Today I’ve been doing things that I should have done ages ago. Back in November I wrote about freelancing. Today I purchased the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook 2009 and in the next few months I’m going to being trying to get some of my writing published.
Back in December I complained about how my monthly Vodafone bill fluctuated wildly. Today I sorted it out (from now on I should only pay £17 a month).
In January it was my birthday, today I’m finally getting around to writing thank you notes to all the elderly relatives that sent me money.
I’m starting to research universities for next year and I’ve also been looking into work experience at the BBC. Below is a story I started writing in January. Unless your name is Gingell, Scribble or Baines you probably won’t find it very funny. Instead may I suggest this or, if you’re not on Twitter, you could have a look at this.
Scribs tended to get overprotective of the red wine
I’ve always thought of LiveJournal as a place where angsty teenagers who enjoy listening to Marilyn Manson can go and cut themselves in peace. I was wrong, there are normal people on there too. Well, maybe normal is an overstatement but both of my housemates have LJ accounts.
The other day Baines posted the following story on hers;
Trapped in Trentham… Little Red Riding Scribs…
The promise of fresh air and exercise was too much for young Scribble to resist, he bounded joyously to the car and strapped himself in eagerly waiting for Sai to get into the car and drive them, Claire and himself, to Trentham.
The cold air whipped through his hair as he bounded along beside Sai and Claire towards the lakeside, after stopping to sit in a deckchair for a photo opportunity they continued on this healthy calorie burning expedition.
His excitement at this intriguing ‘outdoor world’ was hard to disguise as he trotted along beside the pair, this strange new environment before him was begging to be explored. He listened intently as the girls talked of the monkeys that lived just beyond the fence on his right and the little ducks laughing at the lakeside to his left.
‘Fresh air smells odd,’ he thought as he walked through the gooey, mulch clad pathway. The forest closed in further making the pathway more secluded, the lake became barely visible beyond the undergrowth. Now and again the conversation would subside and he would be left to listen to their footsteps and the variety of small animals and tree sounds around him.
In a blinding flash of orange Scribble was thrown to the floor. Something large, an animal of some kind had knocked him several feet to the ground. He lay there for several seconds bracing himself for whatever was coming next. After thirty seconds of silent nothingness he opened one eye, then the other. Slowly he got up, brushing himself down. He found for some reason he was wearing a red hooded cloak and had a basket of shopping from Sainsbury’s on his arm. He fought the strange urge to continue to the nearest house with the basket and scanned the area for signs of the strange thing that had knocked him to the ground.
This is the second installment of Baines’ story, here’s how I would have continued the story;
The Further Adventures of Little Red Riding Scribs (A Modern Day Tragedy in Two Parts)
There, just amongst the trees, was the briefest flash of orange and, before he could tell them no, Scribs’ feet began to head towards it, a sandy path rushing to greet them.
Scribble knew he should probably miss his housemates, and one day he was sure he would, but for now his head was filled with exotic fantasies; exotic fantasies that involved spending a week in his dressing gown, using only one mug for tea for the rest of his life and never switching off the tv pilot light again. By the time his thoughts had turned to non-tessellating table arrangements Scribs was unable to contain his glee and he began to skip along the path whistling show tunes, a stupid grin plastered across his pale little face.
The twisty-turny path led little Scribs far away from the mist covered field and deep into the dark heart of the forest. Where there were once bunny rabbits and bluebirds there were now gnarled trees with claw like limbs and omniously glowing toadstools that were bigger than Scribble’s head. Soon he could no longer see the sky and, shivering as the bitter wind cut through him, he began to panic. Turning around suddenly Scribble realised he could no longer see the path and his footprints, sorry footwear impressions, had vanished. A big greasy raindrop navigated its way through the branches and slipped down Scribble’s back, provoking a girlish squeal.
It was at the exact same moment that Scribs began to curse himself for not leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that he walked face first into the wall of a gingerbread cottage. It wasn’t a bad cottage but Scribs could easily think of five frosting colours that would have co-ordinated better.
Rushing inside to escape the rain Scribs found himself in complete darkness, a pair of hungry looking yellow eyes staring back at him. “Red Riding Hood, is that you?” said a husky male voice.
“Nope, it’s me, Scribs.” said Scribs (okay that part was redundant).
Seconds after the last syllable left his lips something hard slammed into Scribble’s head knocking him to the ground. It was at this point that Scribble decided to turn on the lights.
An angry looking orange wolf squeezed into a pink nightie and night cap was propped up in a quilted bed by half a dozen pillows. At Scribble’s feet was a thick yellowing script, the title page reading “Raunchy Red Gets Down and Dirty with Granny.”
“That is not how it goes.” said the wolf, obviously put out. “I say ‘Red Riding Hood, is that you?’ and you say, ‘Why yes Granny, I’ve wandered through the big bad forest to bring you these goodies from Sainsbury’s.’” The wolf sighed, “It’s on page nine.”
Scribs was speechless.
The wolf continued, “Then you say ‘Why granny what big ears you have.’ and…”
“You’ve eaten both of my housemates and now you want me to take part in some kind of twisted cross-dressing inter-species role-play? Doesn’t something about all of this strike you as wrong? This is a children’s book after all.”
And with that the orange wolf opened his jaw wide and in one swift movement swallowed Scribs whole.
“Scribs Om Nom Nom.” said the wolf, whose second favourite thing in the whole wide world, after twisted cross-dressing inter-species role-play, was internet memes.
THE END
The moral of this story children is twofold; never trust a ginger and never go outside.
1 Response to “The Adventures of Little Red Riding Scribs”
I'm a Stoke-on-Trent based blogger, journalist and semi-productive member of society. This blog is a record of my successes and failures as I try and complete life-improving challenges suggested to me by readers.
ha! literary genius!