Well, Michael Aranda is pretty awesome.
Just thought I'd share...
Stuff 'n stuff.
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You know what I'm gonna do? I'm going to start a story or something. Just sort of randomly, and it's probably not going to work, but I just feel like it. It'll just be practice or something. Or, more like torture for my readers.
Ahem. So. I guess a lot of times I get these random quotes or snippets of a name or characteristic of a character or something. I write them down with a pencil on some paper, pretty messily. They're just ideas, they don't have to add up to anything.... yet. Sometimes I'll go back and stare in bewilderment, wondering what the heck I was talking about. I need a plot. I could always go with a generic one, just some variation of bad vs. evil. Wait... wait... argh. There was a perchancidea (oh yes, I did just make up that word just this second- perchance + idea; you think you might be on the right road towards some sort of idea, but then it sort of flitters feebly and dies. I'm left with a wide expanse again). Okay I've got a quote... but I had a... WAIT.
Come on ideas, you best be flowing or I'll come over there and...
THIS IS FRUSTRATING. HOW CAN I LINK THAT TO THAT!??!?! THERE MUST BE A WAY! Or maybe I can just not use that... but it's such a good idea! Okay okay... so.. murder? Maaaaybbbee.... some sort of a trip? A different world? No no... present day should be good.
Waiiitttt.... waiiitttttttttttttttttttt..........dang it.
WAIT. I think I got something. It's slightly generic and expected, but you never know. Besides, it's not like this has to be a masterpiece.
I'm just going to start with the quote and we'll see how it goes. Enjoy? Oh and.. just to make it "interesting", I'll maybe put stuff in italics to mean the "author's" (as in me) thoughts, like how I got there or whatever. Just... just whatever.
Some sort of Chapter One thing
"Are you calling me a murder, Mr. (argh I need a good name! think...) Hillergag? Surely," Mr. Mewlin squinted his eyes so that they resembled a thin electricity line hanging in a bleak sky (terrible, just a terrible metaphor), "you know of my recent past as a doorknob salesman, so how could I possibly have murdered someone?" He spoke it softly but with a sly underbelly, so as to intimidate and distact the frail Mr. Hillergag. Then he laughed, nervously but still with a cold stare.
The thing about Mr. Hillergag, however, was that he somehow seemed to think everyone was a salad. "There are all kinds," he would say, "but they are always green. Always. And I have not met ANY, not one, that lived in New Hampshire." Therefore, he did not understand how Mr. Mewlin could possibly be anything but a mass of tossed green leaves, perhaps mixed with a mustard or vinegar and olive oil dressing, preferably served with bread on the side and with a glass of nice French wine. Whenever he feels defied or confused, as he did now, he always scrunches up his mouth, holds his breath for a few seconds, and replies with a rushed voice, "The carrots! The carrots! Speckle them on top! Buy! Buy! Sell! Sell! It's a fork!!! A fork, I tell you! Not to cut the leaves!!!!!"
After blinking for several seconds, Mr. Mewlin walked away and continued on to sell his doorknobs, shaking his head and muttering things about salads and restraining orders. Mr. Hillergag calmed down for a moment and then ran out of the building, suddenly overcome with energy. The street was paved with lots of people, all bustling to do their business. Many carried briefcases and wore fancy clothes, clearing their throats politely to themselves and then checking their cell phones/pagers/whatever the heck they have.
Just then, as Mr. Hillergag burst out of the glass doors, which had doorknobs labeled Mewlin Doorknob Enterprise, a crack much like an aged grandma biting into an apple erupted from Up There and liquid poetry crashed down on the clothed shoulders of all the people Down There, which caused a very coreographed motion. One of the men walking about with his briefcase and black socks (he was wearing more than that, of course) grunted, looked up at the sky and grabbed for his umbrella under his arm. The people behind him did the same, as well as the people in front.
"You're all bloody salad!!! Salad, I tell you!" And now, all of the umbrella-d rich folks turned to the new disturbance, which of course was Mr. Hillergag yelling and pointing at them in the street. He leaned down on the cement, his knees immediately soaked with the wet rain and started whimpering.
"Actually sir," a greyish figure, dark and obscure-looking, because of the heavy rain, loomed up next to the groveling man and spoke with a slightly strained voice, "I rather think of myself as a cardboard box,"
Mr. Hillergag looked up, and at first didn't notice who spoke, seeing as it was very short. The other people with their identical umbrellas and briefcases had now moved on, and made a mental note to not order salad for lunch today. The speaker turned out to be a.. a fish. A trout, to be exact.
"A... a cardboard box?" The salad-crazed man examined the trout, a new feeling of hope washing over him.
"Well, not really. But my father graduated from the University of Cardboard Boxe University, so I sort of take after him," He added a smile, his blue-green scales, partially hidden because of his brown tie, sparkling for a second as a cloud opened up to allow a yellow ray of warmth shed down even in the rain. He did not look much like a fish, really, but it still passed off in customs. His voice sounded like a human's, actually.
"'Boxe' with an e?" Mr. Hillergag stood up now, his whole face streaming with rain drops.
"Yes. In fact, that is the correct spelling of box. The whole world is actually in a state of utter ignorance. What's your name?"
Mr. Hillergag stared. He stared for nearly an hour; a talking trout. Asking his name. But the fact was, Mr. Hillergag wasn't insane- he just acted this way to get into books and stories. He was really a genius, and the reason he made himself stare at the trout was just for looks. He wasn't surprised at all; so many things like this rare occurence had happened in books, and he wasn't the least bit startled at weird or strange things happened.. in real life.
The trout proved to have an unbelievably long attention span and not to mention amount of patience. By the time Mr. Hillergag found it long enough to act dazed, which was nearly 2 and a half hours, the salad that the people that had been called salad that they did not in fact order had gotten cold.
"Morrison Hillergag. And you?"
The trout looked pleased with this conversation, straightened his tie with his fins and replied, "Fraser. Fraser Gibson. And by the way, I'm a door salestrout. You know, like a door salesman but I'm a trout."
"Ah. Ah yes. I'm not really anything, except I tend to be in a lot of books," Morrison was now on his feet, not caring to brush off his wet clothes since it was still pouring, or minding the stares he was still getting from passersby.
"Books, you say?" the trout looked interested, and came to join his new friend on a nearby bench. Bleak rain drops bounced off the wood, leaving murky puddles and a pitter patter sound.
"Well, yes. I tend to be in the background of them, acting as those surprised or frightened people. For example, d'you remember those James Bond books? I was one of those screaming, running away people when the bomb was going to go off." He looked thoughtfully out at the nearby buildings, and then a thought struck him.
"Hey, how are you breathing air?" he asked Fraser with wide, sceptical eyes.
"Me? Oh yes well-" but the mysterious trout could not give his answer, as Mr. Mewlin had suddenly reappeared at that moment, and at his side was a police man.
Chapter Two or whatever shall come later.. one of these days. I sort of just felt like stopping. Remember now, this is just a first draft! I hope I actually continue this, though...
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