The Empty House (illustrated)

Year 7 Literacy, just a way of expanding upon description. I don't think it's very good. Spelling errors remain, possibly for historical reference. It's not that I'm lazy.

Wednesday 18th March 2009, onwards.

The Empty House

Outside the house there was a garden. There were hundreds of slugs. Slipping was inventiable inevenitable. The overgrown weeds stung like hell. The grass was so tall that it was near impossible to find your way around. The only help was nettles. The stinging made us jump because it hurt so much, and so we got a brief glance at the house number: No. 10.

As we rang the bell, and did a very sounding like a shriek, we found out nobody was in. And there wasn't any vechiles anywhere, and they surely couldn't walk anywhere. And it wasn't the weather fort going out. Luckily, I had some good key hacking skills, but rust was flying everywhere. Inside, I glanced at the damp walls. The floor boards creaked as I walked. The paint had washed away. The wallpaper had nearly peeled of completely. I decided to walk upstairs.
 
We walked up the never-ending stairs. We glanced at some sepia pictures of a family who have been deceased for years. There was a little boy lolipop wearing a blazer, a white shirt and grey trousers, a small girl wearing a straw hat and dress, a father in their late 50s wearing a suit and a mother wearing a dress. The steps creaked every time we moved. The wallpaper was peeling off. After many minutes of climbing, we arrived up stairs.

We entered a bedroom. I looked at myself in a cracked mirror. There was a cup of tea on a seat, freezing cold. Cobwebs were hanging from the ceiling. I then smelt a disgusting, putrid aroma. I thought someone had guffed until I saw the bed sheets, covered in urine. I decided to leave the bedroom and climb up to the attic.

When I entered, I nearly fell through a hole in the attics. Owls and bats flew out of cracked windows. I spotted an old, wooden, golden chest. I tried to unlock it, but, then, suddenly, the floor collapsed and I fell through.

My friend called 999 and I was rushed to hospital. I hoped I was alright.

© 2009 Peter Webb

A Superior Economy Grew

Thursday 8th October 2009.

This is a poem I wrote for World Poetry Day in 2009 at a school event at lunchtime. I've posted an audio version before on YouTube, which is now no longer online. It features the tale of a character of mine, Mr. Fuggleboppins, who appeared in some of my creative works between 2009 and 2010.  This character name became my username on a few sites. Another 2009 character of mine, Celio the Dragon, also appears; his original epic story I'll be posting soon. Typos remain here, as always, so yes I know 'business' is spelt incorrectly in every instance.

On a planet far away from ours,
a superior economy grew.
And on that planet was a buisnessman,
who was completely covered in blue.
 
He was popular among local bars,
and had drunk a pint or two.
He had struck a deal,
so he could heal,
a lost glass robot army.
 
Many people thought he was barmy,
but he could do it,
unless he got hit,
by his biggest enemy.
 
And so they fought,
blood spurting everywhere,
but he got burnt by a ball of fire.
That enemy was a dragon named Celio,
who came from another dimension.

 His underbelly got sliced,
and priced to a fellow auctioneer.
And so the project started,
with help from the planet's leader.
 
The glass was cheaper,
you see fellow reader,
but the robots managed to invade.
London got obliterated,
but the robots were shattered by the police.

 The army was destroyed,
the project was ruined,
and the buisnessman almost cried.
 
He tried to regain profit through various ways,
and he built a secret fairground.
But that was in Blackpool,
and he tripped over a beach ball,
and the buisnessman's name was Mr. Fuggleboppins.

© 2009 Peter Webb

Ebenezer Scrooge (illustrated)

Year Nine English. This isn't really a short story, more a fictional biography. This retells, and adds greatly, to the backstory of Ebenezer Scrooge, if he were an older man of the Twentieth Century, not the Nineteenth. There's some sketches too.

Wednesday 8th December 2010.

Ebenezer Scrooge

Ebenezer Scrooge was born on December 25th, 1944. He came from a German background, though living in England, and become much hated by his fellow people. He faced many hardships post-war whilst growing up in school, frequently bullied, and at the age of 14 he left, and joined his father for a course in business studies. Following this course, he became out of work, and spent the following years living off his Beatles-obsessed girlfriend, but, in 1971, she left him, after discovering that he had pawned in her original '1 of -' copy of The White Album, so he could set up a company with his best friend, Jacob Marley. After multiple unrecorded tax evasions, he had earnt enough money to set up the business, in 1975. Several decades later, his tax scam was discovered, and his both work and sexual partner, Jacob Marley, comitted suicide. Let out to attend the funeral, he scammed both his deceased partner and the police, thus allowing him to continue as a free man. Through the business he earned a fortune, and yet his record-breaking amount was never recorded in records, and so to keep the unearned title, he lived as a poor man, and spent little. He soon assisted the help of a Robert Crachitt, a family man, to work in his bank. However, Robert regretted this, and became a member of the poor, living with his family inside the cheapest flat available. With his wealth, Scrooge's hatred has returned, with even his family and friends bad mouthing him.

© 2010 Peter Webb

Mary Maloney to the Slaughter - Draft Plans

Mary Maloney - 40 Years On

It is 1992. Mary Maloney is a depressed and single woman in her mid-60s watching her television in the house where she murdered her husband in 1952. She keeps the bone as a trophy on her wall. She keeps a steady supply of whiskey in the fridge. Her favourite foods are cheese and lamb. She used to be married to Sam the grocer, and she watches MTV. A 1992 song about lambs sparks her memory of the incident. Her daughter is a lesbian with mental issues due to consumption of whiskey as a foetus, and is overweight from eating lamb. Her Mary's father is living in a retirement home taking lots of prescribed drugs. She has a Macintosh where she looks at child porn and information about murders. She goes to knitting club with her Granny friends in town and has escaped the noose. She is not eligible for a pension and she plays the Texas Chainsaw Massacre on the NES. She is attempting to build a working copy of HAL from 2001: a Space Odyssey. She walks through the graveyard where her husband is buried and listens to Elvis vinyls. She smuggles cocaine. She works for Sainsbury's, built on the location of the grocery. She keeps in contact with Sam by email. She watches Poroit/Miss Marple on BBC One |(see idents on Survival DVD)| Add 1990's pop culture. She likes listening to the Blues. She has no mobile phone. A policewan (sic, policewoman) telephones her to tell her new evidence has arisen from the incident - a possibal possible murder weapon - a rotting 1950s baseball bat in seen in her garden by a neighbour. She also likes to watch BBC News. She drives a 1990s car.

She saw a documentary about the last British hanging the previous night. Policewoman telephones her to tell her the murder weapon has been found - a baseball bat with stains of blood rotting in her back garden.

Mary Maloney to the Slaughter

Again in the original format; only in paragraphs to divide between lesson's work. Year Nine English again.

Monday 14th June 2011, and onwards. Unfinished and incomplete.

Mary Maloney to the Slaughter

1992.

The vinyl spun through the tune of 'Roll Over Beethoven'. Berry's lyrics echoed around the room, as Mary Maloney sat and listened, remembering the time this was new in that wonder world of a secondary husband, a young daughter, girls running around if with no panties, and Armchair Theatre on the BBC. Il Mary Maloney was now old and frail, with dyed red hair mixed in with shards of grey, deep indented wrinkles spread across her skin, several dimples now forming across her skin, and a figure which was certianlly no longer hourglass. Sam's had been shut since the dawn of the nineteen-seventies, as he retired to his family, and the dawn of supermarkets began to spread across the land. The counter of Sainsbury's now inhabited the counter of Sam's.

Newsstands of magazines now inhabited where the vegetables and meat were. Mary Maloney now inhabited where Sam stood. Rest. In. Peace. Mary Maloney removed the spool and shelved the record away as she put on her uniform. It would be another long day. She picked up her keys, and locked the bedroom, locked the kitchen, locked the front room, locked the cellar, locked the back door, opened the front door, went out of the front door, locked the front door, ran over to the garage and locked the garage. Nobody could find out. She unlocked her rectangular brown car, got into the driver's seat, started the engine, locked the car, and began her short drive to over to her workplace. As she drove, people stood and stared. What did this damned youth culture think was so wrong with a sixty-something year old woman using hair dye, with touched up hair lips and face driving a car produced in 1987, to go over to Sainsbury's and blandly answer each consumer's needs? Oh yes, you're too busy glammed up with your umbrella haircuts, dressed in your hoodies cuddled together in gangs, thinking punk-phase music is cool, piercing your bodies with earings and masturbating if you had a home computer. As she drove into the car park and over to the staff-reserved spaces, the thought stuck with her. What impression did this society think of her? They didn't know about what happened really with Patrick in '52. She sighed, parked in the last remaining space which she could 'legally' park in, put the handbrake on, flipped the switch to unlock the doors, turned off the ignition with her keys, removed the keys and slipped them into her trouser pocket, and exited the car, locking it as she did so. She walked past the bollards up to the front of the store, and entered ready for her work. Mr Wilson directed her over to the area she would be working at. Oh boy she thought, four hours at the tills and then lunch at the crappy café. Soon afterwards, customers would begin to approach. Trolley fulls of tins of peas, bags of Idaho potatoes, shrink wrapped legs of lamb and boxes of cheescake. Oh, the irony. Even more ironic that Mr. JD always kept them on sale. Is it a regional thing? Or is it country wide? She stared out of the window as she waited for customers to approach. Twenty minutes after she had started her shift, she saw a Ford Quattro pulling up in the car park. Shit! she cursed internally in her head. Fuck, please don't be her... She stared at the door being open and she soon realised it was what she feared. Her fat, drunk from birth, conditioned with ADHD daughter, going out for some shopping with her girlfriend.

It would be 3 months until Miss Maloney turned 40. Mary Maloney didn't care. "Go get yourself a husband!" a she'd said as she was growing up in the 60's. Now, the Maloney family line is doomed. Mary Maloney didn't care much about that either. The family line was screwed up enough already. The shop was bec starting to become alive. With a flick of a switch, Heath turned on the speakers, and inserted a compact disk into the machine. Hold on, thought Mary Maloney. Is that Ringo Starr? As the lyrics of the song began, she was proved correct. At least they were taking a stepback, and not going into those modern boybands, girls in bras singing lightly, and the punk leftovers from the previous decade."In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea, and he told us of his life, in the land of submarines..." sang Ringo, as the disc continued to spin round whilst being hit by a laser. When it hit "We all live in a yellow submarine...", Ms. Maloney had reached the door, and with a kiss the automated doors opened. Mary was so much dreading this. As her eyes glanced, she was relieved to see she was not approaching the tills to say hi. And soon, more people began to spread inside. She and her partner glanced through the magazines. She picked up a copy of The Times... and her girlfriend picked up a copy of the Gay Times. As the song reached Ringo's sound effect of bubbles, Maureen Maloney had spotted her mother, and began to walk up to the tills. THE till Mary had her shift at. Bugger. Soon began a series of hellos. Mary didn't give it much effort, replying to her blandly with a "Hullo", very reminiscent of Patrick's responses to her on that tired night. "How's it going mummy?" asked Maureen. With another bland response, Mary replied "Alright," gave it a pause and added "Thanks." "I love you so much!" she said in a cutesy voice. "You love HER too," was Mary's drab response. "Yes, I do, very much so," replied Maureen, and let out another kiss, as Mary felt disgusted by it. By now, the song had faded out. Please don't let it be 90's... Mary wished. Phew. Thank god. It faded into The Final Countdown. "So, what have you got there?" asked Mary, as she scanned the barcodes of the magazines through tills, and Maureen packed them into a plastic bag. "GT and The Times," replied Maureen's girlfriend. Mary couldn't be arsed to give a response and they left. Bitches, thought Mary. She stared at the window again as she watched them approach their car and leave. It did not take very long for another customer to approach her till. Other people's shifts were getting started too. The person's trolley contained, strangely, peas, Idaho potatoes, leg of lamb, Glocuester cheese, and cheescake. Coincidence? As the man placed the items onto the till, Mary commented on how this reminded her of what Sam's stocked, and what she bought back in the day. Being in his thirties, the man had recollections of Sam's too, and made replied talking about going their during his childhood to help out mother. The next four hours of her shift would become boring. At the end of it, she ran right over to the alcohol section, and purchased herself a bottle of whiskey. Downing it outside the store in the car park, she then returned, drunk, and went up the café.

To be continued in computer Word document

© 2011 Peter Webb

A Dead Body Was Discovered in the Undergrowth - Draft Plans

o   SECOND DRAFT!!!

It is Easter in AD30-something and a rabbit's corpse is found by Joseph Carpenter in the undergrowth of a cave and he wonders where Jesus' corpse has gone so he goes and proclaims the news to the village and they become suspicious of Joseph.

                                                                     

Second draft plan

April, the First Century AD. Joseph Carpenter has returned to the Eastern countries on pilgrimage, having heard rumours of the passing of his adoptive son. He treks to the tomb of Jesus, but upon opening there he does not find the body of the holy prophet - instead he finds the bloody body of a rabbit in the undergrowth. But when he tells the people of the village that Jesus has gone from his resting place, having been replaced by a rabbit, people begin to accuse Joseph of murder, others think the rabbit was a reincarnation of Jesus (which begins to form Buddhism) , and a few believe it is the next prophet (forming (and named) Easter). They return to the undergrowth and find eggs, and new life is formed.

A Dead Body Was Discovered in the Undergrowth

Written in Year Nine English over two lessons, on the theme of, well, what the title says - a dead body being discovered in an area of undergrowth - though not necessarily a human one. But don't worry, I did not go the alien route, or even the contemporary route. In the original writing, I did not divide the story into paragraphs, though it should be. Therefore, it remains in the original format, though I did place a divide between lesson's writing.

Monday 27th June 2011, and onwards. Unfinished and incomplete.

A dead body was discovered in the undergrowth. But it was not of the holy prophet. "What has happened to my son?!" shouted Joseph. The pilgrimage had not been going well for him. Having left Jerusalem, he approached a trader, gave him a few coins, and bought a camel to ride on his journey. He had packed bottles of water, too, as the trip required a trek through the hot, stuffy desert, where there were no residues of water for miles. The journey had been promptly prepared, having had the news of the passing of his adoptive son only just spread into the city of Jerusalem. Bethlehem had returned to its silent night, and the Roman armies had begun to spread closer. When walking to the inn, amidst the silent citizens and deceptive centurions, he began to hear whispers from a woman. "Jesus has returned to his father..." she had said to her friend. Initially confused by this, Joseph soon realised she was referring to God. His cheeks reddened up with shock. He then asked of her "You mean he has died?!", to a reply of yes. She soon added "Who are you?". He was surprised that she did not recognise him, but then she appeared to be only in her twenties, and would not have lived through the nativity. "But I am Joseph Carpenter - the one chosen by God to father his son Jesus, and to stay by the side of his surrogate mother, and my wife, Mary.". The woman was shocked, and suddenly felt incredibly sympathetic for the man. Having noticed the darkness, Joseph thought it would be too late to ride off on pilgrimage to visit his resting place. Instead, he parted from the helpful woman, and went off to sleep at his bedlam - the inn. That night, as his head rested on the hay, a vision came to him. It was mother Mary, speaking words of wisdom.

"Let it be," she repeated several times over. "Let it be.". Joseph was confused. Was that her? Was that my wife? "Mary?" he asked. "It's going to be alright," she said, calmly. "Alright... Alright..." "But our son is dead!" responded Joseph with a slight anger. "He is with his father now," said Mary. "And not on Earth! His body may be, but his soul is in heaven!" Joseph shouted. As soon as he said this, chickens clucked. Mary faded from his mind. The innkeeper knocked on the stable. She wasn't there. He slumber'd back to the hay, and drifted off to sleep. The next morning, he rose early, and rushed off on to pilgrimage. Placing himself on the camel, the hooves clunkered across the roasting grains of sand at a brisk pace. The journey should be faster than I initially thought, contemplated Joseph. An hour of trekking later, the camel was tiring, and as was Joseph. He removed his bag and took out a bottle of water, stopping near a palm tree. He unscrewed the top, and placed it under the camel's mouth, who, with the aid of Joseph's steady hand, drank the entirety of the contents of the bottle fairly quickly. But Joseph was alright with passing on the water for now. He was not the one using the energy, after all. When he placed himself back on the camel's saddle, and rode a little further, he found a lake just over the sand dune. Well, that was annoying. He paused to refill the bottle and then continued the journey. Across the journey, he found himself passing a few groups of Romans. One of these people was riding a camel, and chanting "My camel! My camel! My kingdom for a camel!". The second group of Romans he passed a little later were interested in his camel. This small group of thugs pushed him off, forgetting to take his back pack, and rode off with his camel. He would have to walk the rest of the journey. Two hours later, with five more miles covered, he passed a legion of Roman centurions, carrying staffs and shields. But he had to finish his pilgrimage and visit his son for the last time. It was getting dark, and he was getting tired, so he reached a place of moderate concealment, and set up camp. This time, mother Mary came to him again. "You are doing good, my love," she said. "You are almost there!" she said, reassuringly. "But I have no camel!" replied Joseph.

© 2011 Peter Webb

Just a brief hello.

Hello all,

I'm Peter, a fifteen year old teenager from the United Kingdom. I'm not the most committed writer, but it's still something I enjoy. Most of the stuff I post here will be from years old school books, though if I write anything new then I'll post it here too. A lot of my old stuff is scripts and fan fiction (most notably for Doctor Who), though that's not what I want to post here. This will be for content which I've placed more imagination into.

The odd poem may also pop up. Song lyrics will remain personal. Quality is variable, of course, given age at writing, or whether I could be bothered to put myself to the task or not. It's something I'm thinking of doing more often, though whether I will do it more often remains to be seen.

Not all stories are complete, and if incomplete they will most likely never be completed. However, for stories where there are notable differences between the plan and what turned out, and ones which never reached the ending, then I will also post the original plan to go along with the story.

Cheers, I hope this remains to be a worthwhile blog (unlike the cruddy village of Cottington).