May 16, 2011

More of an Unnamed Thing

I can't think of a name for this. Enjoy and comment or suffer my wrath.


Unnamed Thing.

It is an undeniable fact that Paulo Averra’s problems started when he accidentally ate the holy sanctified fingernail of St Sebastien, patron saint of pencil makers and resident holy relic of the town of Sestina. It is another undeniable fact that had he not done so, he would have gone on to spend the saint’s day in a very ordinary and unremarkable way, most likely including prayer, fasting before supper, and trying not to stain his Sunday church suit. As it was, there was much weeping and wailing from his mother, unnecessary ringing of the church bells, and an overly dramatic exorcism performed by Sestina’s resident trendy priest (Father Carlos was young and had a fondness for tight jeans under his cassock and Christian rock songs played on his electric guitar).

It was all rather exciting. His family doted on him, he was excused from school the next day, and relatives kept popping by to ask him if he “felt a presence in the room”. They often brought sweets with them. And so, the next day, in order to secure a lifelong supply of sweets, and because Paulo was probably the most lazy boy in all of Sestina (and possibly the world), Paulo pretended he did feel a demonic presence, inside him.

This is the story of how Paulo Averra began his career as the Miraculous Demon Boy of Sestina: a miraculous tale of lies, truth, the Devil, and Sylvester Stallone.

As time went on, Paulo found that the benefits of being possessed by an evil demon far outweighed any disadvantages. Not only was he excused from school, but he was also able to skip church merely by remembering to act demonically in the presence of Father Carlos, whose leisurely trendiness was being sorely tested after Paulo ate the strings of his guitar. Paulo had been given his own room so that he couldn’t infernally corrupt his brother Hector, whose tendency towards incontinence and nose picking, meant that he was probably more infernal than Paulo. He was also no longer forced to play “Unicorns” with his cousin Maria to gratify her powerful obsession with pink horses (this is compulsory for most 7 year old girls but can usually be avoided by providing your children with suitably upsetting experiences with horses at a young age). In short, Paulo felt that he had never been happier.

Months and years went by, and Paulo established a kind of reign of terror over the entire town. The people of Sestina were highly religious, and kept far away from his demonic influence; in this way Paulo was able to do anything he wanted. His family, convinced he was either being controlled by the demon, or was in a brief period of “salvation” would smother him in presents whenever they thought that Paulo was in control. It was for this reason that Paulo was one of the first boys in Sestina to see Rocky in the cinema, and to own a ???, and to chew gum.

Meanwhile, in Hell, the Devil was in a state of genuine displeasure over the events in Sestina. For a being whose entire existence consists of moping around in a frozen lake, generating evil and eating traitors, displeasure may seem an emotion somewhat insignificant in the general miasma of misery; however, like a man who is carrying his obese brother to hospital on foot, and who is then also asked to carry his obese brother’s obese rocking horse, microwave, large pizza and highly visible and painful-looking sex toy, Satan had had enough. He vowed to bring the Sestina embarrassment to a satisfactory conclusion within the week.

The embarrassment originated in the undeniable fact that for two years now, no one in Sestina had gone to Hell. For the entire town was in such terror of the supposedly “possessed” Paulo that they had become three times more devout than any sensible person ever has the time and effort to be. Priests found themselves trapped in the confession box for hours, listening to the most banal and obscurely sinful confessions: “Father I whistled loudly in the presence of an old man, I told my son he needed a hair cut, I brushed my hair twice before leaving the house.” One woman even broke down into tears and admitted to dropping spoons on the floor and not washing them before serving dinner to her husband. Priests began to take sandwiches and small buckets in with them, a sin that they then had to confess to the bishop, who’d taken to hiding out in local crypts.

Beggars received so many donations that they became rich, began lording it over the other townspeople and purchased expensive watches. Blind people found themselves at the mercy of hundreds of would-be Samaritans desperate to help them across the road, often whether they liked it or not. Everyone’s right hands were exhausted from crossing themselves the whole time, and as a consequence of this the entire town became left-handed. In short, the various actual demons knocking about Sestina were so under-employed that they had started doing charitable deeds themselves just to have something to do. The insult was compounded by the fact that since modern society had invented whole new methods of intricate and painful torture, Hell had recently had to update its repertoire to include bureaucracy. And the embarrassment in Sestina was generating enormous quantities of red tape.

The Devil hated paperwork, as only a being whose sole responsibility used to be skipping around Heaven can. And so he sent his most devious, nefarious, treacherous and duplicitous demon (who was so devious, nefarious, treacherous and duplicitous that he approached honesty and decency from the other side) to go talk to Paulo and put the matter to rest. Mephistopheles, who was also so hideous, grotesque and repulsive that he was almost handsome, (somewhat like Sylvester Stallone) was reluctant to return to the surface “after that Faust business”, but after being assured that it would lead to no further paperwork he grudgingly acquiesced. Thus Mephistopheles stepped into his own monstrous reflection in the icy lake of Hell, and clambered out of Cousin Maria’s glitter encrusted fur lined Barbie mirror in sunny Sestina, shuddering slightly and coughing up bits of pink fluff. Things like this probably shouldn’t happen to any self-respecting demon, but since mirrors are the traditional transportation device for demons Mephistopheles had little choice.

[A note on demons and mirrors: since the beginning of time mirrors have made themselves useful as a kind of inter-dimensional highway of evil, or autobahn, with a few interesting and noteworthy results; for example, this is why any given person’s appearance is more hideous than it has any right to be in any given mirror during the hours of 6-9 am, and also why after drinking alcohol it appears greatly enhanced. Other inter-dimensional highways of evil include: cheese knives, the gleam of sweat on a politician’s forehead, and the M11 between the hours of 5 and 7 pm]

Paulo was in his room picking his nose and carefully inverting all the crucifixes his mother had hung on all the walls when Mephistopheles arrived. It is worth noting that by this time, Paulo had spent hours graphically describing imaginary demons of the most horrible kind to anyone who might have doubted his “possession”, which was probably why Mephistopheles entirely failed to impress him. The puff of emerald demonic smoke emitted from his body should probably have been a giveaway, but in a house of boys for whom hygiene was secondary to mud wrestling this may have not seemed so strange.

“Hullo” said Paulo. Mephistopheles drew himself up.

“I am a great and powerful demon called Mephistopheles, servant of Satan and Corrupter of Souls!” He declared, puffing out his so-hideous-it’s-almost-handsome chest and exuding more turgid smoke. Paulo looked sceptical.

“I don’t know,” Paulo said “To me, you look a lot like Sylvester Stallone”



May 15, 2011

Excerpt From an Unnamed Work in Progress.

Meanwhile, in Hell, the Devil was in a state of genuine displeasure over the events in Sestina. For a being whose entire existence consists of moping around in a frozen lake, generating evil and eating traitors, displeasure may seem an emotion somewhat insignificant in the general miasma of misery; however, like a man who is carrying his obese brother to hospital on foot, and who is then also asked to carry his obese brother’s obese rocking horse, microwave, large pizza and highly visible and painful-looking sex toy, Satan had had enough. He vowed to bring the Sestina embarrassment to a satisfactory conclusion within the week.

The embarrassment originated in the undeniable fact that for two years now, no one in Sestina had gone to Hell. For the entire town was in such terror of the supposedly “possessed” Paulo that they had become three times more devout than any sensible person ever has the time and effort to be. Priests found themselves trapped in the confession box for hours, listening to the most banal and obscurely sinful confessions: “Father I whistled loudly in the presence of an old man, I told my son he needed a hair cut, I brushed my hair twice before leaving the house.” One woman even broke down into tears and admitted to dropping spoons on the floor and not washing them before serving dinner to her husband. Priests began to take sandwiches and small buckets in with them, a sin that they then had to confess to the bishop, who’d taken to hiding out in local crypts.

Beggars received so many donations that they became rich, began lording it over the other townspeople and purchased expensive watches. Blind people found themselves at the mercy of hundreds of would-be Samaritans desperate to help them across the road, often whether they liked it or not. Everyone’s right hands were exhausted from crossing themselves the whole time, and as a consequence of this the entire town became left-handed. In short, the various actual demons knocking about Sestina were so under-employed that they had started doing charitable deeds themselves just to have something to do. The insult was compounded by the fact that since modern society had invented whole new methods of intricate and painful torture, Hell had recently had to update its repertoire to include bureaucracy. And the embarrassment in Sestina was generating enormous quantities of red tape.


Tsuchinoko’s Wife, Part III

Tsuchinoko’s Wife, Part III

And so Tsuchinoko the mythical Japanese hoop snake began the long and arduous task of persuading his wife to fall in love with him. It began with small gifts, those that only a mythical snake can give: hairs from the kitsune, for luck, a breath from the Yuki-onna, for refreshment, and venom-paralyzed rodents, for a snack. All this, along with a fortuitous lie about the number of women he had been with during their separation, brought Tsuchinoko back home, and into June’s affections. Every day he professed a greater and deeper love for her.

Tsuchinoko flopped back on to the teal sofa, and June got him a beer. He slid on a pair of sunglasses. Tsuchinoko was fond of lies, and liked a drink.

Tsuchinoko’s Wife, Part III: Director’s Cut.

And so Tsuchinoko the mythical Japanese hoop snake began the long and arduous task of persuading his wife to fall in love with him. It began with small gifts, those that only a mythical snake can give: hairs from the kitsune, for luck, a breath from the Yuki-onna, for refreshment, and venom-paralyzed rodents, for a snack. All this, combined with a fortuitous lie about the number of women he had been with during their separation, brought Tsuchinoko back home, and into June’s affections. Every day he professed a greater and deeper love for her.

Tsuchinoko flops back on to the teal sofa, and June gets him a beer. He slid on a pair of sunglasses. Years pass. The slither of tiny scales. Rolling home at dusk. June eating the bulbous mulberries in the garden, her mouth stained crimson as the summer tosses freckles onto her skin. Small hands clutching at a summer dress. Hospital light, a bloodied nightdress. Silence. Voices in the dark, called home by the heady scent and crackle of roasting pork. The gleam of bottles, a living room eerily cast in shades of green and golden brown. June asleep, her dark hair coiled about the pillow as if for comfort. A woman’s voice on the phone, hushed and urgent. Tsuchinoko is fond of lies and likes a drink.

And one day, when the children are at school and Tsuchinoko is at work (liars make excellent estate agents) June sneaks into the attic. Light streams through a broken window, transforming the raised dust into a halo of fireflies. June searches, brutally, systematically, until she finds what she has been looking for. A selkie coat. Her selkie coat. Quickly, urgently, caressing the reeking hide in fit of passionate longing, June luxuriates in an ecstasy of fur. In the crystalline salt beads of her pelt she feels the siren call of the ocean. She throws it on. Sprightly whiskers snuffle for the doorknob, flippers lollop across the dusty attic, and June leaves for her selkie home.

In the years to come, the children will ask where their mother is, and Tsuchinoko will tell them she is working with the Rolling Stones. His voice will crack. The carpet is stained with a dark constellation of tears. Tsuchinoko is fond of lies, and likes a drink.


Tsuchinoko’s Wife, Part II

A slight shift in tone here- hopefully it works? Enjoy.


Tsuchinoko’s Wife, Part II

In the days that followed, June scraped the house clean of snakeskin, removed paralyzed mice from the fridge (Tsuchinoko’s favourite snack, after pork scratchings) and turned the heating down to an acceptable level. She wore dresses without fang holes and shattered empty beer bottles with a hammer in the back garden. When she was done she would squat in the long grass, watching the worms and beetles scrape tiny limbs across the broken glass. Their blood was dark like the tears of Tsuchinoko, and she wondered where he was. When a party of minotaurs arrived, asking if Tsuchinoko was going to come out, she swiftly shut the door in their faces, peering through lace curtains as their ringed noses rutted at the letterbox, calling her name. She began to dream in shades of crimson-aubergine.

And then, months later, the growl of a motorbike engine outside.

“I just came for my stuff,” Tsuchinoko said, slipping out of a studded leather cape. “Don’t let me bother you.” As he stepped past her into the house, his scales brushed softly against her skin. Gossamer flakes of skin drifted to the floor, briefly luminous before they hit the frigid carpet. June followed him up to their old room and watched him throw his belongings onto a heap on the bed. His yellow eyes turned to her, the double lids flickering uncertainly. She reached out to him.

“Where did you go? After I…?”

“I, uh, worked in Houssten, for NASSA, you know. Top ssecret.”

“Really?”

“Well, uh, no. I wass cage fighting in Nicaragua.”

“I thought you’d be busy managing the Rolling Stones.” They both laughed.


TO BE CONTINUED (Cue dramatic music, groans as people realise they've spent 7 pounds on a half-finished film and 8 pounds on inferior snack foods)




Tsuchinoko’s Wife Pt I

Hello, kind bloggers of blog land. Here is a short drafted opening to a piece of fiction I am writing for my portfolio. If anyone is willing to tell me if it is worth continuing, I would be extremely grateful for their advice? Pretty please?


Tsuchinoko’s Wife Pt I

June's husband Tsuchinoko was fond of lies and liked a drink. That day, he rolled nonchalantly down the drive, full of Corona, pork scratchings and stories about the time he won the World Cup for Japan (it had to be hushed up to avoid angering the North Koreans).

It was always going to be difficult, being married to a mythical Japanese hoop snake. On days like this June would cast her eyes to the heavens and ask why, even in the smoky glitterball half-light of a Tokyo nightclub, marrying a boozed up fabulist worm had seemed like such a good idea. Perhaps it was the saki, or the way his scales glistened crimson-aubergine under streetlights. Perhaps it was because she liked his flickering kisses, or the nip of fangs on her earlobe, or because he was the manager for the Rolling Stones, or so he said, hissing it hotly into her neck as they slow-danced to Paint It Black: it really had been a heavy drinking session that night. But in the grizzled hoof of Scottish summer, June’s patience was wearing as thin as the pasty skin flakes he left lying around the house. It was time for a change.

It is easier than you might think to flush your mythical Japanese hoop snake husband down the toilet. Rubber gloves are advisable, as is an apron. June ambushed Tsuchinoko as he lay sluggishly on the teal fern-patterned sofa; his crimson scales lit up in the afternoon light like an open wound. Quickly, aided by the kitchen tongs and a sharp stick, and with trembling fingers, she grasped her writhing husband and held him at arm’s length. Briefly she remembered her wedding night. Tsuchinoko wriggled uselessly, his constricted throat producing soft, mewing sounds. A single tear oozed down his scaly face and left a globular stain on the carpet.

“Look,” said June, “This isn’t working for me anymore.”

And she plopped her husband into the toilet.


May 13, 2011

Crown of Roses


I have done this for my portfolio and it is utterly dreadful and melodramatic and pretentious now I am going to hang myself from a tree. Comments welcome.

Crown of Roses

Let’s start with ἀν. Let’s taste it with alien tongues, and let me explain to you its meaning: a black hole consuming all that follows, birthing a nothing. ἀν, then, is strange in our mouths; for us, it is difficult to speak in the presence of the other. It manifests in mirrors, in the gaps between words, in the skeletal ecstasy of death. Let me finish with ὄρεξις, appetite.

from thence

He shall come to judge the living and the dead.

May I also tell you of the unfaithfulness of mirrors? At the age of fifteen months, we recognize ourselves in mirrors. Until then, "Je est un autre", I is another, and the mirror is its own thing, alive and devious. In mirrors, I see myself bloated, malformed in castings of elephantine flesh, scarlet and heaving. Mirrors reflect the soul.

A kind of madness then, the other.

I believe               of heaven and earth       conceived by the Holy Spirit

Crucified, died, and buried.

In personal practice: yellow foods are forbidden, they are synesthetic to the number 95, or 95kg. Sunday: 800 calories. You must never eat either 9 or 5 things. Over time, only even numbers are permitted. Monday, 600.

Give us this day

       our trespasses

Lead us not into temptation; but deliver

In Victorian England there were the Fasting Girls. They were saints, miracles incarnate, tourist attractions. Stigmata bloomed on their open hands, they were crowned with the misery and suffering of Christ. I count calories like the beads of a rosary, grazing them lovingly with ardent fingers.

in this valley of tears

life everlasting

Wednesday 400. In the event of there being only one thing, it must be halved. You will only eat one half. Thursday 200. Paper may be eaten in the event of hunger, it has no calories. Friday 800.

the communion of Saints,

the resurrection of the body and life everlasting

world without end.

I am lying in the bath, looking at myself. Reflections are not to be trusted; at birth we can swim in water unassisted. We lose this ability as we discover our image scattered across oceans, lakes, pools and mirrors. The mirror is my shadow as I cast up my hands, incandescent and alone, the light refracting golden through wasted skin.

we send up our sighs,

mourning and weeping

             As it was in the beginning is now.

Move continuously: it burns calories. Saturday, 400. Sleep in a cold room, shivering burns calories. Chew sugar free gum to burn calories. Tuesday permits no calories.

Blessed,

 clement,

most gracious

       eyes of mercy

There once was a girl and she had a mirror, and all that the mirror said was that she was the fairest, that she was the fairest, the fairest of them all.

Crown of roses

Blessed art thou

now and at the hour of our death

In the water, my bones are lovely. Magnified and gleaming, I turn my glorious skeleton in fractious, submarine light. My scars have turned to silver.


For now we see through a glass, darkly.


Crown of Roses by Kirsty Judge




April 25, 2011

Creative Death, Packing Fail.

I wanted to write some haiku, and pack for Warwick, but instead I drew this crane. I think drawing is probably the best way to relax, if like me you're bad enough at it that even simple objects require your entire brain to draw. This took me quite some time, and I can't honestly say it's the best thing ever, but this is the closest anyone is going to get to creative output from me until essay season is over and I stop chewing my arm off with abject fear.

cranedance, by kirsty judge

And yes, I've been listening to the Decemberists. Crane Wife 3 still gives me the dated hipster shivers.


April 19, 2011

Sometimes Even I Have Opinions On Things.

So what if the Bible doesn't support homosexuality? Technically, it opposes eating shellfish. And yet there's never been a Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell policy on lobster eaters in the army, and no one has yet proposed a law to protect children from any evil, "perverted" knowledge of mussels until they're "old enough".


April 14, 2011

Unconscionable Absence Girl To The Rescue


It's a terrible shame that the only reason I remembered I had a blog after The Great Block Catastrophe of March is because someone shiny and new commented. It's also a terrible shame that they appeared to be trying to sell me panda-related merchandise, having read a satiric piece about capitalist hypocrisy in China as a panda fan-fic. Whilst I'm grateful that my work is reaching strange people through the miracle that is the internet, I have to say that when blogging, it is better to get a response that is constructively critical rather than just commercial, just as when fishing, it is better to snag a large tuna rather than an Argos catalogue. Even though Argos catalogues are so big now you probably could use one to feed a family of five if they didn't mind smothering it in ketchup. I'm not really sure where this metaphor is going anymore.

It says a lot about the human race that we create a communications network of such freedom and accessibility that we can pretty much use it to do anything, and the majority of it is used to distribute pornography or sell the commercial equivalent of gull vomit to idiots. Should an intelligent alien species examine our race via the internet, they would come to the conclusion that the majority of humans spend their time drinking fake weight loss tea and having loud, vaguely misogynist sex in a variety of fetishist outfits, usually with people who have come to fix our appliances. They would also have a very skewed idea about the role of secretaries in our society. It is to our eternal discredit that having been given the ultimate in freedom of speech, we speak in slogans like Find Out The CHEAP And EASY Way This Single Mum Found To Whiten Teeth!!!!

In my view, the most unforgiveable thing about spam (other than it being named after an inedible meat derivative) is its uninventive and somewhat despicable view of mankind. According to spam, your penis is too small. According to spam, you're fat and your teeth are yellow. According to spam, you want to talk to the sexy and suspiciously youthful Candy, from South Michigan High School, who has just broken up with her boyfriend and is therefore primed for predatory advances from strange men on the internet. According to spam, dead girls living on the internet want you to send on this chain letter. According to spam, Busty Russian Girls Want YOU!! and you should accept this because you will never find love without paying for it (probably because you're so fat, unendowed and yellow toothed, and because you like damaged underage schoolgirls). Spam ensnares us by validating the worst things we think about ourselves, and then saying It's Okay!! You Can Fix This For Only $5 A Month!!

What I would love to know is, does this work? Who reads these and thinks, "Yeah, I'd love to attach a bizarre tubular pump to the end of my manhood because an unauthenticated internet "doctor" tells me it'll make me a Real Man"? Who thinks that an unspecified single mother with no other apparent qualification should be trusted with their dentistry? Who really believes that Busty Russian Girls can't find love for themselves? Surely it must work for someone, otherwise spam wouldn't exist. So maybe, as I wander the streets, I am looking at the proud owners of cock pumps, weight loss pills, tooth bleachers, mail order brides and court orders to appear on the 1st May to face charges of possessing child pornography. In that case, maybe we have been cursed by Suzie The Little Internet Dead Girl for not sending on her email. What a horrible world we live in.



February 22, 2011

Desperation, Performed by a Poem as an Interpretive Dance.


Rice Dream Boy


I remember this much

On good days we drank rice milk from scarlet cartons

Cupping the sweetness on our eager tongues,

And sank grateful hands into cereal boxes,

Running granola mulch through our fingers,

Like soft expletives round broken teeth. It was

A better time.


I remember this much

The velveteen truffle hound in a wicker prism,

Snuffling over ankles in the dusky afternoon.

The conservatory veils, intervals in sunlight

flickering across your face; a tinted lantern

Knocking against tarnished glass,

Unbroken.


I remember this much

Painted eggshells on the Easter table

And the whisky-spiced musk of your holiday suit.

Crisp cinnamon biscuits with spun sugar constellations,

Parted lips at midnight, and finding home

In the taste of lucky strikes and raspberry,

Snaring bliss from the precipice,

I remember this much.



August 2020

Mo Tu We Th Fr Sa Su
Jul |  Today  |
               1 2
3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20 21 22 23
24 25 26 27 28 29 30
31                  

Search this blog

Galleries

Most recent comments

  • END OF QUESTION TIME. Thank you all, you've been ace. Any late questions will be answered after the … by Kirsty Judge on this entry
  • Rev R Mole: Alex: Reality TV is a cover for government experiments on the populace involving mind al… by Kirsty Judge on this entry
  • When doing a number two, do you scrunch or fold the toilet paper? I, myself, am a scruncher. by Tulisa on this entry
  • Rev R Mole: My preferred pizza topping is Hawaiian with beetles. It is a common misconception that m… by Kirsty Judge on this entry
  • Forgive my forward nature, but, have you ever been in love? by Princess Consuela on this entry

Blog archive

Loading…
RSS2.0 Atom
Not signed in
Sign in

Powered by BlogBuilder
© MMXX