Letter To The Future21st July 2010
To Whom It May Concern:
If you have found this letter, congratulations. I am writing this in the year 2010 and hopefully, nuclear war permitting, it will have reached you in the year 2110. The language I am writing in is English which, while I assume will still be a dominant language in one hundred years time, may have been killed off by the Chinese.
2110 sounds so futuristic, but once upon a time 2010 sounded like that, yet here I am. It's weird to think that this year is now history to you, the way we look back at 1910 and think they were a bit backwards. You probably think that about us.
It's 41 years since humans first landed on the moon (unless that has since proved to be a hoax) and we've currently no signs of heading into space again. They keep talking about it, but there's nothing happening. I hope we're on the moon by the time you read this. Hopefully you've got to Mars by now. Maybe you're reading this on Mars!
Are there aliens yet? The closest we get is Doctor
Excerpt: 2117The first noise I heard in one hundred years was a gentle hiss. I felt dizzy and realised that I was lying on cool marble table wearing only shorts. There was a mask over my mouth, feeding me oxygen. I turned my head gently to the side and noticed that the mask was connected to a tube, which fed down into a small glass dome. Inside the dome was what appeared to be a bonsai rainforest.
What I presumed to be a clock was on the wall just above it, although it was hard to tell. It had no hands but instead four circles of various sizes were in place beneath the numbers, one of them ticking with what I presumed were seconds. One was moving too fast to be properly seen.
The hissing continued, very faintly. I wanted to sit up but I quickly realised that my wrists and ankles were fastened to the table, although I could feel no fastening at all. It was almost like I'd been magnetised and stuck to the fridge.
I heard a door open and someone entered the room, and at the same time, the oxygen mask
Character Study: Jazz ClubLively jazz music plays. The club is dark, square lights allowing for just enough vision through the fug. You can almost see the music circle the clientele. Three people sit in the corner booth, all of them smiling and laughing together.
The first is Dexter Ruggles; dressed in a black shirt, black trousers, black ankle boots and a black trilby balanced on his black hair. Just a slim white tie adds colour to the ensemble. He laughs loudly, baring straight teeth, nostrils flaring. He's a writer, a novelist (one book published) who also works as a waiter. He's happy with his lot and his friends.
The second is Rebecca Lowe; dressed in a white top with red swirls all over it, and a short grey skirt. Grey boots reach up to her knees. She has an unlit cigarette behind her ear, tucked into the dark red hair that has been sprayed, straightened and waxed so often one would think it wouldn't bother messing itself up again. She sleeps around, sleeps with anything. She wants a relationship but does
Harrison's New FriendsHarrison was four years old and, like most four year olds, was in the middle of a very important task. In the case of this particular four year old, he was digging in the mud with a stick. His mother was sitting on the park bench a few metres away, engrossed in a phone call on her Blackberry, only vaguely watching her son.
Harrison was a handsome young lad with eyes as blue as sapphires and a mop of thick blonde hair. He was wearing his new green winter coat that his grandma had bought him for Christmas and a pair of Bob the Builder gloves. It was the first time he'd been to the park since Christmas as it had been so cold.
Harrison was a clever child, and very well behaved. He already understood that he should always stay where his mum could see him, that you can talk to strangers but you shouldn't go away with them, and that if he cried for just long enough, he would get an ice cream.
A particularly strong breeze unsteadied him and he stood up properly to look down the path. From the
Ode to Magikarp
Magikarp with fins so white
Yellow crown, face froze in fright
On the end of every fishing rod
And for evolution, thou are most odd
In battle you are detrimental
You cause great losses, drives us mental
But reach a level past nineteen
And you're a wonder to be seen
For Gyarados, your new name is
In battle, a much stronger fizz
But every trainer stoops to beg
Why can't Gyarados alone come from the egg?
Harry EntwhistleHarry Entwhistle wrapped two wedding rings in a handkerchief and tucked it down the side of the suitcase. The suitcase was genuine leather, from the 1930s, and in very good condition. It would be worth a bit of money too, if he could sell it. But then, what would he carry his things in?
He zipped up the suitcase and closed the lock. He slipped the key into the inside pocket of his jacket, turned around and sighed. He looked at himself in the Edwardian mirror opposite, the intricate carvings on the wood frame interesting him far more than the pockmarked, puffy face that was reflected back at him. He smoothed down his comb over and busied himself in the Georgian dresser, his fat fingers fumbling for boxes of jewellery.
He picked a few out and set them on the coffee table (believed to be Victorian), before lowering himself into the old, creaky sofa. He realised he hadn't picked up the keys and looked at where they sat on the lowest shelf of the dresser. He huffed and puffed, his portly fr
Three SaintsIt all started when we were about eight, after a lesson by Mrs Thaxter about patron saints. We looked at saints like Saint Florian, the patron saint of firefighters, and Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers and Saint Martha, the patron saint of homemakers.
After that class, Dennis, Bruce and myself went into the playground and discussed it, wondering what we would be patron saints of. Dennis said he was Saint Dennis, patron saint of chocolate biscuits, football, scabs and dogs. Bruce went with Pokémon cards, wasp stings, pretty girls who play netball and sunny days for Saint Bruce. I chose mine last, wanting four things that Saint Adam could rule with honour.
Paddling in the sea.
We laughed a lot at the idea and many games after this or so would involve us invoking our "powers". Saint Adam could turn any stream from water to cherryade. Saint Dennis was the best football player in the history of the world. Saint Bruce could make wasp
The Ghost of Vic MorrowAll throughout Boothville, there were rumours of a ghost. Everyone claimed to have seen it. Gossip Guy claimed to have seen it in while tending to the grapes in his vineyard. Ferry said they'd seen it one night while taking a moonlit stroll down past Goldeen Lake. Quiquito had been studying the night sky when it flew past his telescope. Even King Jon was said to have seen it lurking in the chambers of his castle.
The sightings became more and more frequent and soon everyone decided that something had to be done. Gossip Guy gathered some people together in his bookshop to decide on what they should do. He had to kick out one person who tried to enter with a Team Edward t-shirt on, but otherwise everyone was welcome.
"So what are we going to do about this ghost?" he said.
"I don't really know what we can do," croaked Croakers. "A ghost cannot be affected by human hands. It's a nuisance, certainly, but one we will have to get used to."
"I took some pictures of it," said Jerry, reaching in