Thursday, March 18, 2010

The Untold Story of the Twelfth Great Roach March.

General Cortax crawled to the front of the crowd to address the brave soldiers under his command. He took several deep breaths, then reminded himself that it was most unroachly to lose nerve in the face of possible annihilation. We shall all die in service to the Clan. He told himself sternly. Not an insect alive can ask for more.

Yes, they could die. After all, this was the twelfth consecutive Roach March, and eight out of the previous eleven had all ended in tragedy. But now, gathered with his followers behind the massive container the humans addressed as a 'Trash Can', the General found hope in the eyes of the brave bugs that waited on his words.

"My fellow Roaches," He began, voice booming with a powerful squeak. "You all know why we are here. This is unlike any other Roach March in recorded history. In the past, we have only sought to rattle the humans. Irritate them. Make it known that despite our grave disadvantage in size, we will not by any means give in to their rule! And in my heart, this is what I desire to do today!"

His proclamation was met by enthusiastic squeaking. Listening to it, Cortax once more questioned the Roachly qualities of the Council's decision. Was not the very purpose of the Cockroaches to wage war against the despicable humans? How could what they were about to do be anything less than a going against their very nature?

"But it is not to be, my brothers," He spoke again. "For our leaders have made their decision. We are to attempt to.....Negotiate with the humans. The Council believes that a recent viewing of the Unholy Box, the box that, through witchcraft, shows conjured images upon itself, has proven that the humans are becoming more tolerant of Roachkind. The images in question are said to contain a clan of Cockroaches aiding a human in the cleaning of her home! And singing!"

Gasps, along with cries of indignation, were the response. Cortax was inclined to agree with his soldiers. In his opinion, the Roaches who had allowed their images to be displayed on the Unholy box were nothing less than disgraces. And it appeared his opinion was shared.

"If these images are truthful," He said, quieting down the uproar, "There is a possibility that peace can be achieved here. We are to attempt to speak with the humans, despite the language barrier between our two races."

He inhaled deeply once again. This was the part where he defied the council. This was the part where he asked for the unbridled trust of his companions. "Officially," He said, "If a human attempts to crush us beneath a Foot or any other heavy object, we are to dodge and continue the negotiations." Cries of outrage peppered the crowd of militants. Cortax eyed them firmly. "Unofficially," He spoke, "If there is so much as a hint of danger, you are all ordered to crawl out of there as fast as your legs can carry you. Understood?"

He was.

"My brethren, it has been an honor and a privilege serving with you. Should we die, we die with the honor that comes with being a true Cockroach!" The most noble last words he could think of. General Cortax turned then, and crawled to face the opening between the 'Trash Can' and the 'Counter'.


And reader, they did march. Cortax surveyed the gargantuan room in despair, as he saw not one, but two giant humans close by. And the reaction of both of them was a disgusted shriek. It had all been lies. Why, oh why had the Council ever been foolish enough to trust anything shown on the Unholy Box?

The brave General didn't even have time to cry out before have of his army was crushed underfoot. "Evasive maneuvers!" He yelled in despair, knowing that it was a hopeless cause. "Retreat! Retreat!"

He felt an agonizingly heavy Foot crush his protective armor. It did not kill him instantly, and this he was grateful for. It gave him a moment to look back on his life. He had served well. Hadn't he, after all, been the General the Council had entrusted this mission to? His own thoughts came back to him; Should we die, we die with the honor that comes with being a true Cockroach.

And so he did.

And I, the Night Writer, by request, have recounted this tale to you.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

A Brief Recount of the Saga of Seasons.

Salutations, any and all who are reading. On the chance that you have enjoyed my eccentric writings thus far, I feel I must apologize for not having written anything at all, much less anything eccentric, for some time.

While at least ninety percent of the blame must fall to my own procrastination-Oh, how I despise its fiendish grasp-at most ten percent of it can be diverted to my newfound enemy. I feel utterly betrayed by this adversary. Previously, I had not considered him a friend, indeed I did not care for him, but his deeds have turned so foul that I now harbor an intense and burning dislike for this most villainous of senior citizens.

I speak, if you have not yet guessed, of Old Man Winter.

Oh, the cruelty of this immortal individual, who practices so many dark and terrible arts! How I shall forever dread his annual arrival from this moment on. It is said, and dear reader, I believe it, that the cane on which he leans is made from the sharpest and most deadly of icicles. It is said that his clothing is entirely created from the frostbitten skin of a donkey. It is said that his very eyeballs are hailstones, gazing upon the misery of those who are forced to endure his yearly reign.

Aaah, but Old Man Winter's appearance is but the most minuscule fraction of what makes him fearsome. A much larger part is comprised of his otherworldly abilities. When the sharp drop in outdoor temperature proves to be insufficient in supplying anguished cries of woe, he does not hesitate to send ice raining down from the sky, turn the water of lakes and streams to stiff, unwelcoming ice, and bury the innocent in massive quantities of snow. There are places where his empire does not reach. But in whatever area he is able, he will, every year, attack it ruthlessly.

For centuries, he went relatively unchallenged. But then, miraculously, a resistance was formed. A noble rebellion, made up of powerful indoor heating, resilient indoor plumbing, and my personal favorite, the marvel that is electricity. These wonders combined gave the grateful public virtually no reason to journey outdoors unless absolutely necessary, and hence, kept them shielded from Winter's vicious might.

But, as it has been told by Batman (May he fly for all eternity), opposition leads to escalation.

Old Man Winter grew stronger. Now, he has the....horrifying ability to shut down the power lines that fuel the things we once thougth kept us safe. And this, my friends, is what befell myself and my family for nearly a week. There are brave, chivalrous men and women who try their absolute hardest to repair the precious lines of power, whilst Winter bombards them with his cold, but these are but mortals. They cannot drive away the chill on their own.

For our salvation, we look to the coming of the beauteous, joyful woman named Spring. I cannot say enough about the sheer righteousness of this Season of Seasons. Flowing hair golden as apples, a laughing face that exhibits pure happiness and bliss, her virtuous powers of comfort and warmth succeed every year in driving away Winter's white empire. And she clears the path for her fellow seasons, the kind but strict elderly grandmother called Autumn, and the bold Knight of the Sun, Summer.

I await her return with great eagerness. May the defeat of Old man Winter come speedily, and may you all be spared as much of his cruelty as possible.
~He Who Writes in the Night.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Interdimensional Viewscreens.

At the time of my writing this, it is evening, so Good Evening is what I shall say. The subject of this third consecutive blog post may surprise you. I certainly have never seen anyone else discuss it, though taking into account the sheer size of the internet, I'm sure I am not the first.

Tonight, I find myself thinking about interdimensional viewscreens. They are really quite extraordinary, and there seems to be no end to the amount of them. They are freely available to be purchased in various places, being more numerous in some than in others. There are actually buildings in which you can lease however many isuch viewscreens you desire, provided you have a plastic card with your name on it, and do not object to paying a small fee should you fail to return said viewscreens by a set date.

One thing I cannot help but notice about these interdimensional viewscreens is that the seperate dimensions they show us seem to almost always be a great deal more interesting than our own. For example, if you take a look at select screens, you will be shown a world vastly different from this one, curiously named 'Middle-Earth', where short hairy-footed people attempt to destroy a highly unusual piece of jewelry by dropping it into a volcano that seems eternally active. Despite the alarming direness of the situations present in this dimension, one cannot help but enjoy viewing the excitement of it all.

That particular viewscreen was constructed, according to the letters upon it, by a man named Tolkien. But there are uncountable other such creators of these wondrous inventions. Such as a wholly remarkable woman by the name of Jane Austen, who showed the world a place that seems very much like how ours used to be, in which a young woman eventually marries a man named Darcy, who is clearly too flawless to ever concievably exist in our dimension of imperfect humans.

Alas, one cannot realistically hope that all other dimensions out there are interesting places to see. Examples include one brought to our attention by a woman named Stephanie Meyer, within which another young woman finds herself falling in love with a blood sucking creature with the capabilities of glitter, becoming impregnated by this creature, and nearly killed when the monstrous hybrid infant inside of her attempts to devour its way out of her body!

Most disturbing.

But it is best not to dwell on such horrific places. Instead, I believe I shall resume viewing a screen that recently fell into my possesion. It is extremely fascinating, showing me a world that seems to be in a post-apocolyptic age, in which children are cruelly forced to engage one another in combat to amuse a tyrannical government. The child I am watching most closely, a girl by the name of Katniss, is an individual I can truly care about, and I find myself easily wondering about what will befall her.

With that, I shall bid you all adieu. And if I may be so bold, I recommend that you acquire an interesting interdimensional viewscreen in the near future. They seem to have much they wish to show us.

~He Who Writes in the Night.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Blunt and Honest Opinions.

Good evening/morning/afternoon to you all. I wish there were a less self-indulgent topic I could choose for the second installment of these blog posts, but I'm afraid I cannot think of any option but to tell you of my day. It was, by the standards at which I set my existence, an eventful one.

I awoke, and shortly met with Everett McNair, one of, if I may be so bold as to use outdated lingo, the hippest cats around. He and his family-and it is a rather fantastic family-are dwelling in our guest house until they leave tomorrow. As this was their first and only full day with us of this visit, we decided to give it some excitement, and engage in the recreational activity known as skiiing.

I must say, the Wisp Resort at Deep Creek Lake Maryland seems far less welcoming when there are not scores of like-minded people there to extend the hand of fellowship, but it is nevertheless a beautiful place. It boasts, as I have read on this glorious internet, a total of 32 ski sloaps. I myself had never been skiiing until today. I hope you will forgive me for blurting out my blunt and honest opinion of it.

Skiing, dear reader, royally, truthfully, genuinely, stinks.

Bear in mind that this opinion may be subject to change, but as of today, I despise this activity. I prefer not to go out of doors in the frigid winter air for amusement unless there is a direct and quick path back into the comfort and warmth of the home, and skiiing required me to do just that. But just so you do not bear the false impression that I possess an ounce of maturity, much of my distaste for skiing stems from the fact that I am hopelessly, horribly, and undeniably bad at it.

However, I now feel as though I could kill a man with one solid kick to the chest. Stomping around in those infernal ski boots has to be the most sure way of providing exercise for one's legs. Although, I must confess, said infernal boots made me feel somewhat like Iron Man. Which was a most pleasurable feeling.

But never mind all this. It is not my intent to have a negative disposition throughout this blog entry. Therefore, I shall also tell you that it was my pleasure to view a most remarkable film this evening. The movie in question was an animated one I had never before seen, though it was released many years ago, produced by the Dreamworks company and titled The Prince of Egypt. I hope you will forgive me for blurting out my blunt and honest opinion of it. *Ahem*.....


....*Cough*. Yes. Well, I recommend the film greatly. As you may know, it is based on the story of Moses and the Exodus, and although it was at times not entirely historically accurate, its obviously deep respect for the source material, and how well made it truly was, made up for this. The music therein was phenominal by all accounts, and the alternate character interpretations of Moses and the Pharaoh that ultimately opposes him were the perfect ways to make a well-known story seem as interesting as it truthfully is. It is, in my opinion, even superior to the far more recognized film The Ten Commandments.

And yes, I know that I am putting my life on the line by saying that.

I do not wish to bore you all any further, and so I shall go to bed. Goodnight to you, sir or madam, from one who truly is,
~The Night Writer

Monday, January 25, 2010

And So it Begins.

Greetings to anyone who may be reading. At the request of a friend, and the approval of various other ones, I have decided to create and manage a 'blog', as the kids are calling them. If you seek profound knowledge, deep wisdom, or logical sense, read no further, for you shall find none of the above here. However, if you crave insanity, if you value that which is random, and if you are a fellow lover of the weird, stay, my friend, for you are welcome here.

Being that it is highly unlikely that this will be read by anyone unfamiliar with me, you probably already know my backround. However, on the off-chance that you are a stranger, I go by the unassuming name of Thomas, I live in the unassuming location of a family farm, and I presently go by the unassuming age of fifteen standard earth-years. I have what many, including myself, consider to be a large family, it containing one matriarch, one patriarch, four girliarchs, and myself. I am male. As I presume you have guessed.

I aspire to be a writer of fiction, and only time will tell if this is an unrealistic goal or not. The purpose of this blog? For me to tell of the goings-on in my life, and others', in a manner as witty as I can. Will I succeed? Again, only time can reveal thus.

My title as the Night Writer has a bit of a story behind it. A dear friend of mine, who is just as much of, if not far more than, a writer, gave me the name as a joke. It is quite an appropriate name, as I once wrote until-as I recall-nearly midnight, and got into a great deal of trouble for it. Also, I am an admirer of Batman. Very much so.

This blog is a mere infant born into the vast expanse of the cyberwebs. It's future, reader, lies with you. Will you read such nonsensical, trivial writings, or will you dismiss this as just another piece of the 90% meaningless internet? I know not. I only hope that if you choose the former, that I can keep you entertained.

I bid you good day, sir or madam,
~The Night Writer.