The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Hello everyone,
It has been a long time since I was back with this wonderful community! Fantastic to see it's still going strong.
My writing is often described as being too descriptive, too flowery. Why use one adjective when I can use two? It's a battle I am constantly fighting. I am currently working on Book Two of a time travelling trilogy. In this piece I am introducing a new character at the start of the book. Would you be kind enough to let me know your thoughts, bearing in mind the possible over use of flowery language?
Also, I make a solid reference to Mission Impossible. Do I need to change this, or being a parody does it allow me to get away with it?
The piece is meant to be humorous; Hithchikers Guide meets Monty python and Harry Potter. Pitched at Young Adults but adults also enjoy it.
Kent Sondaire - Space Gumshoe
Kent Sondaire sat with Francis Dashwood in the Hellfire Club enjoying fine wine and the attention of several women. Kent was pleased. His plan to get inside the inner workings of the club was working better than expected. As a time travelling private detective, he loved his job. After guffawing and toasting some deity or other, he caught sight of his rotund collaborator, Tratchett Sprall who signalled to him from across the room. Making his excuses, Kent left Dashwood and went to speak with Tratchett.
“The Federation President, Cybele Rain is looking for you. Apparently she has a very urgent assignment that can’t wait. You’ve been pulled,” whispered Tratchett, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Did she say why?” Asked Kent. His eyebrows meshed and the sparkle in his large watery eyes disappeared.
“No, but it must be serious.” Kent nodded, “Okay, we best get going then.
After explaining to Dashwood that he had been called away on urgent Government business, and that his initiation into the Monk’s of Medmenham’s inner circle would have to wait until the next full moon, he joined Tratchett at the cloakroom.
Removing their monks’ habits, they took their coats and, after checking they weren’t being followed, strode from the building. Running across the waterlogged lawn toward a line of outhouses, they left a line of holes where their boots broke through the sod.
“How I detest the dawn,” said Tratchett into his voice recorder, “the grass always looks like it’s been left out all night.”
Reaching the corner of the Orangery, Kent stopped and looked warily around. Visibility was poor as the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and the humid air held a fine mist of rain.
Satisfied no one was watching, he opened the glass door of the Orangery and they went inside. Kent pushed a sequence of buttons on an old TV remote control and 30 meters away an orange Volkswagen camper van, circa 1970, materialized amongst the orange trees in the centre of the building. This was not his usual means of travel, but Kent had affectionately come to know it as the ‘Jaffa’. His pride and joy, a converted DeLorean DMC-12 car, was stolen and crashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, claiming the space ship’s demise was an act of some God or other. He’d managed to get it off Earth, but it had been stored in a Mytherian repair shop ever since. Kent was forced to borrow an old space ship from his cousin’s business, ‘The Orange Paint Company’.
Parked amongst the citrus trees, the orange, retro Volkswagen camper van, emblazoned with the words, ‘To Boldly Go Where No Ones Painted Before’, written in gold down the side, was his. For now.
“Kent Sondaire, space gum shoe, and righteous upholder of the galactic code has left the building,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder as they moved toward the van. “Our super sleuth is embarking on another crusade to save the galaxies from the forces of evil!”
Kent pushed another button and the doors on the van opened. Tratchett looked at Kent.
"With my brains and your looks, we could go places,” he quipped.
Reaching the camper van, a dog, part husky, part sneaky neighbours mutt, came rushing out and launched itself head long at Kent, grabbing his leg, hugging and humping it with gleeful abandon the way dogs do.
“Laika, down girl!” whispered Kent, as loud as he dared while walking stiff legged to the camper van with the grinning dog humping his shin.
“What do you expect,” said Trent, shaking his head and grinning. “Ever since we rescued the Muttnik from that Russian tin can orbiting earth, she’s been saying thank you!”
“I know, but it’s embarrassing. Who’d have thought girl dogs hump!” replied Kent, trying to shake the dog loose.
Tratchett jumped into the van as Kent carefully prized Laika off his leg, tucked her under his arm, and climbed inside.
“So much bigger on the inside,” said Tratchett into his recorder. He wasn’t kidding. Inside the camper van was a large circular room with four doors. In the centre of the room stood a raised platform with two large leather swivel chairs, a dog basket, and two consoles all placed in front of two large monitor screens. Tratchett took the left hand seat. Putting Laika in the basket, Kent smiled as she found her toy, an orange haired, fat humanoid doll that would shout ‘bigly’ and ‘fake’ whenever you squeezed its stomach. She grabbed it with her front paws and, with an inane grin, humped it mercilessly. Kent sat down in the right hand seat and pushed a button on the console. A column of light fizzed, and a metre tall, officious looking holographic figure of a bald man in a dark suit appeared in front of them.
“Good morning Mr Sondaire. Your mission Kent, should you decide to accept it, is to locate…” The hologram spluttered and the man wheezed loudly, before continuing, “two missing historical Earth figures, Leonardo da Vinci and Michel de Nostradame. They are accused of stealing a sedan chair and an amulet that the Federation require. They have been located in Elizabethan England. Further information, including biographies and historical notes pertaining to the mission have been uploaded to your spacecraft. As always, should you or Mr Small be caught or killed, the President will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This hologram will erase itself in five seconds.”
“It’s Sprall, not Small!” shouted Tratchett at the hologram.
Kent opened the attached, mission-briefing file. A concise history of Elizabethan England, and several pictures appeared on their screens. Tratchett checked the planet, year, location and time, then searched for a wormhole. Rather dramatically, the holographic figure exploded in a slow motion dance across the console.
“Good riddance,” murmured Tratchett before turning on his throat recorder. “To save the world, our intrepid super sleuth and his much sought after biographer, Tratchett Thadious, Meryweather, Sprall, are going back to the future!” he roared, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to Kent. “This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote that famous speech…” Kent pulled the flight controller wheel toward him, and floored the accelerator.
“Never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice, like the agonizing squeal of a parakeet caught in a speeding mouse wheel, matched the roar of the engine as they disappeared in a cloud of steam and rain from eighteenth century England.
Fifteen minutes into their journey, they reached the end of the wormhole they were travelling down and excited somewhere over the Mediterranean. They had a 30 minute wait until the next wormhole opened.
As they floated, cloaked above the sea, Kent turned to Tratchett.
“You realize we’re going back into the past, not the future?”
“Semantics,” laughed the little man. “Past, future, it’s all the same,” he continued, before opening his voice recorder.
“The old sloop passed Black Rock Beacon, its navigation lights flickered on the still water…”
“What?” Queried Kent, as he checked again, the timing of the opening of the wormhole that would take them on their journey. Tratchett looked up.
“What, what?”
“What were you reading?” Tratchett’s bemused face creased and he grinned.
“It’s the opening paragraph to your autobiography.”
“We’ve never been on a sloop, have we?’
“Of course not, it’s poetic license. Every book needs a strong beginning that captures the imagination and pulls the reader in.”
“I will get to see the draft?’ asked Kent. Tratchett turned toward Kent and smiled,
“Of course you will,” smiled Tratchett, “of course you will.”
It has been a long time since I was back with this wonderful community! Fantastic to see it's still going strong.
My writing is often described as being too descriptive, too flowery. Why use one adjective when I can use two? It's a battle I am constantly fighting. I am currently working on Book Two of a time travelling trilogy. In this piece I am introducing a new character at the start of the book. Would you be kind enough to let me know your thoughts, bearing in mind the possible over use of flowery language?
Also, I make a solid reference to Mission Impossible. Do I need to change this, or being a parody does it allow me to get away with it?
The piece is meant to be humorous; Hithchikers Guide meets Monty python and Harry Potter. Pitched at Young Adults but adults also enjoy it.
Kent Sondaire - Space Gumshoe
Kent Sondaire sat with Francis Dashwood in the Hellfire Club enjoying fine wine and the attention of several women. Kent was pleased. His plan to get inside the inner workings of the club was working better than expected. As a time travelling private detective, he loved his job. After guffawing and toasting some deity or other, he caught sight of his rotund collaborator, Tratchett Sprall who signalled to him from across the room. Making his excuses, Kent left Dashwood and went to speak with Tratchett.
“The Federation President, Cybele Rain is looking for you. Apparently she has a very urgent assignment that can’t wait. You’ve been pulled,” whispered Tratchett, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Did she say why?” Asked Kent. His eyebrows meshed and the sparkle in his large watery eyes disappeared.
“No, but it must be serious.” Kent nodded, “Okay, we best get going then.
After explaining to Dashwood that he had been called away on urgent Government business, and that his initiation into the Monk’s of Medmenham’s inner circle would have to wait until the next full moon, he joined Tratchett at the cloakroom.
Removing their monks’ habits, they took their coats and, after checking they weren’t being followed, strode from the building. Running across the waterlogged lawn toward a line of outhouses, they left a line of holes where their boots broke through the sod.
“How I detest the dawn,” said Tratchett into his voice recorder, “the grass always looks like it’s been left out all night.”
Reaching the corner of the Orangery, Kent stopped and looked warily around. Visibility was poor as the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and the humid air held a fine mist of rain.
Satisfied no one was watching, he opened the glass door of the Orangery and they went inside. Kent pushed a sequence of buttons on an old TV remote control and 30 meters away an orange Volkswagen camper van, circa 1970, materialized amongst the orange trees in the centre of the building. This was not his usual means of travel, but Kent had affectionately come to know it as the ‘Jaffa’. His pride and joy, a converted DeLorean DMC-12 car, was stolen and crashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, claiming the space ship’s demise was an act of some God or other. He’d managed to get it off Earth, but it had been stored in a Mytherian repair shop ever since. Kent was forced to borrow an old space ship from his cousin’s business, ‘The Orange Paint Company’.
Parked amongst the citrus trees, the orange, retro Volkswagen camper van, emblazoned with the words, ‘To Boldly Go Where No Ones Painted Before’, written in gold down the side, was his. For now.
“Kent Sondaire, space gum shoe, and righteous upholder of the galactic code has left the building,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder as they moved toward the van. “Our super sleuth is embarking on another crusade to save the galaxies from the forces of evil!”
Kent pushed another button and the doors on the van opened. Tratchett looked at Kent.
"With my brains and your looks, we could go places,” he quipped.
Reaching the camper van, a dog, part husky, part sneaky neighbours mutt, came rushing out and launched itself head long at Kent, grabbing his leg, hugging and humping it with gleeful abandon the way dogs do.
“Laika, down girl!” whispered Kent, as loud as he dared while walking stiff legged to the camper van with the grinning dog humping his shin.
“What do you expect,” said Trent, shaking his head and grinning. “Ever since we rescued the Muttnik from that Russian tin can orbiting earth, she’s been saying thank you!”
“I know, but it’s embarrassing. Who’d have thought girl dogs hump!” replied Kent, trying to shake the dog loose.
Tratchett jumped into the van as Kent carefully prized Laika off his leg, tucked her under his arm, and climbed inside.
“So much bigger on the inside,” said Tratchett into his recorder. He wasn’t kidding. Inside the camper van was a large circular room with four doors. In the centre of the room stood a raised platform with two large leather swivel chairs, a dog basket, and two consoles all placed in front of two large monitor screens. Tratchett took the left hand seat. Putting Laika in the basket, Kent smiled as she found her toy, an orange haired, fat humanoid doll that would shout ‘bigly’ and ‘fake’ whenever you squeezed its stomach. She grabbed it with her front paws and, with an inane grin, humped it mercilessly. Kent sat down in the right hand seat and pushed a button on the console. A column of light fizzed, and a metre tall, officious looking holographic figure of a bald man in a dark suit appeared in front of them.
“Good morning Mr Sondaire. Your mission Kent, should you decide to accept it, is to locate…” The hologram spluttered and the man wheezed loudly, before continuing, “two missing historical Earth figures, Leonardo da Vinci and Michel de Nostradame. They are accused of stealing a sedan chair and an amulet that the Federation require. They have been located in Elizabethan England. Further information, including biographies and historical notes pertaining to the mission have been uploaded to your spacecraft. As always, should you or Mr Small be caught or killed, the President will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This hologram will erase itself in five seconds.”
“It’s Sprall, not Small!” shouted Tratchett at the hologram.
Kent opened the attached, mission-briefing file. A concise history of Elizabethan England, and several pictures appeared on their screens. Tratchett checked the planet, year, location and time, then searched for a wormhole. Rather dramatically, the holographic figure exploded in a slow motion dance across the console.
“Good riddance,” murmured Tratchett before turning on his throat recorder. “To save the world, our intrepid super sleuth and his much sought after biographer, Tratchett Thadious, Meryweather, Sprall, are going back to the future!” he roared, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to Kent. “This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote that famous speech…” Kent pulled the flight controller wheel toward him, and floored the accelerator.
“Never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice, like the agonizing squeal of a parakeet caught in a speeding mouse wheel, matched the roar of the engine as they disappeared in a cloud of steam and rain from eighteenth century England.
Fifteen minutes into their journey, they reached the end of the wormhole they were travelling down and excited somewhere over the Mediterranean. They had a 30 minute wait until the next wormhole opened.
As they floated, cloaked above the sea, Kent turned to Tratchett.
“You realize we’re going back into the past, not the future?”
“Semantics,” laughed the little man. “Past, future, it’s all the same,” he continued, before opening his voice recorder.
“The old sloop passed Black Rock Beacon, its navigation lights flickered on the still water…”
“What?” Queried Kent, as he checked again, the timing of the opening of the wormhole that would take them on their journey. Tratchett looked up.
“What, what?”
“What were you reading?” Tratchett’s bemused face creased and he grinned.
“It’s the opening paragraph to your autobiography.”
“We’ve never been on a sloop, have we?’
“Of course not, it’s poetic license. Every book needs a strong beginning that captures the imagination and pulls the reader in.”
“I will get to see the draft?’ asked Kent. Tratchett turned toward Kent and smiled,
“Of course you will,” smiled Tratchett, “of course you will.”
