Flint and Steel: Episode Three

Based on Nicky's tendency to get distracted from her mission, I estimate that there will be one or two more episodes following this one. Again, it's Nicky's fault that it's taking so long, not mine.

Past episodes:

Episode One

Episode Two

Episode Three

The tag on Nicky’s spacecraft-issue police uniform scratched at her neck like a rash with a vendetta against orange-haired women.

The suit itself was too warm, and the spacecraft’s infirmary too stuffy, even for the moon. It wasn’t simply that Nicky disliked the moon – though, to be honest, she hated it. It had followed her everywhere, no matter where on Earth she went. Can’t you just leave me alone, moon? she’d pleaded whenever the waste disposal pods lent enough sky for her to see it – rather, it was her inability to adjust to the moon’s air. You see, the moon’s artificial atmosphere was like Earth’s, only stuffier, which served to make Nicky’s hair twice as orange and three times more difficult to brush.

Nicky had moved to the moon after being offered a job as a secret agent for the Untainted. They’d said that her unsurpassed dancing skills more than accounted for her carroty hair. Meanwhile, Flint’s orchard was dying; so, on the assurance that Nicky would one day earn enough money for him to join her, he spent all of his savings so that she might make the trip.

Alas, the Untainted is non-profit, meaning that Nicky’s salary was far smaller than she’d hoped. She herself had to fund the mission that involved assassinating the president to allow Flint to meet her on the moon. It was only after paying for every viable resource demanded for the completion of this mission that she realised the money could have instead been used to buy a ticket for Flint, as well as a beach house. Now, not only was she minus a beach house, she was stuck on an infirmary bed with an itchy neck and a gnawing fear that the medic would soon return to announce that her proclaimed injuries weren’t injuries at all. Her fears were swiftly vanquished, however, due to a magnitude 6.1 murmur in her stomach, which reminded her that she’d left her food-printing wristwatch at home in favour of the one that had produced her irritating disguise. Her tummy’s remaining hope was that a spacecraft large enough to have an infirmary would also have a kitchen.

The on-board medic had let her rest after she’d refused treatment for her lack of injuries. She hadn’t planned on sleeping – she wasn’t even tired – but she must have dozed off because, sometime later, she heard an alarm in her ear, which sounded like a mountain man calling her name through facial hair thick enough to need hedge trimmers. As her eyes readjusted to light, she realised that it wasn’t an alarm at all. “What is it, Rowan?” she asked, unenthused.

“Were you… sleeping?” he replied. “You should have left the craft an hour ago!”

Nicky looked at her watch, which didn’t actually display the time. “Uh oh. How long have I been asleep?”

“No idea, but you’ve been in there for more than two hours.”

Nicky paused to count with her fingers. “More than two hours, then,” she concluded.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Flint might already be on the moon!”

“Oh.” She jumped to her feet. “On it!”

Thankfully, the kitchen was in the adjacent room. There, her stomach enjoyed a deliverance of wholemeal bread, cold chicken, banana cake and moon cheese. Moon cheese looked like cheddar cheese shot through with white veins, and it tasted like cheddar cheese shot through with peppermint. Neither Nicky nor her stomach complained, though. “Food’s food,” she mumbled with a shrug and a swallow.

She was halfway through her wedge of cheese when a guard entered. Addressing her, he said, “Captain Tatai would like to speak with you.”

She looked up, mouth half full. “Now?”  

The guard nodded. Nicky put her cheese down. A frown from her stomach came in the form of a low whimper.

It was a good thing that the guard had escorted her; she’d have had no idea where she was heading, otherwise, and would have just as soon found herself stuck in the extraction booth. Not a fun way to go, certainly.

She was led into the control room, which bore the shape of a semi-circle. The only furnishing was a crescent-shaped panel, whose surface was crowded with colourful touchscreens. The ends of the panel tapered to a point as if to make it look like a half moon. Nicky could have vomited. Moons everywhere.

The far wall was a convex window made entirely of thick glass supported by a criss-cross of black fibreglass frames. A man with his back turned to her stood gazing out the windows, which displayed a grand view of the city of Moonopia, the moon’s capital, over which the craft flew. The estimated two-hundred feet drop between Nicky and the surface brought to mind earlier thoughts of how, while she enjoyed squashing ants and small insects, she didn’t much desire to be squashed herself. In any case, when the man at the window turned to face her, her fear of becoming a disturbing pile of flesh, blood and ginger hair fell two places on her list of top ten concerns. Above it sat the fear of being questioned and, above that, the subsequent fear of being discovered. Is that why I’ve been summoned?

“You survived the explosion,” the captain said in a deep voice. His tone carried with it a carefully-balanced weight of authority. “Tell me, what happened?”

Nicky almost cowered as she looked her inquisitor in the eye (literally - he only had one eye). Old Captain Tatai wore a long denim trench coat with dark padding at the shoulders. His face was adorned with a black eye patch, which seemed to match his bald scalp. Offsetting the darkness were gold buttons that dotted the middle, shoulders and sleeves of his coat, and a fragment of daylight glinting off his silver earring. Nicky noted the display of medals and marks of honour on his left breast, and on his right the Ozricks crest: a half moon completed by a half earth, set against a black sky. This time she did vomit, but it wasn't out of any loathing for Ozricks. Rather, it was that damned cheese. Afterwards, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Cheese and peppermint… what was I thinking?

The captain seemed to ignore the steaming, pungent mess on his carpet. “I asked you a question, soldier.” His one eye bored into her like a sword made of ice.

“Oh, right,” Nicky said between gags. She swallowed, shuddered and stepped away from the mess. Then she cleared her throat. “The explosion, yes.”

“You will tell me what happened, and who was responsible.” His tone was sterner now, so stern that Nicky’s heart broke rhythm.

“Of- of course, captain.”

“Well?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, or… or my hologram.”

“Hologram?”

She’d said too much already. “Uh…” And her heart wasn’t slowing down. “There was a man. He had a bomb. It… went off.”

Tatai leaned forward and placed a hand on the panel, his petrifying gaze no less potent even with one eye. “A man, you say? How did he get on the roof?” As he spoke, a cleaner entered with a bucket and cloth. Nicky stepped aside to give him more room, only then realising that she’d cornered herself.

“A grenade- I mean, what? A jetpack!” She fumbled at her ear piece. “Rowan, tell me what to say!”

Tatai pushed off the panel to stand straight again. “Who’s Rowan?”

She waited for the man in her ear to respond. Then, repeating his words, she said, “Rowan is my deity. He alone guides my every word and thought, ensuring only truth and justice even in the midst of… trauma.” No longer having to think, her stutter had apparently vanished.

Tatai allowed a slow nod, but the furrow in his brow indicated that he had yet to be convinced. He narrowed his eye to a slit. “If this intruder was a man, why did we find a bunch of women’s clothing on the roof, along with a handbag containing a hairbrush tangled in wiry ginger hair?”

Again, Nicky waited for Rowan’s response. “This intruder was an extremist. His ploy was to send a message to you and to the government proper: a message that Ozricks will fall, fall like this spacecraft. But the craft sustained the explosion with little more than a ruptured roof. How’s that for sturdiness? Anyway, two loyal men lost their lives out of sheer dedication to protecting their station. They will never be forgotten.” She paused then added, “He was also ginger.”

“Ri-ight,” Tatai said, tone sceptical. “But can you explain the handbag, hairbrush, shirt, skirt, coat, heels, hairpins, shawl and, heaven be damned, fake eyelashes?”

Nicky licked her lips. Rowan’s voice was growing less and less assuring. “As I said, the man was an extremist. Many extremists like to make a statement not only by their actions, but by their attire as well. He wanted to be remembered after… killing himself.”

The cleaner, who had at some point donned an oxygen mask, picked up his cloth and withdrew from the room. He seemed to have forgotten the bucket. In place of the mess was a patch of soggy-looking carpet about three times its size.

Tatai stroked his hairless chin before responding. “Very well, soldier,” he said. “You are dismissed. We will be landing at Ozricks Maximum Security Prison in ten minutes.”

Nicky could have jumped for joy at his words. Thanks, Rowan, she thought, and almost said. Moreover, she’d boarded the craft with the mere intention of finding the coordinates of the prison. Never did it occur to her that this same craft would be heading to that very place.

She turned to leave, but paused as a thought entered her mind. Turning back, she said, “Can I have the clothes?” She didn’t realise what she’d asked until she’d asked it. She expected Rowan to scold her, but he remained silent.

“What?” Tatai asked.

There was no turning back now. “The clothes you found. Could I… keep them?”

There was a pause. “Fine. Now go!” He flicked a hand in her direction for emphasis.

Back in the corridor, Nicky had trouble deciding what to do for the next ten minutes. “What now, Rowan?” she asked.

There was no response.

“Rowan, push your beard down; I can’t hear you.”

Still nothing. What is he doing?

Moments later she heard Tatai speaking to someone, though no one had entered the control room since she’d left. She leant an ear on the door.

“What? An intruder?” Tatai was saying. “They work for the Untainted, you claim?”… “Still on board?” Nicky wondered whom they might be talking about.

“And what is the name of this man you’ve captured?” He paused again. “Well, tell this Mr Thorpe that his ginger-haired friend here is about to be water-boarded with her own vomit!” He cackled like that of a self-proclaimed villain. Then he added, “Oh, and after that, you can kill him.”

At some point between the words ‘Thorpe’ and ‘kill’, it occurred to Nicky that she didn’t much like what she was hearing. She had to assume the worst. “I’ve been made!” she cried. Her first instinct was to put as much distance between herself and the control room as she could, but she was barely in the next wing when the captain himself materialised in front of her, blocking her path. She would have tumbled into him had her dancing skills not included lightning-quick reflexes. Already she was racing in the opposite direction. Damn him and his teleportation watch, she thought. Why do villains always have better tech? She shouldered into the control room, only then realising that she’d cornered herself. What followed was the sensation of déjà vu.

“It’s over,” Tatai said upon entering. He took his time to straighten his eye patch whilst a troop of guards squeezed through the entrance, flanked him on either side and aimed their firearms at Nicky’s chest. She looked down to find a colony of red dots mingling above her solar plexus. Her stomach whimpered again.

After all the guards had formed up, the speakers overhead erupted with the sound of a computer-automated voice message. “Arriving at Ozricks Maximum Security Prison, ETA five minutes.”

When Tatai was happy with the position of his eye patch, he regarded his men to emphasise the impossible odds of Nicky getting out alive. Then he turned back to her. “Any last words?”

Nicky eyed the faces of her adversaries. “Actually, yes,” she said. In a moment of un-ginger-like clarity, she’d noticed that, with the panel between her and her enemies, none of them could see the pail held tightly in her hand. Just so, she clutched the bucket with both hands, stepped forward and shoved it into the air. “Cheese vomit!” she screeched as a flurry of mould, soap, stomach acid and sheer putridness showered the faces and uniforms of her assailants. Tatai’s eye patch went from black to sickly white.

The guards tried to open fire, but their guns, splotched in Nicky’s regurgitation, had jammed; and seconds later, they began to melt. Her assailants had time only to witness the disintegration of their weapons before themselves passing out after a foolish decision to inhale. Tatai also succumbed, if slightly more dramatically: as his strength left him, he reached a helpless hand into the air and cried a lengthy, “No-o!”

Nicky, meanwhile, held her breath. She was able to hold her breath for five-and-a-half minutes, a skill she’d mastered during her career as a dancer. This skill had absolutely no relevance to said career, except in the case of underwater dances, of which she had performed none, because Earth contained next to no water. Needless to say, the ETA of five minutes had therefore been a welcome relief.

Four minutes later, she turned around to behold the grey and obsidian site of the prison drawing closer with each second. Guard towers and railed posts bordered every yard and sector. Overheard, light from the-fiery-red-thing-in-the-sky hit the buildings at a low angle, casting lengthy shadows into which the spacecraft would soon descend. The sight of those dark forms made Nicky’s smile turn wry. Her mission wasn’t over yet.

Next episode

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Flint and Steel: Episode Two

The second episode of a story I wrote for Nicky's birthday. Her birthday was ages ago, but the story hasn't ended. Apologies in advance, Nicky, but you don't star in this part... though I can't say the same for your future husband.

Click here for episode one.

Episode Two 

Flint sat, cross-legged, cross-browed, staring with anchored expression at the blow dart cradled in his hands.

The reasons for Flint’s crossed state were a) he found it more comfortable sitting on his bottom with legs overlapped than, say, standing or kneeling, and b) Flint was miserable. 

So miserable, that his next action would be to assassinate the president of planet Earth.

But who could blame him? It was the laws of this president that prevented him from returning to the moon to live with his wife, Nicky Brown.

*

In the year 2148, technology was buzzing; global warming was no longer a thing; 'overpopulated' was an understatement; and the government was corrupt. It had been ten years since the world's governments merged into Ozricks, one all-encompassing entity, and one hundred years since the end of World War Pi.

"This new government isn't all bad," many brainwashed individuals would say. "They've solved world hunger; they've fixed the economy; they've guaranteed no more wars; and everyone has a job!" 

But the minority who weren't brainwashed, nicknamed the Untainted, knew better.

"How foolish this brainwashed race of humans has become, stating facts as though only they matter. Have they lost sight of the bigger picture?" By 'bigger picture', the Untainted meant the swiftly diminishing water supply.

In order to provide every single human being with a job, Ozricks commissioned all those without jobs to scoop water from every lake, river and ocean, and dump it in water-removal hotspots located all over the globe. These hotspots, primitively known as 'pipelines', led to the Bravo Disposal Plant, where the water would be loaded onto space pods and sent into space. Ozricks decided that this venture was a genius plan in order to both give everyone a job (employees had an Ozricks bucket delivered free of charge, bar shipping, to their homes), and also to create more living space where there was once only water and strange creatures that couldn't survive out of water, known archaically as ‘fish’. For this reason, there were now more waste disposal pods in space than space itself, and, when one looked up into the sky, he didn’t see sky; he saw waste disposal pods.

The up-side was that Water Collectors - for such was the name of the profession in its most technical terms - were paid by the hour, and not by the bucket load, meaning that there were equal wages for all. Alas, the job was so tedious that some workers refused to bail water and instead play with schools of helplessly-flopping halibut whose homes were now puddles on the seafloor; but tedious or no, eventually only a tenth of the water on Earth remained. Also, Flint was miserable.

Over the years, as water levels receded, Ozricks decreed that those with gardens or orchards may only have their sprinklers switched on between the hours of 8 and 9 o'clock each morning and evening. Months later, as there grew to be more fish than water, the allowance applied only to Thursdays. When asked about the choice of weekday, Ozricks replied, "No more questions."

Finally, when 95% of Earth's water was in space, Ozricks decreed that sprinklers may only be used on a Thursday, between 8 and 9 at night, in winter, during which the moon was full. Since these conditions occurred almost never, orchards and gardens, even those with genetically-modified flora said not to need nutrients of any kind, quickly decayed.

Flint owned an orchard, but the dry months, which, without water on the planet, meant every month, were unforgiving. Columns of fresh tomato berries and broco-mangoes were now rotten stems and vines, tangled in hopelessness and rage – not unlike Flint's rage.

"I have to assassinate President Nathan," he said one day to his fellow Untainted Ones. "Because of him… because of Ozricks… I can't return to my wife." Flint spoke the truth. With his orchard rotting away, so was his bank account; and without money, he couldn't cross the Astroll Bridge to see Nicky, who lived on the moon. "I just want to go home."

Flint was a formidable and handsome young man. Short, russet brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect height and a medium complexion did him all the favours you'd expect. The drawback, ironically enough, was his chiselled jaw. His jaw was so chiselled that, whenever he tried to shave, the razor didn't trim the hair so much as his jaw trimmed the razor. He tried scissors, but the blades would now and then bump his jaw and take on all kinds of scratches and dents, which only served to make Flint angry. (Flint had a soft spot for metallic objects - also ironic). As such, he was typically clean-shaven on all parts save the jaw-line, where a U of constant, curly hair portended to troublemakers that they'd do well not to cross him head-on, literally.

Unfortunately, the same weapon that overcame his adversaries also warded off countless women who had liked every bit of him save his lethal jawbone. Nicky, his wife, was the exception, if only because she had a nose of equal lethality. You can imagine how hard kissing was for them.

In order to assassinate the president, Flint needed something a little more practical than a jaw-line of steel, so it was a good thing he had friends.

Ashleigh was both a weaponsmith and an inventor. Only a recent convert to the Untainted, she was at first hesitant about the whole opposing-the-government lifestyle. But at the point of no return, pondering whose side she should take, she saw Flint at his desk, sharpening his jaw with a whetstone whilst murmuring death threats about the people who opposed him. From there, the choice was easy. Muttering something along the lines of, "Oh, all right," Ashleigh signed the papers, and they welcomed her with open arms.

Douglas was Flint's loyal friend, proven when Flint made his bold and audible-for-all proclamation that he would assassinate the president, to which Douglas replied, "You'll need a gun." A man of few words, Douglas had subsequently been granted the role of 'sidekick'. Yet, the title was amended to the more favourable 'partner' when, during the mission briefing, he voiced his wishes to be neither kicked nor eaten as a side, and unveiled two automatic firearms as background supporters to his cause.

Nicole was the last in their quad, but certainly not the least. Otherwise known as Generic Tech Girl, Nicole was as reliable as she was nerdy. It was thanks to her that they knew exactly where President Nathan would be on Friday afternoon, the preferred time of assassination, because it was an hour before Ashleigh’s Zumba class, which she was most adamant about not missing.

Nicole had put it aptly when, from the generic tech van parked outside, she said, "A swimming event? Really?" In response, the others simply threw palms to faces, the sounds of which were amplified through their comms devices.

"We discussed this a week ago at the briefing," Flint reminded.

"Was I there?" Nicole asked.

"Yes."

"Oh. Sorry."

Like an Achilles heel to her unsurpassed intelligence, Nicole suffered from short term memory loss, a rare condition brought on from consuming space-recycled water, or water launched to space and then retrieved again. "It isn't the same," she said one day (and every day hence), comparing the stuff to ordinary water, of which there was none.

But she never forgot a thing when it came to computers, and she remembered every detail she saw on a monitor, which made her the prime woman for her generic yet vital role in the team.

"I've looped the security feed. Flint, you can make your way to the top floor."

By 'top floor', Nicole meant the fifth floor, from which Flint would take his shot.

It was the fabled words of an ancient philosopher, whose name was probably Pluto, which read, "Common sense gives way to common sense." So it was, during World War Pi, when the earth was a perpetually-live bombsite, those with common sense moved either to the moon or to Mars, leaving the remaining population to wander in aimless confusion or blow up. However, since the moon isn't particularly large, not every common sense-wielding human could move there without weighing it down from one side and forcing it to either a) crash into earth, or b) drift out of Earth's orbit and towards the-fiery-red-thing-in-the-sky, archaically called ‘the sun’. And of those common sense-wielders still in peril of exploding, not all of them could afford to move to Mars. Their only choice was to do what common sense-wielding people in the midst of war do, and grab a gun. Alas, many of these men and women still died, for, as another great philosopher once said, "Bombs > guns."

Three main tribes rose from the ashes: those who were yet unharmed - the strongest, as it were; those who were slightly harmed and fewer in number; and those who escaped death with severed limbs and hanging entrails – in other words, those who didn't really know what to do because they lacked common sense.

The strongest did what ones with both strength and common sense do, and decided to rule over everyone else. However, they found this plan to be far more difficult than they expected, as only those lacking in common sense would a) blindly do whatsoever they were told to do by strong-sounding organisations, and b) rapidly multiply. The rest, well, they would rebel.

Ashleigh, who only recently joined the Untainted, was, of course, born of a mind lacking in common sense. Flint hadn't realised just how much common sense she lacked until, reaching his firing position on the fifth floor, he sat down, crossed his legs, and opened the briefcase that contained his firearm. When he had asked Ashleigh to design him a 'long-ranged weapon’ with which to shoot the president, what he didn't have in mind was a blow dart. Yet a pipe and a single dart, both packaged in close-fitting polystyrene, was exactly what he beheld.

He gazed down towards the pews overlooking the huge pool. President Nathan sat talking to his wife beside him, stroking her hair. Through clenched teeth, Flint said, “A simple rifle would have sufficed.”

“But a blow dart will make it appear as though the president fell asleep,” Ashleigh replied. “No one will suspect an assassination until you’re long gone.”

Flint was now both miserable and furious. He swung the pipe into his jaw, shattering it into three pieces. “Why do you think I want to assassinate the president?” he asked.

“Because his laws stink?” Ashleigh guessed. “I don’t know. You never told me.”

“Because he’s with his wife and you’re not,” Nicole put in.

“What?” Flint snapped. “Nicole, I told you my reasons, and I told you to tell-” he remembered her condition- “Never mind.”

Spectators filed into the pews. Chatter filled the building.

“So, are you going to tell us?” Ashleigh asked.

Flint sighed. “The Ozricks Maximum Security Prison is situated on the moon. If I kill the president, I’ll be sent there. Nicky will bust me out, and we’ll be united again.”

“You want to be caught," Ashleigh said through a gasp. Stating the obvious was something she, lacking in common sense, did a lot.

Flint sighed. “A silent blow dart doesn’t make it easy.”

He felt someone’s presence nearby just before a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Douglas outfitted in the uniform of a security guard. Douglas presented his handgun. “Take this.”

Flint took the gun and stared at it for a time. “A pistol? What if I miss?”

Douglas held a hand out. “Then give it back and I’ll do it.”

“No,” Flint said. In an instant, he adopted the tone of a clichéd protagonist whose ambitions had suddenly risen past the point against which no man could argue. Nor did his leaden eyes bear lenience. “This is something I must do.”

The first bullet missed, but the second punctured President Nathan's shoulder. The third cracked his ribs, and the fourth his skull.

Six bodyguards were in hot pursuit even before Nathan's widow had time to scream. They climbed stairs, ladders, and other ladders that Flint hadn’t noticed before.

“Give me the gun,” Douglas said.

Flint did as his partner bid. “Don’t miss.”

Douglas raised his eyebrows. “I thought you would want me to miss.” He took the gun and shot Flint near his abdomen. 

Flint collapsed almost immediately. The pain was excruciating. Nathan’s bodyguards reached the top of the stairs. Already his sight was fading, and the last thing he heard was Douglas saying, “We got him.”

*

Flint lay on his back. The surface beneath him was soft, but he was moving. A bed with wheels. His abdomen throbbed with pain, and in his mouth he tasted blood. There would be blood in his wound, too, yet when he tried to touch it, he discovered that his hand was cuffed to the bedrail. He blinked until his vision cleared enough to make out the white walls and lights of a corridor, and a man in police uniform trolleying him somewhere. The words, “Where am I?” were on his lips, but he remembered before he said as much.

His other hand was free, and dabbing his wound left it wet with blood. But he would live. If there was anyone who knew how to shoot a man and not kill him, it was Douglas. It’ll be easier to escape the infirmary if they think I’m critically wounded. I have to inform the others. Pain shot up his arm as he raised it to the side of his head. He pressed a button on the device in his ear and whispered softly enough that his captor wouldn’t hear. “I’m in.”

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TV series withdrawal

Living life is like driving a car that can't reverse. The farther you go, the more things you see that you'll never see again. Hindsight and reminiscence invade the recesses of our minds, growing up and up like weeds to pull us down. But going back is impossible. Even the weeds know that what’s been done cannot be undone. Still, the truth is hard to swallow.

I’m speaking about TV shows. When I finish watching a good series, my first desire is to erase my memory and watch it anew for the first time. But my hopes are short-lived. It cannot be done, my mind so reminds me. Instead, I'm transported into a pit of hopelessness, occupied by one thought: I have to wait thirty weeks for season two?

Torture, I tell myself, crossing day one off my calendar. Time couldn’t go slower if it, like me, had a mind to try. I re-cap the red marker when another truth intervenes. “You know, if you spent less time watching TV, you’d have less weight clogging your mind. The only weeds are the memories in which you’re doing something other than that which you should be doing. Make better use of your time so that one day, when your journey ends, you’ll step out of your car, you’ll look back and you’ll see, in amongst the weeds, an entire orchard abounding with fr---”

Thirty weeks? What am I going to do for thirty weeks?

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Column for Blacklisted: Chicken in a Rut

The second edition of a magazine called Blacklisted has just been published. I wrote a column for it!

The first edition's column is here.

---------------

Limbo

Chicken in a Rut

You are a godsend, a spirit of goodwill. Your mission is to serve, and you must snuff out every spawn of evil.

Last year you came home from a wedding only to find the tag of your underwear protruding full sail. You wondered if it had begun to show before or after your speech, as no one was bold enough to enlighten you. But you embraced your humility. You donned it like a sword, and now you’re loath to see any man’s cheeks reddened by the hands of shame.

Since then, life has been easy, and an absence of the enemy has dulled your blade. The café in which you now find yourself seems harmless enough, though your eyes are wary; the evil one can be as elusive as a whisper within shadows.

A chance meeting with an old friend promises to be a fine occasion, but you gasp when he opens his mouth to speak, for there, betwixt his lower incisors, the darkness festers.

“How do you do?” he asks, oblivious of the parasite invading his mouth. The simple-minded would call it a fragment of poultry caught between two teeth, but you know better than them. If left untended, this ‘fragment’ will become the peak of humility for your innocent friend. You could strike now – a clean and swift cut – but this friend isn’t particularly close, and spilt blood might wound skin and pride both. It isn’t my job to fix this, you tell yourself, but you know that it is. You don’t carry a sword for nought, and a blunt sword is still a sword. Rid him of shame now to spare a greater dose later. But what if he can’t carry on with his pride all banged up? The tension makes you shudder.

“You okay?” he asks.

“There’s something in your teeth.”

If only you’d said those words. Instead, you turned away and pointed to the waitress approaching with coffee and tea. You avoided eye contact with your friend as often as you could, and not once did you mention the affliction. Now, on the car ride home, your sword sits in its scabbard. The parasite has been allowed to feed, and when your friend discovers and removes it himself, confidence and trust will too be severed. Your friend will be scarred and your sword will be blunt, all because you chose not to act.

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Fate is real, and he likes to mock you

The following scenarios illustrate how Fate works in this world of his. You neither argue with him, nor avoid him. If you try, you will be mocked. Simply accept: Fate isn't your enemy; Fate is your god.

1.     Watch one episode of a television series. I dare you. One year from now, you'll turn on your TV, stumble upon that show, and realise that it's the same episode - the episode Fate chose for you.

2.    Steve comes over. He shows you a YouTube clip, thereby giving you permission to show him one.
Yes! you think to yourself. This will be great!
Two minutes in; your favourite part's coming up. Steve has to see this.
*Bzzzzd!* It's his phone. No! Don't read your petty texts! Look at the video!
Fate whispers in your ear. "He missed it."

3.     Time to drive to Jen's engagement party, but the music in your car sucks, so you turn that knob, you flick those radio stations. A song you like! Yay!
Wait... is this the first chorus or the third? This better be the start--
*Slap!* Have you no faith, fool? The song's nearly over! Bow to fate!

4.     Dear human,
Want to pass that truck on the highway? Be my guest. Meanwhile, I'll just shrink this passing lane over here… 
What? You needed that? I'm sorry; I didn't know. 
- Regards, Fate

5.     Not all hope is lost. Back at home, you still have that movie on your USB stick; and, fortunately, after plugging in USBs a thousand times, you've mastered the rotation to fit it in on the first try. The trick is to get it on the side that's-- DAMN IT, FATE!

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Flint and Steel: Episode One

A story I wrote for Nicky Brown. Happy birthday, Nicky!

Episode One

Special Agent Nicky Brown's comms device doubled as a hand grenade, or perhaps a finger grenade, given that she wore it on her finger rather than on her hand. 

“Hurry up, punk!” she whined into the ring. Shiny plastic overtop hidden explosives and wiring was all it comprised, but the naked eye saw gold and diamond. “The year is 2148, Rowan. A simple door shouldn't take this long to hack!”

“Shut up, will you?” the voice on the other end replied. Nicky pictured Rowan typing away whilst straining to keep his obnoxiously lengthy beard out of his motherboard. His beard was so bushy that the last time he’d moved closer than two feet from his work bench, he’d started a fire. Nicky sighed at the thought. I keep telling him to trim that thing.

After waiting for over five minutes on the rooftop of a currently airborne Ozricks spacecraft, Nicky wished she’d brought her dolls to play with. But the only toys sitting in her handbag were her hairbrush and her hologram device. Boring.

These spacecrafts typically served as the Moonopian police, which patrolled the districts in an endless loop. As they flew, their ominous shadows curved over the city’s buildings and houses; but even if you were safe inside, the arbitrary and overtly loud beep boop noises they made reminded you that you were always being watched. Anyway, this craft, the craft upon whose roof Nicky stood, was many times larger than the others, and Nicky had received word that vital intel awaited her within its double-doors. She waited outside the doors, which, oddly enough, refused to open to the stomping of her foot.

“I’m bored,” she said.

“Then find something to do. Just… don’t jump.” Rowan’s words were hard to comprehend over the sounds of typing and static, and the muffling effect of his all-consuming beard.

Nicky frowned. “If you don’t hurry up, maybe I will!”

The seconds ticked on and boredom intensified. Nicky found herself drawn towards the ship’s margin, but in the same way that her boredom had made her forget her fear of heights, when she peered over the edge, her resultant scream swallowed up any thoughts she’d had of killing herself. Two hundred feet below, people looked like ants, and she didn't much like the thought of being an ant, let alone a splattered ant. Her arms wind-milled as she vied with gravity to keep her balance, and then she staggered back, heart pounding. She was straightening her clothes when she heard noises emitting from her ring.

“Nicky,” came Rowan’s beard-ridden voice. “Nicky!”

“What?”

“The doors are open.”

One step away from the threshold, Nicky was taken aback at the sight of her reflection in the doorframe's metal surface. The wind, she realised, had made short work of her ginger hair, which now looked coarse enough to net a fish.

Brushing that tangle of orange from net into hair again took some time, but Nicky never rushed the things that mattered most in life. When finally a semblance of normality smiled back at her – which was to say that her hair came down from her head – she stepped inside. The entrance way was a long and narrow tunnel illuminated by white panels along its curved edges. She was still on her third step when two more sets of steps added their sounds to hers. Echoes, perhaps. But the sounds didn’t cease; they only grew louder. Nicky looked down to count how many feet she had. One, two… just two! Which means... which means... 

She wasn’t alone.

The spacecraft was so large that it had its own patrol unit: two guards, who exited through the double doors that Rowan had opened minutes ago. They stopped mere feet in front of the entrance and gazed at what appeared to be Nicky. These guards looked like twins with their black uniforms, blacker helmets and black-as-a-black hole machine guns. Nicky hadn’t brought a gun for herself; her handbag had refused to fit both hairbrush and pistol.

“Now, what’s a young lass like you doing on the rooftop of an Ozricks spacecraft?” Guard A asked.

“Yes,” Nicky replied.

“I think she’s shy,” Guard B advised.

“Probably. What’s your name, girl?”

“No,” Nicky said.

“Hmm? Don’t play games with me!”

“Yes.”

“Just shoot her and be done with it,” Guard B demanded. “She could be a spy.”

“Yes.” Nicky nodded, though the movement was jolty and strange.

“Last chance, girl.”

“No.” She stepped forward with the grace of a robot whose joints had glitched, while involuntary buzzing sounds emanated from her knees. Guard A reacted to her advance by aiming his sight at her forehead and firing. The bullet appeared to ignore her, however, continuing into the metal roof behind. Nicky stood unfazed as the guard fired again.

“Stop!” Guard B yelled. “It’s just a hologram. The real culprit is likely already inside.”

But the real Nicky wasn’t already inside. The real Nicky had grown so frustrated with the remote that controlled her hologram that she’d forgotten about her mission. You see, the buttons on this remote consisted of a joystick and a single red button. The joystick controlled Holo-Nicky's movements, and the button made her speak a random one of two words: ‘Yes’, or ‘No’. Now, positioned in a small nook between a railing and the wall of the entrance, behind the guards turning every which way, it seemed that the real Nicky was out of luck.

Yet they didn't detect her.

“Wait here,” A said. “I’ll check around the side.” Nicky sighed in relief. One guard will be easier to handle than two.

Ideally, B would have grown bored and joined A, which would have left the entrance free for Nicky to enter. But, unlike the order of the alphabet, this B character would not remain close to A, and the only thing she could do was wait. Patience, for Nicky, was hard; and when B took a step backwards, it only grew harder. She realised she was so close to him that he might hear her breathing or feel the pounding of her heart.

Of course, there was one ace Nicky still had up her sleeve – or rather, up her finger, given that she wore it on her finger and not up her sleeve. Her turn came when B let the gun rest on its sling in order to stretch his arms. Silently, she unsheathed her ring, plucked off the diamond, leaned forward and slotted the ring onto B’s pinky finger. The guard was none the wiser.

Guard A returned to say, "I found nothing. By the way, what’s that thing on your fin-

But it was much too late for him. Before his dialogue could reach its statutory end quote, Nicky sprang forward and shoved B into A. She took cover again just as the two guards exploded in a fiery display of blood and entrails. Two letters were at once dispersed like eraser on pencil. Amidst the resulting smoke and blood gaped a sizeable hole in the ship. Nicky wiped someone's intestines off her face as she realised that everyone on board would now be either evacuating, rushing up to confront her, or both. Fortunately, there was one device Nicky carried on her at all times – one that didn’t require the space of a handbag. Kneeling beside a piece of blood-drenched uniform, she focused the camera of her wristwatch at its front. Within seconds, a fully new set of uniform, helmet included, materialised right in front of her. Ordinarily, this effort would be fruitless. Surely there was no time to change out of her clothes! Or was there?

Before her career as a spy, Nicky was a world-class dancer; and, like all world-class dancers, she was forced to acquire a certain talent, namely the ability to change her clothes in the blink of an eye. In other words, Nicky was far from ordinary. So it was, seconds before two dozen guards appeared, she successfully changed into her new uniform, rolled herself in blood, and laid in the mess as a survivor. Moments later, sympathy and shock covered the face of every guard, two of whom left and returned with a stretcher. When they'd hoisted and carried her inside, she pressed a button on her left earring and whispered, “I’m in.”

Next episode

------------

Nicky, let me know if you want to find out what happens next.

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How to write an English essay

--UPDATE-- 
I've made a new site dedicated solely to teaching academic writing! Click here to check it out! Every week you'll find a new tutorial, and every tutorial will be easy to read and easy to learn. I'm also writing an ebook that I'll give away free to anyone who subscribes. I hope the site proves useful!
Sadly, I will probably no longer be updating this site. But the new site is better. In every way.

Recently, a friend asked me if I have a template I give to the students I tutor that breaks down essay writing into basic steps. The answer was yes and no. Every student is different; and while I do have a method that I teach them, I also adapt it to the given need of each particular student. What I didn't have was a template that students (and anyone else) could use to teach themselves. After four years, it was about time that I did.

The following template is structured to help high school students understand the steps and processes required to write a logically-structured English essay. If I had to be more specific, I'd say the following guidelines and examples are suited to a Year 12 or Year 13 student preparing for their English exam, though many of the principles apply to any literary or academic essay.

Some fundamental rules for any Literary Essay:

1. A basic Essay consists of an Introduction, three Body Paragraphs, and a Conclusion.
2. Since your Essay seeks to answer a question, every Body Paragraph must answer this question, but each body paragraph discusses a different topic to each other paragraph; it answers the essay question differently. Why? Because answering a question three times rather than once is like surveying a thousand people rather than a hundred. It's more credible.
3. The Body Paragraph structure goes like this: Statement, Example, Explanation, Relevance. Why? Because any logical argument uses this structure, and your Essay is more or less a set of three logical arguments.
4. It's about a million times better if you plan your Paragraph Topics and Examples ahead of writing your Essay.

Essay Structure

(If you already know the structure, but aren't sure how to answer your particular essay question, then click here)

Your Essay essentially consists of three different Sandwiches inside a fourth, all-consuming Burger Bun. Body Paragraph 1 is a Tuna Sandwich; Body Paragraph 2 is a Steak Sandwich; and Body Paragraph 3 is a Ham Sandwich. Holding these Sandwiches together are your Introduction (bottom half of burger bun) and Conclusion (top half of burger bun).

In other words, an Essay is a giant Sandwich Burger, and the best Essays make for the sandwich-iest of Sandwich Burgers.

Essay Topic

When choosing your Essay Topic, pick the topic that you know the most about. For instance, I chose this one.

Discuss how the influence of a character in a film you have studied helped to convey a main idea.

Now, before you do anything else, substitute specific terms for the general terms given in your Essay Topic. It makes it easier for you when you come to writing your Introduction.

Note that 'main idea', 'author's purpose', 'central idea', and other such phrases all mean the same thing as the word 'theme'.

Common question: "The essay topic didn't mention film techniques. Does this mean I can ignore them altogether?"
Answer: No! You might pass without a mention of film techniques, just as you might pass without using any quotes. To get a high mark, however, you will want to write as rich a discussion as possible, which means lots of quotes and lots of techniques!

The Introduction

Your Introduction is called an Introduction for a reason: it introduces the content for the rest of your Essay. In burger terms, it prepares the bottom of the burger bun for the three Sandwiches that you're about to assemble on top of it.

An Introduction must contain the following information: The title of your text; the name of the author/director; the main idea (theme) you've chosen; the three topics you're going to discuss that prove (or justify) your main idea; and why the reader should care.

So, for your Introduction, here is the information you might use:

Title: Equip Your Comma or Die

Director: Conifer Miteroot

Theme: Good grammar prevents chaos

Paragraph topics: 1) Anna's introduction; 2) teenagers' change in perspective; 3) Anna's death.
Message for society: Preservation of language

Assuming that this film actually existed, here's an introduction that you might write based on the above information:

Tips for your Introduction: 

1. If you don't know how to start your Intro, begin with the phrase 'In so and so's text...' and, from there, turn your Essay topic into a declarative sentence, as above.
2. Never use the phrase 'In this essay...'. It's as tacky as a novel beginning with the words 'Once upon a time...'.
3. Don't consider the length of your Intro; it has nothing to do with anything. Instead, focus on the information that your Intro is supposed to provide. As soon as you've covered everything, move on to your Body.
4. Each Sandwich must be its own flavour; every paragraph topic must be different.
5. The message to society part of your Intro simply means stating what the overall message is to us as viewers.

Congratulations! You've now completed the bottom half of your burger bun.

The Body 

The body consists of your three Sandwiches. Each Sandwich must be compiled with the right ingredients for its desired flavour (topic), and these ingredients must also be compiled in the correct order. In case you've forgotten the order, it goes as follows:

Statement - A declarative sentence, or a bold claim that has yet to be proven. (For instance, the first sentence of my Introduction is a Statement.)

Example - Briefly describe the part of a scene from the text that you believe provides proof for your Statement.

Explanation - Explain your Example to show how it connects with your Statement.

Relevance - Show how your proven Statement is evidence of the main idea (theme).

For some people, it's easier to pretend you're answering four questions:

Statement - What is one scene from the text in which the theme was shown?

Example - Where's the proof?

Explanation - What's your point?

Relevance - What has your point got to do with the theme?

Don't move on until you've answered all four questions!

Tips for building your Sandwich (Body Paragraph):

1. Always start with a Statement and always end with your Relevance.
2. In between your Statement and your Relevance, you may have as many Examples and Explanations as you like, so long as you never leave an Example unexplained.

Here's a Body Paragraph you might write for the first Paragraph Topic:

Quotes and Techniques
The use of quotes is expected from you for any English essay, and the use of film techniques is expected from you for any English film essay. Why? Because the theme is always shown through the use of techniques. Anna Postrophe's character introduced order within chaos not because I said so, but because the arguing stopped upon her arrival. This shift in mood was supported through her orderly clothes (costume), the light from the street sign (lighting) and her cane (props). If you point out these details and then explain how they support the theme, you'll get lots of points!

Treat your Examples and Explanations as meat for your Sandwich, and treat quotes and techniques like sauces. Sauces add flavour to the meat you've already added; they show finesse in the art of Sandwichery. But never try to use quotes or techniques to make your points for you. You must have meat in order to add sauce!

Assemble two more Sandwiches, and then you'll be up to...

The Conclusion
My personal formula below makes Conclusions as basic as your Introduction.

Rephrase Intro - Restate the first part of your Intro in different words.
Summarise Body - Write a brief summary of your three Body Paragraph points.
Reflect - State what we as viewers can learn from the film.

Here's an example.

And that's the top of the burger bun!

Conclusion tips:

1. If you're finding it hard to rephrase your Introduction, simply start the sentence with a different word. In the Intro I began with the word "in", while in the conclusion I began with the author's name.
2. The summary in the Conclusion is a rephrased version of the summary in the Intro.
3. The Reflect section is entirely made up. End how you like, so long as it follows from what you've already discussed. This section is also a rephrased and fluffier version of the 'relation to society' sentence that you wrote in your Introduction.

More tips:

1. For the Intro and Conclusion, never write anything you'll have to explain. Remember, the Examples and Explanations form the meat for your Sandwiches, and your Sandwiches form your Body.
2. The content for your Introduction and your Conclusion is based on what you write in your Body. For this reason, many students find it easier to write their Body first before writing their Introduction and Conclusion.
3. Never repeat yourself.
4. The Essay structure above applies to any literary essay, not just film. The only differences are the techniques.
5. For higher marks, strain your vocabulary, apply accurate grammar and punctuation, and vary the structure of your sentences.

How to answer any English essay question

Copyright Matthew Ferri 2014

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