Sporadica
Till next we sporadic,
Cynic
Friday, September 9, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Jumbo Blog
Due to Cynic's constraint on not letting me post one after another, insisting on keeping the alternating/circular method of posting amongst the authors, I'm going to have dates on this post on when I wrote them.
Tuesday, 9th August, 2011
Dumbasses
Anyway, the reason for the blog post title is due to one of my Psychology lectures at university.
University, a place for the highest-level education. Although, I guess first-year university students have a reason to be quite stupid, but I digress.
Psychology is a favourite first-year subject. Lots of first-years enrol in the unit expecting to learn how to react to people and get in their minds, before they realise that it's a whole lot more than that. Anyway, science students and arts students can both pick up this unit, and this results in (at my university, USYD, anyway) over a thousand students enrolling in Psychology.
Now, this lecture, on the topic of short-term memory and long-term memory, was held in a filled auditorium, which seats approximate 400 people. That's quite a lot of students listening to this lecture. To demonstrate the process of short-term memory, my lecturer decided to show random letters and asked people to memorise them, than jot them down immediately, or after a 30 second break (which is the interval that short-term memory can be held without being phonologically rehearsed), or with distractions and what not.
That's all well and good, with people surprised that they can only memorise a few letters, whilst most people fall within the magic 7 +/- 2 letter mark. I noticed a lot of people gasping, and murmuring at what I assumed was their own stupidity. But that's not my main point here.
Later on into the lecture, about 20 minutes or so, the lecturer decides to ask the auditorium if anyone can remember the first set of letters he had shown them, which almost all people would have forgotten, unless they were rehearsing those letters for 20 minutes, or if they had written them down somewhere. Myself, I had written most of them down, but I still had most of the letters stored somewhere.
Yeah, I'm not normal, but regardless, I would expect most people to be aware of the letters somewhat.
Turns out, I was sitting behind the class clown, who decides to shout out random letters confidently, for whatever reason. I knew those weren't the right letters, for I had somewhat stored those letters and I had them written down, and for the fact that it sounded like he was picking random letters, but I was astounded by the reaction.
The majority of the auditorium started to clap and murmur. I even heard a shout of 'Rain Man'. My lecturer also seemed shocked and seemed to believe that those were the letters, even though he had written out the slides himself. Now, I don't mind people trying to be funny in lectures, it adds a bit of life/colour. In fact, I'm pretty happy that the random clown decided to shout out random letters.
It allowed me to see how easily people are duped, and how frustratingly stupid a mass of people can be. I was very stupified at the response of the audience. I expected small bursts of laughter but when I heard murmurs of amazement, I was mindblown.
Although, it's most likely that I am being most highly critical here, my faith in humanity diminishes.
Wednesday, 10th August, 2011
SAMSUNG GALAXY S2
After a good day at uni, which was very productive and somewhat fulfilling, I came home to a new Galaxy S2. Absolutely stoked. Although, I don't really have the need for a really good smart phone, nor am I getting it for any sort of status, it just feels awesome to have a good phone.
And, I haven't even started using the apps yet. Already happy that my facebook contacts are in my phone, along with my google account and my email account. This phone could be really productive for me, allowing to check emails, set deadlines and stuff, whilst also being very distracting, if I download Angry Birds or Fruit Ninja.
Anyway, here are some pictures:
Saturday, 13th August, 2011:
Deja Vu
As I did last week, I went back to the mansion to spend another night with the boys. Got some photos this time around to share with you, although I am not sure if I am allowed, as it's not my house and I don't have the permission of the owners, so better keep this on the down low. Also, probably shouldn't have made a small fire, toasting marshmallows, so keep quiet about that as well. Anyway, a good way to unwind on the night. ^^
Tuesday, 9th August, 2011
Dumbasses
Anyway, the reason for the blog post title is due to one of my Psychology lectures at university.
University, a place for the highest-level education. Although, I guess first-year university students have a reason to be quite stupid, but I digress.
Psychology is a favourite first-year subject. Lots of first-years enrol in the unit expecting to learn how to react to people and get in their minds, before they realise that it's a whole lot more than that. Anyway, science students and arts students can both pick up this unit, and this results in (at my university, USYD, anyway) over a thousand students enrolling in Psychology.
Now, this lecture, on the topic of short-term memory and long-term memory, was held in a filled auditorium, which seats approximate 400 people. That's quite a lot of students listening to this lecture. To demonstrate the process of short-term memory, my lecturer decided to show random letters and asked people to memorise them, than jot them down immediately, or after a 30 second break (which is the interval that short-term memory can be held without being phonologically rehearsed), or with distractions and what not.
That's all well and good, with people surprised that they can only memorise a few letters, whilst most people fall within the magic 7 +/- 2 letter mark. I noticed a lot of people gasping, and murmuring at what I assumed was their own stupidity. But that's not my main point here.
Later on into the lecture, about 20 minutes or so, the lecturer decides to ask the auditorium if anyone can remember the first set of letters he had shown them, which almost all people would have forgotten, unless they were rehearsing those letters for 20 minutes, or if they had written them down somewhere. Myself, I had written most of them down, but I still had most of the letters stored somewhere.
Yeah, I'm not normal, but regardless, I would expect most people to be aware of the letters somewhat.
Turns out, I was sitting behind the class clown, who decides to shout out random letters confidently, for whatever reason. I knew those weren't the right letters, for I had somewhat stored those letters and I had them written down, and for the fact that it sounded like he was picking random letters, but I was astounded by the reaction.
The majority of the auditorium started to clap and murmur. I even heard a shout of 'Rain Man'. My lecturer also seemed shocked and seemed to believe that those were the letters, even though he had written out the slides himself. Now, I don't mind people trying to be funny in lectures, it adds a bit of life/colour. In fact, I'm pretty happy that the random clown decided to shout out random letters.
It allowed me to see how easily people are duped, and how frustratingly stupid a mass of people can be. I was very stupified at the response of the audience. I expected small bursts of laughter but when I heard murmurs of amazement, I was mindblown.
Although, it's most likely that I am being most highly critical here, my faith in humanity diminishes.
Wednesday, 10th August, 2011
SAMSUNG GALAXY S2
After a good day at uni, which was very productive and somewhat fulfilling, I came home to a new Galaxy S2. Absolutely stoked. Although, I don't really have the need for a really good smart phone, nor am I getting it for any sort of status, it just feels awesome to have a good phone.
And, I haven't even started using the apps yet. Already happy that my facebook contacts are in my phone, along with my google account and my email account. This phone could be really productive for me, allowing to check emails, set deadlines and stuff, whilst also being very distracting, if I download Angry Birds or Fruit Ninja.
Anyway, here are some pictures:
Saturday, 13th August, 2011:
Deja Vu
As I did last week, I went back to the mansion to spend another night with the boys. Got some photos this time around to share with you, although I am not sure if I am allowed, as it's not my house and I don't have the permission of the owners, so better keep this on the down low. Also, probably shouldn't have made a small fire, toasting marshmallows, so keep quiet about that as well. Anyway, a good way to unwind on the night. ^^
Friday, August 12, 2011
Get in that Ass
Sporadica
As I predicted, the resumption of university has resulted in the necessary hiatus of my short story project. Although I do hope to continue writing in lull periods, it does seem like it will be a while before I reach one. Again I hope this doesn't deter you from staying invested in the story. If you do nothing else, I recommend re-reading the first four parts at some point just to refamiliarise yourself with the events and maybe even some of the stylistic features which I feel, correctly or otherwise, may have been slightly neglected upon first reading.
This edition of Sporadica contains another laugh-inducing video and also the textual representation of some of my thoughts.
Video:
Thoughts:
This edition's Stream-of Consciousness rambling concerns an issue that many people hold very dearly to their hearts. You guessed it, I'm talking about Asian iced tea and other assorted beverage chains. In the past two weeks, I have discovered the existence of three stores belonging to separate franchises concentrated around the Broadway Shopping Centre area. To all those familiar with the area, or University of Sydney students, you know I'm of course talking about the overly optimistcally named EasyWay, its deceptively talkative competitor Chatime and the ridiculously anthropromorphic Happy Lemon.
My personal belief is that if the fantastically eclectic and diverse Newtown area that King St runs through needs one thing, it would be any combination if not all of these outlets being represented on the walk to the station or indeed stretching into the Enmore area. It is an area that severely lacks in any such portable beverage establishment, with the only store present being the utterly lacklustre juice franchise named after a Cadbury chocolate bar. My hope is that one will be incorporated into the current renovations of Newtown station, but failing that, I hope at least one pops up sometime before I no longer traverse that street on a regular basis due to no longer having to go to uni.
A comment poll for you readers:
Given the choices of EasyWay, Chatime and Happy Lemon, how would you rank them, and what would your favourite beverage of all time at your favourite establishment of the three of all time be now and of all time?
Till next we sporadic,
Cynic
As I predicted, the resumption of university has resulted in the necessary hiatus of my short story project. Although I do hope to continue writing in lull periods, it does seem like it will be a while before I reach one. Again I hope this doesn't deter you from staying invested in the story. If you do nothing else, I recommend re-reading the first four parts at some point just to refamiliarise yourself with the events and maybe even some of the stylistic features which I feel, correctly or otherwise, may have been slightly neglected upon first reading.
This edition of Sporadica contains another laugh-inducing video and also the textual representation of some of my thoughts.
Video:
Thoughts:
This edition's Stream-of Consciousness rambling concerns an issue that many people hold very dearly to their hearts. You guessed it, I'm talking about Asian iced tea and other assorted beverage chains. In the past two weeks, I have discovered the existence of three stores belonging to separate franchises concentrated around the Broadway Shopping Centre area. To all those familiar with the area, or University of Sydney students, you know I'm of course talking about the overly optimistcally named EasyWay, its deceptively talkative competitor Chatime and the ridiculously anthropromorphic Happy Lemon.
My personal belief is that if the fantastically eclectic and diverse Newtown area that King St runs through needs one thing, it would be any combination if not all of these outlets being represented on the walk to the station or indeed stretching into the Enmore area. It is an area that severely lacks in any such portable beverage establishment, with the only store present being the utterly lacklustre juice franchise named after a Cadbury chocolate bar. My hope is that one will be incorporated into the current renovations of Newtown station, but failing that, I hope at least one pops up sometime before I no longer traverse that street on a regular basis due to no longer having to go to uni.
A comment poll for you readers:
Given the choices of EasyWay, Chatime and Happy Lemon, how would you rank them, and what would your favourite beverage of all time at your favourite establishment of the three of all time be now and of all time?
Till next we sporadic,
Cynic
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Whoops.
Yeah, so I haven't blogged in over a couple weeks now. My bad. It's been a combination of not much to blog about and not finding a good time just to write a bit. As a consequence I've pretty much forgotten what I've done over two weeks.
Anyway, just to fill you in on what I remember doing:
Can't remember much else. And got uni work to do.
Anyway, catch ya later.
Anyway, just to fill you in on what I remember doing:
- Started uni two weeks ago, and totally loving catching up with friends and playing lots of pool, rather than being bored at home, like I had been during the holidays.
- Eating this at a nifty Japanese restaurant just near my uni:
- Spent a night with friends in a $4 million dollar mansion, with a fire to spend all night sitting around and talking, as well as a snooker table. Woke up to a Macca's breakfast. I had totally forgotten how good those Hash Browns could be. Had not had one for years.
Can't remember much else. And got uni work to do.
Anyway, catch ya later.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Is That A Deer?
Good Evening all. We are Geri and Freki, two friends of Cynic Flawfinder and Ngiammy and have been invited by the two previous owners of this blog to contribute things to it. We were told we must make contextual paragraphs to introduce our work, but we being wolves are not funny at all, and we don't believe that our jokes translate effectively from the Lupine languages (yes, plural).
So we decided to write a human story, as we don't believe that humans would understand the intricacies of the Lupine yarn, as it is not yarn at all but stories (really - how could such things as yarn be linked to tales) and are much longer due to the fact that humans DO NOT HAVE TAILS. But setting aside clumsy puns, we shall endeavour to write a boring human story about boring human things. There may be bear fighting and vikings in there. We haven't decided yet.
A pinstripe suit marched through the darkness. Dark black, with splinters of a dark grey. Looking from behind he was thin – the kind of thin which made parents worry but was completely unremarkable to others. The pinstripes only exaggerated it, that and an unnaturally uneven gait gave his back a certain hunger. It definitely didn’t communicate vulnerability – the shoulders were thrust back and the left arm hung by his side in a sort of poise which told of a bodily awareness ready to move at unnatural speed. But he was wearing black, and was thin. Which is probably why I hit him with my car.
It wasn’t raining, nor had it been for some time. The sky was too bright, and the pale orange clouds hung in the night reflecting the lights of Sydney in an insipid sheen. So much for clear skies and stars. But there wasn’t much else to place faith in anymore, the weatherman seemed as good a choice as any. At least he was predictable, punctual and well-dressed. It didn’t really matter I guess – most of the sky was blotted by a leaf canopy which couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be Australian or European – the gum trees swayed gently next to the deeper green shades. But he wouldn’t have seen it either, because while it hadn’t rained for some time he still had an umbrella poised above his head, as to block out the orange sky or the street lights which stood vigil not often enough.
Watching from behind I could make out a mane of dark brown hair resting gently on the collar of the jacket. That’s how I knew he wasn’t in business. Business people have different hair. His was too thick and too long to be foppish, but if you’d slammed someone’s face between two halves of a hardcover Austen until they believed they were caught somewhere in the nineteenth century that’s how it would probably end up. I could almost hear it swish in his ears with each step. But a slightly odd swish due to his shortened right step. An almost metallic grating of individual hair on hair. As if they decided to mirror the foliage around.
The hair and the umbrella are important because one ended up in the front grill of my car and the other ended up on the bonnet.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
You can’t really summon the energy to be legitimately surprised at three in the morning, just as for some reason my brain couldn’t summon the capacity to swerve the car and apply the brakes and kind of just sat there marvelling at the spectacle of a little blood trickling down my windshield.
And I can’t even put the windscreen wipers on because there’s a body on my windshield.
But then the intelligent part of my brain pushed through the doona of a couple of drinks. Brakes were applied with vigour and hands clenched on the wheel. The flaw in this plan became apparent as the head then vanished towards the front of the vehicle. But not before I’d come to a complete stop.
Without the body on the windscreen it would have been easy to completely ignore the incident. Just hit the wipers, douse the screen with cleaner and take off. The dent in the bonnet? Oh some teenagers jumped on the front of the car while I was at the pub. Yeah, bloody teenagers. Well I might have got it fixed, but apparently it’s not the kind which can simply be un-dented – I’d have to replace the bonnet completely and my insurance minimum is too high to cover it and I don’t have that much hanging about.
The engine was cluttering and the headlights hovered on the road. But I could make out the silhouette of something cresting the curb on the left hand gutter. The flickering of a curtain of hair. The pommel of an umbrella resting on the side of a house on the right. Plus the static electricity running my arms, the thick glue clumping on the inside of my ribcage and the claws which had suddenly replaced my hands and were tearing away at the steering wheel. I wasn’t entirely sure whether I was in shock or whether the shock was in me. Or whether the alcohol had extended my metaphors to uncomfortable places.
There was a momentary fermata as everything simply hovered. Then the door clunked open and I was out in the street.
“Holy crap.” The man sat with his back to the bumper of the car, holding his head in his left hand.
I stopped, once more. “Are you okay?”
He looked at me without moving his head, brown eyes glaring with determined irritation. “What do you think you stupid clot? You hit me with a goddam car. I’m pretty sure I should be dead.”
I found myself agreeing with him. I was driving slowly, of course, it would be irresponsible to drive quickly when drunk but still...I peered over at the windscreen to confirm the narrow trail of blood which was congealing on the glass.
He managed to get on his feet and sat on the bonnet of the car, left hand still on his head, right hand reaching blindly for the umbrella which was mangled into uselessness. His front mirrored his back – the near-foppish Romantic hair hanging loosely over his eyes, a face which was slightly too thin to be handsome and a chin which seemed to have been formed using a set square. Not in a heroic sense, like some idiotic action hero whose disproportionate face should lend them incapable of most feats of coordination, but some arrogant jutting which framed the current fierce aggravation. Lowering his hand he exhaled, breathing a plume of mist into the air.
“Yeah I’m alright.” Rubbing his back he managed to get to his feet. This time he deigned to turn his head to grab me with a glare. “Drive safely.”
With that he continued to walk down the road, his journey now taking on a swerving and tottering route. I quickly jogged over.
“You can’t seriously be walking home after being hit by a car are you?” He seemed entirely serious, in both his conviction to walk and his conviction to wholeheartedly ignore me. “You can’t walk – you should go to a hospital or something.”
Again he simply ignored me and continued tottering along the road. I grabbed him by the arm and immediately recognised it as a mistake. A snarl marred his face as he whirled about. Now it was not irritation, it was downright anger. The conductor this evening was a little too Romantic for my taste. Another pregnant pause disrupted the exchange.
Both of us were waiting for the other. His lip slowly quivered its way down and his face resumed a look of restraint, with all of the physical effort it appeared he could muster. His hands had curved into talons and his right foot vibrated far too rapidly to be considered tapping. Lowering his head, two angry eyes shot anger indiscriminately across the road.
He gripped my wrist tightly and removed my hand from his arm. “I need to get home.”
What a bastard. I just let him go – what could you do in a situation like that? He tottered off up the road, and despite my headlights I quickly lost sight of the black suit and the walking mop that inhabited it. I inspected the damage to the car. It wasn’t bad; I could probably drive it for a while and it would be fine. Giving the windscreen a quick blast of fluid, I started the ignition and my car trundled along.
This time it was a blind corner. At a T-junction on Bradfield Road, where the lax arms of some evergreen reached down to the road, to pick it up and show it the view over the rooves of suburbia. On the other side some square concrete-coloured monstrosity had barrelled its way to the nature strip and obstinately squatted there, leering from beneath a slate-coloured brow and with blackened patio teeth. There wasn’t a streetlight either. But I sat there for a good twenty seconds, and considering how time stretches the closer to dawn one gets I calculated it to be at least four minutes.
There was a thump.
And this time there was no pause – the conductor, noticing a slightly green and sickly looking clarinet player is rushing this evening towards its final destination. He stood up immediately, hands on the bonnet as it to simply push it beneath the tarmac, brown hair waving very slowly - understanding it was an awkward moment – and eyes red and gleaming. A plume of mist barrelled up to the sky as he yelled through the glass.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Enjoy the cliffhanger humans, because it will take us a while to write the next section, as we have paws which are not compatible with keyboards. Which is sadly why there will be no Chopin to accompany this.
Geri & Freki
So we decided to write a human story, as we don't believe that humans would understand the intricacies of the Lupine yarn, as it is not yarn at all but stories (really - how could such things as yarn be linked to tales) and are much longer due to the fact that humans DO NOT HAVE TAILS. But setting aside clumsy puns, we shall endeavour to write a boring human story about boring human things. There may be bear fighting and vikings in there. We haven't decided yet.
A pinstripe suit marched through the darkness. Dark black, with splinters of a dark grey. Looking from behind he was thin – the kind of thin which made parents worry but was completely unremarkable to others. The pinstripes only exaggerated it, that and an unnaturally uneven gait gave his back a certain hunger. It definitely didn’t communicate vulnerability – the shoulders were thrust back and the left arm hung by his side in a sort of poise which told of a bodily awareness ready to move at unnatural speed. But he was wearing black, and was thin. Which is probably why I hit him with my car.
It wasn’t raining, nor had it been for some time. The sky was too bright, and the pale orange clouds hung in the night reflecting the lights of Sydney in an insipid sheen. So much for clear skies and stars. But there wasn’t much else to place faith in anymore, the weatherman seemed as good a choice as any. At least he was predictable, punctual and well-dressed. It didn’t really matter I guess – most of the sky was blotted by a leaf canopy which couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be Australian or European – the gum trees swayed gently next to the deeper green shades. But he wouldn’t have seen it either, because while it hadn’t rained for some time he still had an umbrella poised above his head, as to block out the orange sky or the street lights which stood vigil not often enough.
Watching from behind I could make out a mane of dark brown hair resting gently on the collar of the jacket. That’s how I knew he wasn’t in business. Business people have different hair. His was too thick and too long to be foppish, but if you’d slammed someone’s face between two halves of a hardcover Austen until they believed they were caught somewhere in the nineteenth century that’s how it would probably end up. I could almost hear it swish in his ears with each step. But a slightly odd swish due to his shortened right step. An almost metallic grating of individual hair on hair. As if they decided to mirror the foliage around.
The hair and the umbrella are important because one ended up in the front grill of my car and the other ended up on the bonnet.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
You can’t really summon the energy to be legitimately surprised at three in the morning, just as for some reason my brain couldn’t summon the capacity to swerve the car and apply the brakes and kind of just sat there marvelling at the spectacle of a little blood trickling down my windshield.
And I can’t even put the windscreen wipers on because there’s a body on my windshield.
But then the intelligent part of my brain pushed through the doona of a couple of drinks. Brakes were applied with vigour and hands clenched on the wheel. The flaw in this plan became apparent as the head then vanished towards the front of the vehicle. But not before I’d come to a complete stop.
Without the body on the windscreen it would have been easy to completely ignore the incident. Just hit the wipers, douse the screen with cleaner and take off. The dent in the bonnet? Oh some teenagers jumped on the front of the car while I was at the pub. Yeah, bloody teenagers. Well I might have got it fixed, but apparently it’s not the kind which can simply be un-dented – I’d have to replace the bonnet completely and my insurance minimum is too high to cover it and I don’t have that much hanging about.
The engine was cluttering and the headlights hovered on the road. But I could make out the silhouette of something cresting the curb on the left hand gutter. The flickering of a curtain of hair. The pommel of an umbrella resting on the side of a house on the right. Plus the static electricity running my arms, the thick glue clumping on the inside of my ribcage and the claws which had suddenly replaced my hands and were tearing away at the steering wheel. I wasn’t entirely sure whether I was in shock or whether the shock was in me. Or whether the alcohol had extended my metaphors to uncomfortable places.
There was a momentary fermata as everything simply hovered. Then the door clunked open and I was out in the street.
“Holy crap.” The man sat with his back to the bumper of the car, holding his head in his left hand.
I stopped, once more. “Are you okay?”
He looked at me without moving his head, brown eyes glaring with determined irritation. “What do you think you stupid clot? You hit me with a goddam car. I’m pretty sure I should be dead.”
I found myself agreeing with him. I was driving slowly, of course, it would be irresponsible to drive quickly when drunk but still...I peered over at the windscreen to confirm the narrow trail of blood which was congealing on the glass.
He managed to get on his feet and sat on the bonnet of the car, left hand still on his head, right hand reaching blindly for the umbrella which was mangled into uselessness. His front mirrored his back – the near-foppish Romantic hair hanging loosely over his eyes, a face which was slightly too thin to be handsome and a chin which seemed to have been formed using a set square. Not in a heroic sense, like some idiotic action hero whose disproportionate face should lend them incapable of most feats of coordination, but some arrogant jutting which framed the current fierce aggravation. Lowering his hand he exhaled, breathing a plume of mist into the air.
“Yeah I’m alright.” Rubbing his back he managed to get to his feet. This time he deigned to turn his head to grab me with a glare. “Drive safely.”
With that he continued to walk down the road, his journey now taking on a swerving and tottering route. I quickly jogged over.
“You can’t seriously be walking home after being hit by a car are you?” He seemed entirely serious, in both his conviction to walk and his conviction to wholeheartedly ignore me. “You can’t walk – you should go to a hospital or something.”
Again he simply ignored me and continued tottering along the road. I grabbed him by the arm and immediately recognised it as a mistake. A snarl marred his face as he whirled about. Now it was not irritation, it was downright anger. The conductor this evening was a little too Romantic for my taste. Another pregnant pause disrupted the exchange.
Both of us were waiting for the other. His lip slowly quivered its way down and his face resumed a look of restraint, with all of the physical effort it appeared he could muster. His hands had curved into talons and his right foot vibrated far too rapidly to be considered tapping. Lowering his head, two angry eyes shot anger indiscriminately across the road.
He gripped my wrist tightly and removed my hand from his arm. “I need to get home.”
What a bastard. I just let him go – what could you do in a situation like that? He tottered off up the road, and despite my headlights I quickly lost sight of the black suit and the walking mop that inhabited it. I inspected the damage to the car. It wasn’t bad; I could probably drive it for a while and it would be fine. Giving the windscreen a quick blast of fluid, I started the ignition and my car trundled along.
This time it was a blind corner. At a T-junction on Bradfield Road, where the lax arms of some evergreen reached down to the road, to pick it up and show it the view over the rooves of suburbia. On the other side some square concrete-coloured monstrosity had barrelled its way to the nature strip and obstinately squatted there, leering from beneath a slate-coloured brow and with blackened patio teeth. There wasn’t a streetlight either. But I sat there for a good twenty seconds, and considering how time stretches the closer to dawn one gets I calculated it to be at least four minutes.
There was a thump.
And this time there was no pause – the conductor, noticing a slightly green and sickly looking clarinet player is rushing this evening towards its final destination. He stood up immediately, hands on the bonnet as it to simply push it beneath the tarmac, brown hair waving very slowly - understanding it was an awkward moment – and eyes red and gleaming. A plume of mist barrelled up to the sky as he yelled through the glass.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Enjoy the cliffhanger humans, because it will take us a while to write the next section, as we have paws which are not compatible with keyboards. Which is sadly why there will be no Chopin to accompany this.
Geri & Freki
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