WRITER’S TOOLBOX

by brightonsauce

Confidence grows during this narration of fresh meat-piece ‘Valiant Bonfire.’ Certainly I give the appearance of a man kissing himself on-screen. I am not proud. However, the write enjoys musical accompaniment and guest stars wife as ‘wife with plate.’

Yes, I provide this useful educational film for fellow scribes. Understand the importance of narration in establishing your beautiful rhythms. Yet remember that rhythm does not equate to sense. But who cares about sense, eh, eh?

VALIANT BONFIRE dr2
Fellows,
Carefully, I lubricated the passage, inserted [standard branded] rocket up, [and] along a battered rear orifice. Carefully, I stood the duration, my journey atop the number eleven bus.
‘Have a seat old-timer…’ said the driver.
‘No, thank you.’ I had replied.
‘Rest a while, Pops,’ said a citizen.
‘Piss off…’ I replied this time, but in my eyes, and in your eyes, only.
Coated…, queued among insect brethren at [Westminster] security portal. Mission: a simple protest. Not for me to dynamite – the entire edifice, structure of capitalism, tory-fascisco complex, this authority. No, duty would fall to later figure, an heroic figure: [one] not young to sacrifice.
Stench of staff, security, satisfaction echoed long hall, ahead gathered, the rose pink, the jowls bowed over bellies howled round a central lobby. [female species fluttered among mallard corpses] I stepped into lift, ascended high: public gallery, squirmed in arms of [the] security fellow in his cap. He patted cheeks, swept a long thigh. I hobbled on, anonymous slouched into front seats, and sucked a lozenge
The leader of the opposition, Mister Jeremy Bentham asked his first, his very boring question:
‘And How will Mrs Patrick Foggitt of Ilkley Crescent, Barnsley pay her £500 gas bill this winter?’ he said.
‘How? Said The Prime minister and yawned, thte greased member rolled a great eye:
‘I refer the hon. Gentleman to my reply of October 24, and on the 15th of October, and on the 8th of October 2015,’ [he said] coughed into that sweaty, [that little] palm.
In this moment, my moment, I ripped trousers away, utilised left prosthetic, and tore valiantly at the strip of Swan Vesta in my other fist. I mean, work it out for yourselves. I squeezed, pushed with sphincter, yet my brave warriors of revolutionary warfare, the rocket would not come, morphine constipation endured even at this critical moment in our histories. No time to lose I lit the fuse anyway, and sparkled at the bottom. I stood. Attendants rushed towards me.
And I [too] coughed. finally she came, I flung rocket with all my might. Yes, I should say so, but yes, without NHS spectacles how can anybody see a thing, or say it? Yes, but yes, yes, yet the glass security screen installed since my last visit in 1988 remained steadfast, resolute, and rocket bounced from glass[frame], fizzed an impotence – among a group of cub scouts in row six. Suddenly she blasted, away and off, ignited grand velvet curtain, the surround of all our representatives, don’t ask me how exactly, I could not see clearly. Within minutes the entire Chamber smoked, aflame and glorious. I believe glass melted even, sugar coated Scottish Nationalists as a , bonus act of insurrection on my cake, vandalism you might say, laddie, but no. [Aside me] Security fellows dropped to carpet, one by one, overcome in smoke, and an array of fire wardens. In armbands they meddled in their duty. Superior chaos ensued.
I led the 7th troop to safety down backstairs, was able to distribute lolly pops to boys, girls on the street watched inferno; Big Ben toppled to statues, the bell bounced between police horses, [startled beasts neighed like Neigh] a crowd, the chefs, the temporary postmen cheered, cigarettes on their lips. Goodness, I too squealed like these – children, CCTV cameras, all such weaponry destroyed, [and] drones crashed to grassland, wonderful exhilaration. I caught the same number eleven bus, offered a seat this time, accepted invitation, exhaled masterfully, content at last.

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