Pabhon made up his own fairytale for a game concept. He then used that game concept for a writing exercise. That writing exercise was about dumping information via story.
Silver woke up to the swinging of hatchets, this part of the forest use to be quiet until that red hooded girl disappeared. Didn’t matter all that much, she slept like she had just pricked her finger on a spindle. The stone cottage was sparse in furniture. On one side three beds end to end, and three dressers two big one small. The other side kitchen and bathroom and down the middle was the dinner table with three chairs and a fireplace. She walked to the table, not once did the parquet creak.
Came home earlier and saw you sleeping. Out at Night? Made you some porridge. Gone to Cindy’s. Will TRY and be home before dark. No promises.
P.S It’s your turn to wash our clothes; I left my dresses in the bath.
Silver scrunched up the parchment and tossed it into bin in the kitchen. She never misses. All her sister knew how to make was porridge; sometimes it was too hot, sometimes too cold. Once a week including this morning it was just right. There was a knock at the door.
“Here’s your mail Miss Locks and this package” said the mail man.
“Thank You, May I pardon you for the time Mr Wolfe?” Silver asked.
“Almost four and a quarth past noon” the mail man replied.
Happy Birthday Goldie
Hope you enjoy the gingerbread
At least now Silver knew it was worth unwrapping. Her sister would never know that three pieces were missing, especially if it had looked undisturbed. She went to the bathroom. The door was locked. She pulled a hairpin from her silver curls. The door was unlocked.
She threw her turtleneck and tights on top of her sister’s dresses, so she’d remember to wash them. Most were yellow except for a sky blue one which was also a little too big. Cindy always wears blue, couldn’t stop talking about her fairy god mother and how cruel her sisters were. Why couldn’t she leave her shoes here? Silver propped up the new mirror she borrowed from Snow’s house. Cindy broke the old one.
“Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the sneakiest of them all?” Silver asked. All she could do was smile. “Mirror Mirror I have borrowed, what shall I steal tomorrow?”
I should've just written Por and Elliot. Then hung myself.
An Exercise on generative silence and foggy signifier (saying things that the audience “gets” like Dane Cook being synonymous with douchebag/douchbaggery). Am actually quite proud of this one.
“What about her?” I asked. “She looked like sex and desperation.”
“What does that even mean?” He replies.
“And her?” I said pointing to a petite seven walking out of the lecture hall.
“Dane Cook to the right there is her boyfriend”
I paused, gripping my 2B. “So you want me to kill him?”
This used to be our Friday morning ritual. Coffee at Artisans, time was never an issue nor was the coffee. We began to appreciate the wait, more minutes to admire the scenery. Breakfast at Subway. Check mail at the library. Then sit in Z-block on them god-awful kidney shaped benches. All before 9AM. Of course this was back when those benches existed, when the Port Office was the place to go on a Thursday night. When we were in our albeit, late teens. It just isn’t the same anymore; these new couches have bad feng shui.
“I’m going on a date” he said.
“Twenty-Eighth of March” I guessed. I was wrong
“I mean a real date” he said.
“So I shouldn’t guess thirty-first of April” I said.
“You’ll like her” he said.
“You mean him” I quipped. “So how do you decide who does what?”
Z411 always yielded so much potential. No-one ever seemed to grasp the idea of there being other entrances, unless they were late. Nothing more clandestine than using the back entrance of a three-hundred seat lecture hall. We always wondered what lecture these girls were coming out from. Made a little progress each week. It had to be first years still naïve enough to go to an 8am lecture. Based on sheer volume it had to be a popular degree, one with a couple majors and the positive 1:1 boy girl ratio eliminated engineering and I.T.
“I lied” he said.
“For how long?” he sounded surprised.
“It just came to me” I said. “I know what unit this is, its gotta be business”
“From the guy who can’t handle a game of Cluedo” I had zinged him.
“I know” He burned me back. “It’s elementary my dear Watson”
The last word always resounds louder than everything before it. He had side-kicked me. I was now the guy from Wham! who wasn’t George Michael. I was Garfunkel. I got Ringo’d. A less dated metaphor would be Turtle from Entourage, just along for the ride.
“What about her?” He pointed to a girl stuck in the bottleneck of the lecture hall.
“Young Julia Roberts” I told him. “From Pretty Woman”
“You liked Pretty Woman” I also liked Closer.
“And?” I wondered if there was a point. There usually isn’t.
“Told you, you’d like her” He said, standing up. “Cailin, this is”
I stopped listening. She was like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc or Aphrodite. I am Rick Springfield. She was Jessie’s girl.
1:50 p.m. They touched down. Wayne got off first. Wayne stamped blood back into his legs. He walked to the terminal. Schoolgirls blocked the gate. One girl cried. One girl fucked with prayer beads. He stepped around them. He followed baggage signs. People walked past him. They looked sucker-punched. Red eyes. Boo-hoo. Women with Kleenex. Wayne stopped at baggage claim. Kids whizzed by. They shot cap pistols. They laughed. A man walked up - Joe Redneck - tall and fat. He wore a Stetson. He wore big boots. He wore a mother-of-pearl .45. ”If you’re Sergeant Tedrow, I’m Officer Maynard D. Moore of the Los Angeles Police Department.” They shook hands. Moore chewed tobacco. Moore wore cheap cologne. A woman walked by-boo-hoo-hoo-one big red nose. Wayne said, “What’s wrong?”
Moore smiled, “Some moron stabbed Mickey Mouse”
Wayne waited outside the terminal. Moore was bringing the car around. Moore got stuck in the lot.
Wayne got bored. He read the signage. Arrivals: Terminal E, American Airlines.
Series 62 parks near Wayne. It wasn’t Moore. Wayne waited, five minutes passed then ten. A parking attendant approaches the Cadillac. The driver hands him two Jacksons.
Moore pulls up and apologizes. He drove a C series. Redneck in Hollywood is still a redneck.
Wayne hated pickups. His luggage bounced around the back. His seatbelt was broken. Wayne wasn’t going to wear it anyway. Wayne closed his eyes.
Senior drove a pickup. He liked to take it off the beaten track. Took it to Reno and back. Felt like a mini rodeo.
Senior the cowboy riding his C series GMC pickup.
Junior always rode in back. Got knocked about like a rodeo clown. Sometimes it rained. Junior got out. Junior pushed. Junior lost a shoe.
Moore hit the brakes. Moore stopped at a pedestrian crossing. He saw a family in matching Disneyland T-shirts. He gave them five seconds to cross. The jolt woke up Wayne Tedrow
“Wake up partner, we ere’” Moore said.
“Where are we?” Wayne groaned.
“The big D. Disneyland. Anaheim California, can’t b’leive you slept the thirty miles” Moore stated.
They parked close. Close like an ambulance. There was a big queue. They skipped it.
A bunch of kids complained. Some younger ones cried. The one with a Mickey Mouse hat tugged his father’s 501s and asked why those two men jumped the line. His old man said bluntly they were policemen. They were coppers. They were the law and the three feet above it.