The Attempted Hanging of Jiminy "Quickfingers"

Jiminy "Quickfingers" is, however you see it, a thief.

To say he was "quick" would be an understatement.

In fact, to say that you couldn't see his hands would be quite the wrong statement as well.

You could always see his hands. It was just that while you were watching his hands, your purse or wallet somehow found a way into his pocket.

And today, Jiminy was going to hang.

It would probably be easier if he wasn't such a lovable rascal.

Despite it all, he never really took more than his victim could afford, and so it quite puzzled him that, while most poor people don't mind parting with a dollar or two, the rich were inclined to have him killed over a nickel.

And so, today, he walked out from his cell, toward the gallows, amidst a silent crowd who have come to witness his death.

He took the rickety wooden steps, up onto the rickety wooden platform, and came to a stop beneath the noose which was to be his death. The executioner stood next to him, upper torso bare, head in a black hood. There was no expression to be read there. He was just a man with a job to do.

Quietly Jiminy stood, as the noose was pulled over his head, and the knot tightened around his neck.

Another man was there, standing a little way away. Jiminy wasn't quite sure who he was, but he was reading from a list. It was a best-of list of his many and, to be honest, sometimes incredible crimes. He could make huge items disappear before a room full of people. He could spirit away items and the room would still be locked after.

Basically, no one had any evidence that he had committed any crime, apart from the fact that things unmistakably go missing within his immediate vicinity, and often, at that.

They therefore did the only thing they could do, which was to have him executed without a trial.

Even so, Jiminy wasn't paying attention. After all, the next moment needs his full concentration.

The man finishes his list, and turns to Jiminy.

"Have you any last words, my son?"

Jiminy raises his head, but says nothing. He merely nods.

The man, in turn, nods to the man in the hood.

The executioner turns to a big lever set in the floor, grasps it in both hands, and pulls.

The trapdoor beneath Jiminy's feet slams open. He could feel the ground disappear from under him.

There were one or two gasps as he falls thru the trapdoor, ending with a thud...

And a slithery noise as of some serpent, as ropes slid gently to the ground.

There was absolute silence...

And Jiminy stood there, both feet on solid ground, arms outstretched for balance.

In the shocked soundlessness, he takes a moment to make a mental check that all his neck bones are intact, and then carefully, very slowly, he straightens up and raises his head to the crowd.

A wide smile breaks across his face like a brilliant new dawn, and, with much grace and beauty, he bows to the now masses, which by now were cheering madly for him.

It was such a beautiful moment that he didn’t even immediately realize the rough hands grabbing him under the arms. The guards then begin to drag him away, with Jiminy’s face still set in a silly grin.

As they do so, you could hear one of them hiss: "Alright, wise guy. Next time, we shoot you".

the Prayer

In the silence of a little upstairs bedroom comes the little voice of a little girl.

Amidst the little fake plastic glow-in-the-dark stars comes a little prayer, a small message of hope.

And we see the little girl, kneeling on a small stool by the side of the window. By the dim bluish light of the stars in the velvet night sky, we can see her little face scrunched up in concentration.

"Stars above, hear my plea,
From up above, carry me,
Away from here, away from fear,
Away from any cause for tears."

She unclasps her hands and put on a smile. She got up carefully, her bright eyes transfixed on the stars that would be her saviours.

Then, she jumped.

fanart of SPAWN, which was created by Todd McFarlane. Admittedly, could have been done better, but no time at the present. Maybe in future...

Pandemonium

"I can't let go..."

"You'll have to. Your judgment's screwed up, and you don't know what's going on. Jealousy and stupidity is going to cause you to make one bad call after another. You want another debacle like the last one?"

"I didn't mean to. I guess I jumped the gun. Like I always do."

"Exactly. So what? So she meets up with other guys. So she might even LIKE one of them. IT'S NOT YOUR LIFE. You can't keep guessing. If you keep thinking she hates you and likes someone else, you'll tear yourself to bits. If you keep guessing she DOES like you, you're only setting yourself up for future torture. YOU LEAVE HER TO LIVE HER LIFE THE WAY SHE WANTS TO."

"If only I knew her better. Or if only she knew me."

"Too bad. She doesn't want to know. You might even have had a hand in that. It's like that. You took a chance, you lost. You can't change it. So live with it."

"What would be the point of love if it were so easy to let it go? But why can't people just talk about it? Wouldn't it make it better?"

"PHht. When the atmosphere is as awkward as this, you think anyone would want to stay in it any longer than necessary? You count yourself lucky she would even talk to you at all, instead of ignoring you completely."

"How do I know she isn't?"

"Well, she still talks to you SOMETIMES, right? Admittedly only when it's something important, or you started the conversation and it's important enough..."

"I'm really screwed up, aren't I?"

"Yea, you are. Thing is, even you don't know who you are. Even you don't love who you are. How can you expect anyone else to?"

"..."

"You think about it. But not too much. You know how your thinking's been screwed up lately."

"... yea."

"Now stop talking to yourself, and get to work. It's not helping that you're sitting here typing this when your project's still hanging by a thread."

"Yea... I ought to. Damn it. Why do I always have to make things so bloody COMPLICATED??"

"Don't ask me, man. If I knew, you probably wouldn't be in this mess..."

Theory on Duality (the Nature of the Beast)

Take it on faith that humans are essentially animals.

They have very animal instincts and desires: they have a tendency to nurture, to reproduce, to fight and to kill.

However, owing to what is generally called the human intellect, humans have, for their common good, formed ever-growing societies, and society is a game of rules. The rules do not necessarily make sense, nor are always similar between societies. Since the rules are constructs of intellect, they generally follow the needs of thought, not of emotion. These rules particularly inhibit animal-like behaviour. By these rules, humans are not to fight, to harm, or to kill. They are to keep their emotions and desires subdued to a socially acceptable level.

Naturally, in order not to be expelled by society, most people conform to these rules, only breaking them on occassion, often when they believe no one would notice.

Conforming, however, would require supression of the animal instinct. Most people, then, would carefully fence their destructive, beastly self. However, since the beast is a natural part of them, it usually shows through from time to time, manifesting as explosive outbursts or heightened aggression.

As in most games, some people are better at it than others. The best players, unfortunately, build not just fences, but walls. These are the people who, on a daily basis, show little to no anger, hardly any aggression, and are generally very, very nice people. As time passes, segregation occurs, and generally two separate selves can be observed. One is socially acceptable, and is in fact a perfect role-model - helpful, generous, kind, meek and benign.

The other, is the beast. This is the cold, calculating bastard who is trapped behind the walls, taking note of every hurt, every injury, and making a list. This is the one who keeps score, who thinks of all the angles, and is generally the ultimate pessimist.

Initially, this may not pose too much of a problem. However, as days go by, the beast becomes overly internalized. Behind the walls, it is cut off from the outside world, and lives on the shadows of what it once knew to be reality. This new reality is often warped by its sense of anger and injustice. It tenses as the outward self is battered and beaten*, and howls with increasing ferocity in the deepest corner of the mind.

When a beast is locked up on its own for far too long, it grows restless, it grows angry.

It grows insane.

And when the socially acceptable self finally takes one pounding too hard, when it finally realises that the world cuts the

throats of the meek, when it falls too hard to get up... the beast is freed from its cage.

Then, it all breaks down.



*it is observable that while we take pride in being different from animals, we often admire or even worship people who are close to the beast. We like people who take charge or display, to a certain degree, beastly behaviour.

The Story of Hiupfutsch and Gloomongle

<This story is about Hiupfutsch and Gloomongle. The names were coined by Ast. Prof. George Thimm. This is a draft. Leave comments on how you would like the story to progress from here>

Ah! How vast is the ocean! On a clear day you could see the edge of the world! But everyday he would reach it, and find not an edge, but still more sea to cover, and another horizon would beckon far beyond. It was lovely.

Hiuipfutsch was as free as the breeze that carried him, on his little raft with its little white sail.

“It’s just like how I imagined it,” said Hiupfutsch, “except that I wish so much that I could share it with someone”.

He looked back upon his raft, clean, new, but quite empty. It is a good thing Hiupfutchs don’t eat. He sighed.

Glancing down, he stared down at his reflection in the water, a red square against a backdrop of blue sky. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, really. Of course, he had dropped anchor at some towns before; great cities, even. He hadn’t liked it much, because there the horizons were fixed. You could walk, maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe a month, but you could be sure that if you kept at a straight line, one day you would come back to the ocean, and the ocean would call to him. So he always set off quickly after he lands.

He’d met other seafarers too. It never really worked out, and he wasn’t sure why. He tried being nice, but it as though he seemed awkward instead. He tried being mean, and, understandably, the other parties left quickly. He tried being clever but ended up being confused, and he tried keeping quiet, but they failed to notice him and quickly passed him by.

Yup, he thought to himself, I have everywhere to go, but I’m really lost.

*bump*

His raft rocked him jerkily out of his reverie, throwing him flat onto the timbers. Shaken and uncertain, he lifted his head cautiously.

He stared. Two eyes stared back.

It was another sailor, alone, on a little raft, with a little white sail.

He looked up at the little flag at the top of the mast. ‘Gloomongle’ it said.

He looked back at the two eyes framed by a round, green face.

“Hello,” said Hiupfutch, “I’m Hiupfutsch”.

And the two seafarers, alone on the ocean except for each other, smiled.

Keep in Mind:

Note to Self : Stop Committing Suicide...