cities, and building up a large sum of money by selling the secrets to the relevant authority. This continued until one cool evening, Goldberg heard of a plot. While swaying slightly, and staring at a space three inches to the left of the barman's head (who was endlessly polishing a glass, which never got used, and all the other ones were filthy.) Goldberg learned more.
McCoy was doing well himself, so far he had learned of: two affairs, a murder, and seventeen conspiracies to loiter. A night-watchman was giving him that funny sideways look only they can achieve. McCoy had the opposite of a squint, his eyes both looked slightly outwards, and he used it to put people off looking at him for too long.
Satisfied, Goldberg -shaking slightly-, placed his glass on the counter, which began to dissolve a small hole, and stumbled outside. He then tried to put his room key in the horse outside, and then attempted the cart behind it. A guard sidled up to him and queried: "I hope you don't plan to drive in the state you're in, mate."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Goldberg's immunity to alcohol started when he was 'accidentally' locked in the family wine cellar. The Goldbergs being wealthy, it was quite extensive. Nine solid days of bingeing on the world's most expensive alcohol had forced his body to adapt. He could drink beer so strong, it could melt wood.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goldberg slowly turned towards him and stared intently at the man's nose. "N-n-no... nurrrrg... Geraway." He slurred, and stumbled down a nearby alley.
The night-watchman had been staring at McCoy for some time and McCoy had grown restless, until he noticed that the man was sleeping with his eyes open. McCoy smirked to himself and trudged off. He wanted to get back before the taverns closed.
After several moments of shuffling down the alleys and backstreets, Goldberg pricked up his ears and heard a muffled cry behind him. A bit further along the street, McCoy emerged for a side alley wiping his hands. He nodded to Goldberg and they walked back to the lodging house.
McCoy and Goldberg had never told each other their first names, with good reason; Cookie McCoy and Spudlet Goldberg would make them hard to take seriously. Spudlet was the 14th son of Lady Goldberg, and 24th in line to the title, after Cousin Bud, who lived in the Mountains. Realising he had nothing, and would receive nothing, coupled with the wine cellar incident, he left Goldberg manor. Little did he know, that six months after entering Danhurst, the entire Goldberg family, including Bud, all died in tea-cosy related accidents. Goldberg Manor has now been bought, and is soon to be shipped to the Novogrod Basin, to be used as a 'House of Questionable Hospitality'. Lord Goldberg would have approved.
McCoy, on the other hand, had fathered over 96 children over the years. He was 28.
Goldberg and McCoy arrived at the lodging house and into the room McCoy had rented; £2 a night, and no women.
"What you got?" enquired McCoy, lighting a cigarette.
"Someone's going to kill Jimmy."
"The Emperor?" *
"What do you think?" said Goldberg with a withering look.
"This... this could be profitable." McCoy pondered, tapping the table.
"Indeed."
After a few moments, McCoy said: "I'm surprised it hasn't been dealt with. The Government have spies and informants everywhere. That guy in the alley, he was one."
"How do you know?"
"He had nothing in his pockets. Not even lint."
"Ah."
"Why he was after you, I don't know."
They sat in silence for a while, until McCoy, after taking a long drag on his cigarette, wondered aloud: "I heard something like this up in Doran, but I just dismissed it as big thoughts from bored people, this is everywhere."
"Doran, you say? Pretty out of the way I remember. Big earner with that thing about the milkmaid and the bull." Said Goldberg wryly.
McCoy shuddered and said: "I told you not to talk about that."
"Hey, you drank it. YOU chose it especially."
"I didn't know, okay?"
"You said it was the best milk you've ever tasted."
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*Only royal family members could be called Jimmy. (the current Emperor was Jimmy the 61st)
No-one knew when or why this tradition originated, it was just accepted. If you were called Jimmy and you were outside the royal family, you were to be punished with impersonating the Emperor, and were punished accordingly. (Being anesthetised and someone taking a cheese grater to your face.) Of course, that's all changed now. It's the parents who get it.
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"Ugh."
"Great texture, you said." Goldberg chuckled.
"Oh screw you."
"Goodnight." Goldberg sniggered, exiting the room.
The next day, Goldberg was making tea in his room, when McCoy entered. "One for me?" he enquired.
"Any milk?" Goldberg grinned.
"Oh leave it alone." moaned McCoy, banging his head on the table.
Goldberg joined him at the table, and they sat, for many moments, until a beetle started its long crawl up the wall. They watched it climb, they watched it fall when it reached the top, they watched it climb again. A wise man may have pondered why man was here, and the point of the beetle, and would have got very philosophical. They threw crumbs at it.
McCoy sighed, and said: "We may as well leave for Crackdon* today, we got what we came for, and then some."
"I agree. Get us packed."
Later that day, Goldberg had got the horses from the stable, and McCoy had paid the rent to the landlady, they saddled up and left via the East Gate and proceeded across the plains of Dan.
There, very little happened, for five days, except corn.
They approached Crackdon, with the main gate made of balsa wood and sugar↑, passed the guards, otherwise known as people paid to literally do nothing. They ambled along Chain Street to 'Brenda's livery stables' owned by Brenda Eastwood, where they could leave their horses safely for £2. Upon entering, Brenda exclaimed: "Wickity wickity Wack! I'm gonna pimp your horses! BO!"
"Erm? just stabling, please." Said Goldberg.
"Oh. Okay." Brenda said quietly, looking downtrodden.
They proceeded to 'The Jimmy's Head' Inn, and rented two rooms. Goldberg had a 'Gut Rotter' and McCoy had a cranberry juice. They stayed until 2:30, and left for the Octogon to report their findings. (Crackdon didn't appeal to them, so they just went straight there) They walked through to market district, passed the library, down Albany Avenue and up the drive to the Octogon. There was no queue, but there never was. The huge double doors were wide open, so they walked into the great marbled hall, which was empty, save for a rubber plant in the corner. It always did to have some green. Goldberg knew this tactic, they forced you to wait for an hour standing, to put you on edge. So he just waltzed up to the wrought iron elevator? door, pulled it open, and stepped inside with McCoy. He took up the speaking tube and yelled "THIRD FLOOR!". After a moment, the elevator began move slowly upwards.
Within seconds, they were in the main reception of the building. "Good day, Mr. Goldberg." the secretary trilled. "Mr. Jones is in a meeting at the moment. He can't see you right now."
"Oh, is he now." Goldberg said coyly.
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*Crackdon is the capital city of Sangria. A terrible place, full of trees and modern art. There is NOTHING artistic about half a chair, with a pickaxe stuck in it, being held in place 3 feet above the ground by stuffed owl suspended from the ceiling. Nothing.
↑It shouldn't stand up, but -annoyingly- it does.
?Everyone wonders how an elevator works, its simple; there are a dozen prisoners on a big treadmill in the basement, connected to a load of gears. You simply shout into the speaking tube which floor you want to go to. See?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goldberg turned, strode off towards the leather padded door marked 'private' and went through. McCoy took a seat in the lobby.
"Ah, we meet again, Mr Goldberg. I see you comprehend our... procedures. Got to exclude the 'riff-raff', as it were. Please, take a seat."
Mr Jones was an aging man. He had been head of 'certain interests.' for thirty years. His silver hair was slicked back and he wore a £6000 Petropolis suit. He spoke with a refined accent, and almost constantly had an eyebrow raised. Mr Jones had spent fifty years in the military, from joining up at the age of 23. He told colleagues his old age was due to fresh air and exercise.* His desk was made from the finest teak, and his mahogany chair was upholstered with genuine Dodo hide.
"It's nice to see you to, Henry. I trust you removed that problem of yours. Your... personal problem." Beamed Goldberg.
"Ye-es. It's good to be able to sit comfortably again. Thank you for your concern, spuddy." Replied Mr Jones tersely. "Anyway," he said waving his hand dismissively, "what startling revelation do you bring me today?" Jones inquired, leaning back in his seat.
Goldberg spoke at length about what he knew. Dates, times, method of execution, what Jimmy ate for breakfast and also lots of names and addresses.
"I see you know a... remarkable amount, Mr Goldberg." Said Mr Jones, standing up and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You... haven't told anyone else, have you?"
Sensing something was awry, Goldberg answered: "No. no-one."
"Alright, Mr Goldberg, I require you to come with me."
Goldberg stood up and followed. As they walked through the lobby, Goldberg made eye-contact with McCoy, and jerked his head slightly towards the elevator. McCoy's face fell, and after the two disappeared round the corner, McCoy took the lift to the ground floor, and hurriedly exited the building. He returned to the stable to find Goldbergs horse gone. "Some dudes done boughtified yo man's horse for some shiznits, dawg." Explained Brenda. McCoy left wondering why Goldberg's horse had been bought, and -more importantly- why he had been called a 'dawg'. He waited in Middle Park, overlooking the Octogon entrance. He waited all day. And the next day. And the next day. On the fourth day, McCoy left Crackdon. He knew he could never tell of what he had seen and heard, and tried to forget his only true friend.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*It was really down to a combination of meds and willpower: "I've got no time for death. There is just too much for me to do. I deem it especially perplexing that people just give up and die within eighty or so years."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So. There it is. What did you guys think?
Two things I'd like to ask for:
1: A good title. I can't for the life of my think of a good one.
2: A good ending. I was hard-pressed for time, and couldn't conclude it well.
One last thing, there appears to be some problems with apostrophes. Tell me if you spot any weird symbols in there.
Well... thanks for reading!
Here comes a story I wrote for an English assignment last year, and I'd like to share it, and have you rate it.
I tried putting it in spoilers, but that screwed it up beyond belief.
Sorry if the layout is a bit dodgy, It's the best I could do when converting it to work on this site. The little footnotes show the page divides. Right-o, here it be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(I need a title)
There were two men in the town, a deaf man and a drunkard. Their names were McCoy and Goldberg. They were 'information specialists'. People will talk freely around a deaf man, safe in the assumption he can't hear them, they may even confide in him, it is much like speaking to a cat or a dog to them.
When a person's body is so full of alcohol, their minds begin to wander and deceive the owner. It can make them think the person next to them is their best friend and then buy said person a drink. If someone could control these effects, but keep up the illusion of drunkenness to those around him, he could discover a large amount of information.
Sangria in the 8th century was a rough place; crime was job for life, but not for long. When walking down an alley late at night, you just might hear the muffled cry of a man about to cut your throat being gutted himself. There was no honour among thieves. There are no records dating before 20BC (Before Chizzy) but it was widely assumed by the religious society that nothing existed before Chizzy's father, they believed that Chizzy was the son of the great creator and that he had performed great miracles, such as turning wine into water, and making a single fish be enough for two people. Chizzy was beheaded for his ideas for communism, and failed to avenge his death in anyway. The majority of the population believed in demi-gods and patron saints, such as Dan: the patron saint of dung spreaders. Goldberg and McCoy were in Danhurst, named after the aforementioned saint, which was situated on the plains of Dan. The houses in Danhurst were of timber construction, and the cobbled streets lit by flame lamps.
There was also a very vertically challenged group who believed stabbing themselves in a public place would applease the Mighty Bill, whom they had never seen, heard, or have witnessed any evidence of his existence.
Upon entering a city/town/village/muddy hole, McCoy communicated with writing, or that monotone a deaf person uses, and basically convincing people of his deafness; he had learnt much at the school of assassins. Goldberg, on the other hand, knew how to act drunk, and inserted himself into various taverns, Inns, and bars. It helped having two livers.*
They made their living travelling the country, visiting towns and cities, and building up a large sum of money by selling the secrets to the relevant authority. This continued until one cool evening, Goldberg heard of a plot. While swaying slightly, and staring at a space three inches to the left of the barman's head (who was endlessly polishing a glass, which never got used, and all the other ones were filthy.) Goldberg learned more.
McCoy was doing well himself, so far he had learned of: two affairs, a murder, and seventeen conspiracies to loiter. A night-watchman was giving him that funny sideways look only they can achieve. McCoy had the opposite of a squint, his eyes both looked slightly outwards, and he used it to put people off looking at him for too long.
Satisfied, Goldberg -shaking slightly-, placed his glass on the counter, which began to dissolve a small hole, and stumbled outside. He then tried to put his room key in the horse outside, and then attempted the cart behind it. A guard sidled up to him and queried: "I hope you don't plan to drive in the state you're in, mate."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Goldberg's immunity to alcohol started when he was 'accidentally' locked in the family wine cellar. The Goldbergs being wealthy, it was quite extensive. Nine solid days of bingeing on the world's most expensive alcohol had forced his body to adapt. He could drink beer so strong, it could melt wood.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goldberg slowly turned towards him and stared intently at the man's nose. "N-n-no... nurrrrg... Geraway." He slurred, and stumbled down a nearby alley.
The night-watchman had been staring at McCoy for some time and McCoy had grown restless, until he noticed that the man was sleeping with his eyes open. McCoy smirked to himself and trudged off. He wanted to get back before the taverns closed.
After several moments of shuffling down the alleys and backstreets, Goldberg pricked up his ears and heard a muffled cry behind him. A bit further along the street, McCoy emerged for a side alley wiping his hands. He nodded to Goldberg and they walked back to the lodging house.
McCoy and Goldberg had never told each other their first names, with good reason; Cookie McCoy and Spudlet Goldberg would make them hard to take seriously. Spudlet was the 14th son of Lady Goldberg, and 24th in line to the title, after Cousin Bud, who lived in the Mountains. Realising he had nothing, and would receive nothing, coupled with the wine cellar incident, he left Goldberg manor. Little did he know, that six months after entering Danhurst, the entire Goldberg family, including Bud, all died in tea-cosy related accidents. Goldberg Manor has now been bought, and is soon to be shipped to the Novogrod Basin, to be used as a 'House of Questionable Hospitality'. Lord Goldberg would have approved.
McCoy, on the other hand, had fathered over 96 children over the years. He was 28.
Goldberg and McCoy arrived at the lodging house and into the room McCoy had rented; £2 a night, and no women.
"What you got?" enquired McCoy, lighting a cigarette.
"Someone's going to kill Jimmy."
"The Emperor?" *
"What do you think?" said Goldberg with a withering look.
"This... this could be profitable." McCoy pondered, tapping the table.
"Indeed."
After a few moments, McCoy said: "I'm surprised it hasn't been dealt with. The Government have spies and informants everywhere. That guy in the alley, he was one."
"How do you know?"
"He had nothing in his pockets. Not even lint."
"Ah."
"Why he was after you, I don't know."
They sat in silence for a while, until McCoy, after taking a long drag on his cigarette, wondered aloud: "I heard something like this up in Doran, but I just dismissed it as big thoughts from bored people, this is everywhere."
"Doran, you say? Pretty out of the way I remember. Big earner with that thing about the milkmaid and the bull." Said Goldberg wryly.
McCoy shuddered and said: "I told you not to talk about that."
"Hey, you drank it. YOU chose it especially."
"I didn't know, okay?"
"You said it was the best milk you've ever tasted."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Only royal family members could be called Jimmy. (the current Emperor was Jimmy the 61st)
No-one knew when or why this tradition originated, it was just accepted. If you were called Jimmy and you were outside the royal family, you were to be punished with impersonating the Emperor, and were punished accordingly. (Being anesthetised and someone taking a cheese grater to your face.) Of course, that's all changed now. It's the parents who get it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Ugh."
"Great texture, you said." Goldberg chuckled.
"Oh screw you."
"Goodnight." Goldberg sniggered, exiting the room.
The next day, Goldberg was making tea in his room, when McCoy entered. "One for me?" he enquired.
"Any milk?" Goldberg grinned.
"Oh leave it alone." moaned McCoy, banging his head on the table.
Goldberg joined him at the table, and they sat, for many moments, until a beetle started its long crawl up the wall. They watched it climb, they watched it fall when it reached the top, they watched it climb again. A wise man may have pondered why man was here, and the point of the beetle, and would have got very philosophical. They threw crumbs at it.
McCoy sighed, and said: "We may as well leave for Crackdon* today, we got what we came for, and then some."
"I agree. Get us packed."
Later that day, Goldberg had got the horses from the stable, and McCoy had paid the rent to the landlady, they saddled up and left via the East Gate and proceeded across the plains of Dan.
There, very little happened, for five days, except corn.
They approached Crackdon, with the main gate made of balsa wood and sugar↑, passed the guards, otherwise known as people paid to literally do nothing. They ambled along Chain Street to 'Brenda's livery stables' owned by Brenda Eastwood, where they could leave their horses safely for £2. Upon entering, Brenda exclaimed: "Wickity wickity Wack! I'm gonna pimp your horses! BO!"
"Erm? just stabling, please." Said Goldberg.
"Oh. Okay." Brenda said quietly, looking downtrodden.
They proceeded to 'The Jimmy's Head' Inn, and rented two rooms. Goldberg had a 'Gut Rotter' and McCoy had a cranberry juice. They stayed until 2:30, and left for the Octogon to report their findings. (Crackdon didn't appeal to them, so they just went straight there) They walked through to market district, passed the library, down Albany Avenue and up the drive to the Octogon. There was no queue, but there never was. The huge double doors were wide open, so they walked into the great marbled hall, which was empty, save for a rubber plant in the corner. It always did to have some green. Goldberg knew this tactic, they forced you to wait for an hour standing, to put you on edge. So he just waltzed up to the wrought iron elevator? door, pulled it open, and stepped inside with McCoy. He took up the speaking tube and yelled "THIRD FLOOR!". After a moment, the elevator began move slowly upwards.
Within seconds, they were in the main reception of the building. "Good day, Mr. Goldberg." the secretary trilled. "Mr. Jones is in a meeting at the moment. He can't see you right now."
"Oh, is he now." Goldberg said coyly.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Crackdon is the capital city of Sangria. A terrible place, full of trees and modern art. There is NOTHING artistic about half a chair, with a pickaxe stuck in it, being held in place 3 feet above the ground by stuffed owl suspended from the ceiling. Nothing.
↑It shouldn't stand up, but -annoyingly- it does.
?Everyone wonders how an elevator works, its simple; there are a dozen prisoners on a big treadmill in the basement, connected to a load of gears. You simply shout into the speaking tube which floor you want to go to. See?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Goldberg turned, strode off towards the leather padded door marked 'private' and went through. McCoy took a seat in the lobby.
"Ah, we meet again, Mr Goldberg. I see you comprehend our... procedures. Got to exclude the 'riff-raff', as it were. Please, take a seat."
Mr Jones was an aging man. He had been head of 'certain interests.' for thirty years. His silver hair was slicked back and he wore a £6000 Petropolis suit. He spoke with a refined accent, and almost constantly had an eyebrow raised. Mr Jones had spent fifty years in the military, from joining up at the age of 23. He told colleagues his old age was due to fresh air and exercise.* His desk was made from the finest teak, and his mahogany chair was upholstered with genuine Dodo hide.
"It's nice to see you to, Henry. I trust you removed that problem of yours. Your... personal problem." Beamed Goldberg.
"Ye-es. It's good to be able to sit comfortably again. Thank you for your concern, spuddy." Replied Mr Jones tersely. "Anyway," he said waving his hand dismissively, "what startling revelation do you bring me today?" Jones inquired, leaning back in his seat.
Goldberg spoke at length about what he knew. Dates, times, method of execution, what Jimmy ate for breakfast and also lots of names and addresses.
"I see you know a... remarkable amount, Mr Goldberg." Said Mr Jones, standing up and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You... haven't told anyone else, have you?"
Sensing something was awry, Goldberg answered: "No. no-one."
"Alright, Mr Goldberg, I require you to come with me."
Goldberg stood up and followed. As they walked through the lobby, Goldberg made eye-contact with McCoy, and jerked his head slightly towards the elevator. McCoy's face fell, and after the two disappeared round the corner, McCoy took the lift to the ground floor, and hurriedly exited the building. He returned to the stable to find Goldbergs horse gone. "Some dudes done boughtified yo man's horse for some shiznits, dawg." Explained Brenda. McCoy left wondering why Goldberg's horse had been bought, and -more importantly- why he had been called a 'dawg'. He waited in Middle Park, overlooking the Octogon entrance. He waited all day. And the next day. And the next day. On the fourth day, McCoy left Crackdon. He knew he could never tell of what he had seen and heard, and tried to forget his only true friend.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*It was really down to a combination of meds and willpower: "I've got no time for death. There is just too much for me to do. I deem it especially perplexing that people just give up and die within eighty or so years."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So. There it is. What did you guys think?
Two things I'd like to ask for:
1: A good title. I can't for the life of my think of a good one.
2: A good ending. I was hard-pressed for time, and couldn't conclude it well.
One last thing, there appears to be some problems with apostrophes. Tell me if you spot any weird symbols in there.
Well... thanks for reading!
