Post by The Doctor on Nov 14, 2007 23:03:20 GMT
From the TMUK Archives, August 2001.
THE TRANSFORMERS: 'STRAWBERRY FIELDS'
Written by Ralph Burns.
------------------------------------------------------
THE TIME OF THE CRUSADES
The battle had been going poorly for Jeremiah. Alone and lost somwhere near Jerusalem, the battle had gone badly for the troops of God. After that pitiful display, he doubted if King Richard ever would truly reach the Holy City. It seemed so near and yet so far. The confusion of the fight had been great, the odds against them equally forlorn. Jeremiah did not fancy his chances greatly and so had retreated to the nearby forest. It seemed much safer there. No nasty fighting and dying.
He was contemplating what to do next when a bright light in the clearing ahead caught his attention. He hoped it wasn't the infidels. He couldn't be bothered with more of them: he might have to get his sword dirty. And then he would have to get involved, and that wouldn't do at all. He was a pacifist, or a coward, depending on viewpoint.
The clearing did not hold infidels. Instead it held the Devil himself. Forged of some ungodly metal it had the bearings of a man and yet no face. None save a single unblinking eye, which stared coldly at Jeremiah.
Had he not been so exhausted by his non-participation in the battle earlier, Jeremiah would surely have turned and fled, but there seemed little point. Man could not compare against such a Thing.
The metal Devil held a ball of fire in its' only hand, which had several spikes curved inwards extending from its' centre. The other hand tapered off at some kind of point, like a sword.
It stared at Jeremiah.
Jeremiah stared back.
And then it was gone.
The young soldier thought what to do next. He had never seen the like. Well not in the real world. Before she had died of syphilis, his Mother had often noted that he had an active imagination.
What would he do now?
He decided that the apparition had probably been some sign from God, for surely mortal Men could not have forged such a thing. Perhaps then the Lord was trying to tempt him back onto the path of Righteousness? To give him a chance of redemption?
He could go back to the battle. He could try to help King Richard reach the Promised Land. This was his chance for redemption.
He took it.
And died twenty seconds after re-joining the battle. Arrowhead throught the skull.
NEWTON'S GARDEN
The day had not gone well. It had been raining to begin with, which hardly improved the temperament of such a scientist as Isaac Newton. He was easily irritated by such trivial concerns. They got in the way of Science, which got in the way of making the world a better place, which got in the way of his reputation. Which just wasn't right at all.
However, come the afternoon, the disposition of the day had improved immeasurably. The sun poked out from behind its cloak of clouds and even a few birds had taken the hint and began to sing. The day took on an altogether happier concern.
This was not of special concern for Newton though. He had experienced a writer's block, as it were, of late. A problem with getting the ideas out of the dark areas of his brilliant mind. He had the nagging feeling that he was on the verge of something, but he knew not what it was.
Ah well, he would at least have a seat in his garden. He sat down at his favourite chair by the large oak tree near the back. Various thoughts of a profound, and some of a not so profound, nature, slipped through his mind. Eventually, he settled off to a light doze. The gentle heat of the day beat down upon his still form.
Behind the tree, there was a sudden flare of light and any shadows in the garden were immediately vanquished. When the glare died down, the sight of an enormous metallic being remained in its' place, its' matte purple colouration incongruous to the fine greenery which surrounded it. Its' one eye glared without humour at its' surroundings. Clutched in the one good hand, was a horned sphere. It clutched the object as if life itself depended on it. It began to flash intermittently with an internal dull red light all of its own.
If the being had been able to frown, it surely would have done so for its' general demenour suggested that what the sphere was telling it was not what it wanted to know. It then appeared to notice for the first time the organic being sleeping soundly but a few feet away, oblivious, and began to march towards it, the ground shaking beneath its' heavy feet as it went.
The birds stopped singing.
It reached out with an iron fist towards the resting Human. As it did so, it brushed against the apple tree directly behind the organic.
With a cry, the metal being suddenly vanished from the Earthly realm.
An apple, dislodged by the being's movement, fell from an outstretched branch.
Issac Newton awoke with a shock as the apple hit him squarely on the forehead. He rubbed his head in irritation and stared down dumbly at the bruised apple which had landed so unceramoniously at his feet.
A sudden thought struck the scientist.
He glanced back at the tree. He looked at the apple on the ground.
An idea began to form in his mind...
Issac Newton went on to describe the theory of gravity. Mentions of large metallic creatures were not present.
LONDON, THE TIME OF GUY FAWKES
"Yeah, got im good and proper did we," muttered one of the guards, with contempt.
"Ah reckon you be right, George." agreed his fellow companion.
They had to do something to pass the time. Trivial banter was better than none. Surely there must be better things to do than be on guard duty at this time of night? They'd rather be in a good tavern, drinking proper beer and doing things that their wives would never hear about. This was just dull. The smell alone was offensive. Not a departure from the general smell of London, it had to be admitted, but it seemed even, well, dirtier here.
Where the criminals were, including the traitor, Fawkes. The loon!
George nudged his friend, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep. He couldn't have that. If they fell asleep and the traitor got away, they'd both be off to the tower. Or worse. Dead, or something.
"Ere, Bill. What you reckon this fellow we here be guarding did, anyhow?" George didn't really care, to be honest. He was just trying to make conversation, to stave off the numbing boredom. As long as he got his pay nice and regular, he wasn't fussed what scum and villainy he had to guard. As long as they didn't puke on his good boots, or they'd get a right good kicking.
Bill appeared to spend some time thinking. "He's a Traitor, he is." He concluded, as if that were explanation enough.
The sad truth was that neither of them knew. Guy Fawkes was just another prisoner. His fate really wasn't any of their concern. As long as he kept the puking down, as has been mentioned.
Apparently, the Crown had yet to decide on a true punishment for the uncouth fellow. They were letting him stew until they thought of something. Something devious, no doubt.
After a few moments, Bill broke the silence once more. "Ere, George. I got to take a piss."
George, for his part, sighed deeply. The young lad just didn't seem able to keep his bladder under control. He was buggering off for a leak as often as George had to kick away the rats which insisted on nibbling at his feet, which was often. The prison cells were not a highlight of hygiene.
"Oh all right, Bill. Be quick about it, lad."
Bill nodded greatfully and nipped round the back.
As blessed relief greeted him, he was startled by a sudden flash from behind him. He immediately whipped round, which was a bad idea in his present circumstances. It would be murder to get his trousers cleaned.
The purple figure from Hell regarded him curiously, but only for a moment. It seemed to be on fire, a halo of light thread all round its' form. In its one fist, it held a glowing red spiked, ball fromwhich emenated a most high-pitched whine. It hurt Bill's ears.
Fire surrounded it, as beautiful as the Sun.
At this point, Bill realised that his toileting duties had apparently not been concluded.
The Fire Being ignored him. It stared at its little ball, as if it were the most important thing in Creation. It seemed to smile, which was impossible, as it had no mouth.
Then it went, as sudden as a phantom in a dream.
Bill gawped, desperately trying to re-arrange his mind into some kind of tangible order. He couldn't tell George about this. He would think him mad, and he'd end up sharing the cell with the traitor. But the sight of the apparition had given him on idea. It had been burning...
George winced as Bill rejoined him. There seemed to be a new and especially terrible smell about him. "You took your sweet time." he commented.
Bill leaned towards him, conspiratorily. "Listen up, George. We going to get promoted! I got me an idea for what to do with the Traitor..."
George and Bill later suggested the idea of burning Mr. Fawkes in a public display to their Betters. They were given much praise for their intuition. Mr. Fawkes was not asked how he felt about it.
And thus, the tradition of Bonfire night began.
Anything else you might read in history books is nonsense.
LONDON, 1967
The cafe was deserted save for one sole customer over by the window and a waitress in her mid-twenties. The customer was bearded, generally unkept in appearance and was reading his copy of NME with apparent gusto. He seemed to be particularly interested in the review section for some reason. A discarded 'Melody Maker' lay on the table he was sitting at, tucked up beside the ashtray and the half-drunk cup of coffee. An air of fun mixed with superiority surrounded him.
Outside, it was raining.
The waitress came over to the man to clear away the detritus on the table. "Ya want anything else, love?" she enquired with little interest. The man just shrugged. He seemed lost in thought. Or lost in something, thought the waitress, absently.
The waitress cleared away the rubbish and moved away to a safe distance. She noticed that the man had been reading up on reviews of the popular beat-combo, 'The Beatles'. She couldn't be bothered with such abject rubbish herself. Her parents had drilled it into her that the music of 'The Beatles' conducted the music of Satan, especially after they had been featured in an episode of 'Doctor Who' a few years back. That was also the work of Satan, she had been told. She wasn't allowed out much.
After the waitress left him, the man put the music paper down in disgust. They had got it all wrong, he mused. They just didn't get what the band's music was really about. He sighed, with feeling. Ah well, they did fairly well anyway. A smile intruded on his otherwise taciturn expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the half finished lyric sheet that McCartney had done. It was for a song called 'Black Fields'. It needed a bit more work done on it, thought the man as he pulled out a pencil from his pocket and pushed back his glasses with one finger absentmindedly.
Outside, the rain stopped suddenly.
A rainbow spontaneously formed in the middle of the street.
At the far end of the street, out of the line of sight of the male songwriter in the cafe, a large purple metallic figure appeared from within the air itself. It regarded the rainbow curiously, as if such a thing were beyond its alien comprehension. The rainbow's light refracted off of the alien's body, casting a paler version of its' colour across the street. The colour of strawberries.
The red pulsing of the ball with the spikes held in its one good hand changed to a more re-assuring green. The being's one distant eye flared suddenly in seeming triumph.
And then it said something which human senses could not possibly have comprehended, but the meaning was clear.
The being had been lost, and now it was returning home.
With a satisfying plop, it vanished from the Earth's reality, never to return. Where it went thereafter is a question for the imagination.
In the cafe, the man gazed out in wonder at the colour that was spread all across the street. It made him smile. It made him happy. And it sparked off a chain of ideas for the song he and his friend had been working on. He crossed out the 'Black'. He had a much better title: 'Strawberry Fields'.
"Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields,
Nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about,
Strawberry Fields forever."
THE END
10/8/01
THE TRANSFORMERS: 'STRAWBERRY FIELDS'
Written by Ralph Burns.
------------------------------------------------------
THE TIME OF THE CRUSADES
The battle had been going poorly for Jeremiah. Alone and lost somwhere near Jerusalem, the battle had gone badly for the troops of God. After that pitiful display, he doubted if King Richard ever would truly reach the Holy City. It seemed so near and yet so far. The confusion of the fight had been great, the odds against them equally forlorn. Jeremiah did not fancy his chances greatly and so had retreated to the nearby forest. It seemed much safer there. No nasty fighting and dying.
He was contemplating what to do next when a bright light in the clearing ahead caught his attention. He hoped it wasn't the infidels. He couldn't be bothered with more of them: he might have to get his sword dirty. And then he would have to get involved, and that wouldn't do at all. He was a pacifist, or a coward, depending on viewpoint.
The clearing did not hold infidels. Instead it held the Devil himself. Forged of some ungodly metal it had the bearings of a man and yet no face. None save a single unblinking eye, which stared coldly at Jeremiah.
Had he not been so exhausted by his non-participation in the battle earlier, Jeremiah would surely have turned and fled, but there seemed little point. Man could not compare against such a Thing.
The metal Devil held a ball of fire in its' only hand, which had several spikes curved inwards extending from its' centre. The other hand tapered off at some kind of point, like a sword.
It stared at Jeremiah.
Jeremiah stared back.
And then it was gone.
The young soldier thought what to do next. He had never seen the like. Well not in the real world. Before she had died of syphilis, his Mother had often noted that he had an active imagination.
What would he do now?
He decided that the apparition had probably been some sign from God, for surely mortal Men could not have forged such a thing. Perhaps then the Lord was trying to tempt him back onto the path of Righteousness? To give him a chance of redemption?
He could go back to the battle. He could try to help King Richard reach the Promised Land. This was his chance for redemption.
He took it.
And died twenty seconds after re-joining the battle. Arrowhead throught the skull.
NEWTON'S GARDEN
The day had not gone well. It had been raining to begin with, which hardly improved the temperament of such a scientist as Isaac Newton. He was easily irritated by such trivial concerns. They got in the way of Science, which got in the way of making the world a better place, which got in the way of his reputation. Which just wasn't right at all.
However, come the afternoon, the disposition of the day had improved immeasurably. The sun poked out from behind its cloak of clouds and even a few birds had taken the hint and began to sing. The day took on an altogether happier concern.
This was not of special concern for Newton though. He had experienced a writer's block, as it were, of late. A problem with getting the ideas out of the dark areas of his brilliant mind. He had the nagging feeling that he was on the verge of something, but he knew not what it was.
Ah well, he would at least have a seat in his garden. He sat down at his favourite chair by the large oak tree near the back. Various thoughts of a profound, and some of a not so profound, nature, slipped through his mind. Eventually, he settled off to a light doze. The gentle heat of the day beat down upon his still form.
Behind the tree, there was a sudden flare of light and any shadows in the garden were immediately vanquished. When the glare died down, the sight of an enormous metallic being remained in its' place, its' matte purple colouration incongruous to the fine greenery which surrounded it. Its' one eye glared without humour at its' surroundings. Clutched in the one good hand, was a horned sphere. It clutched the object as if life itself depended on it. It began to flash intermittently with an internal dull red light all of its own.
If the being had been able to frown, it surely would have done so for its' general demenour suggested that what the sphere was telling it was not what it wanted to know. It then appeared to notice for the first time the organic being sleeping soundly but a few feet away, oblivious, and began to march towards it, the ground shaking beneath its' heavy feet as it went.
The birds stopped singing.
It reached out with an iron fist towards the resting Human. As it did so, it brushed against the apple tree directly behind the organic.
With a cry, the metal being suddenly vanished from the Earthly realm.
An apple, dislodged by the being's movement, fell from an outstretched branch.
Issac Newton awoke with a shock as the apple hit him squarely on the forehead. He rubbed his head in irritation and stared down dumbly at the bruised apple which had landed so unceramoniously at his feet.
A sudden thought struck the scientist.
He glanced back at the tree. He looked at the apple on the ground.
An idea began to form in his mind...
Issac Newton went on to describe the theory of gravity. Mentions of large metallic creatures were not present.
LONDON, THE TIME OF GUY FAWKES
"Yeah, got im good and proper did we," muttered one of the guards, with contempt.
"Ah reckon you be right, George." agreed his fellow companion.
They had to do something to pass the time. Trivial banter was better than none. Surely there must be better things to do than be on guard duty at this time of night? They'd rather be in a good tavern, drinking proper beer and doing things that their wives would never hear about. This was just dull. The smell alone was offensive. Not a departure from the general smell of London, it had to be admitted, but it seemed even, well, dirtier here.
Where the criminals were, including the traitor, Fawkes. The loon!
George nudged his friend, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep. He couldn't have that. If they fell asleep and the traitor got away, they'd both be off to the tower. Or worse. Dead, or something.
"Ere, Bill. What you reckon this fellow we here be guarding did, anyhow?" George didn't really care, to be honest. He was just trying to make conversation, to stave off the numbing boredom. As long as he got his pay nice and regular, he wasn't fussed what scum and villainy he had to guard. As long as they didn't puke on his good boots, or they'd get a right good kicking.
Bill appeared to spend some time thinking. "He's a Traitor, he is." He concluded, as if that were explanation enough.
The sad truth was that neither of them knew. Guy Fawkes was just another prisoner. His fate really wasn't any of their concern. As long as he kept the puking down, as has been mentioned.
Apparently, the Crown had yet to decide on a true punishment for the uncouth fellow. They were letting him stew until they thought of something. Something devious, no doubt.
After a few moments, Bill broke the silence once more. "Ere, George. I got to take a piss."
George, for his part, sighed deeply. The young lad just didn't seem able to keep his bladder under control. He was buggering off for a leak as often as George had to kick away the rats which insisted on nibbling at his feet, which was often. The prison cells were not a highlight of hygiene.
"Oh all right, Bill. Be quick about it, lad."
Bill nodded greatfully and nipped round the back.
As blessed relief greeted him, he was startled by a sudden flash from behind him. He immediately whipped round, which was a bad idea in his present circumstances. It would be murder to get his trousers cleaned.
The purple figure from Hell regarded him curiously, but only for a moment. It seemed to be on fire, a halo of light thread all round its' form. In its one fist, it held a glowing red spiked, ball fromwhich emenated a most high-pitched whine. It hurt Bill's ears.
Fire surrounded it, as beautiful as the Sun.
At this point, Bill realised that his toileting duties had apparently not been concluded.
The Fire Being ignored him. It stared at its little ball, as if it were the most important thing in Creation. It seemed to smile, which was impossible, as it had no mouth.
Then it went, as sudden as a phantom in a dream.
Bill gawped, desperately trying to re-arrange his mind into some kind of tangible order. He couldn't tell George about this. He would think him mad, and he'd end up sharing the cell with the traitor. But the sight of the apparition had given him on idea. It had been burning...
George winced as Bill rejoined him. There seemed to be a new and especially terrible smell about him. "You took your sweet time." he commented.
Bill leaned towards him, conspiratorily. "Listen up, George. We going to get promoted! I got me an idea for what to do with the Traitor..."
George and Bill later suggested the idea of burning Mr. Fawkes in a public display to their Betters. They were given much praise for their intuition. Mr. Fawkes was not asked how he felt about it.
And thus, the tradition of Bonfire night began.
Anything else you might read in history books is nonsense.
LONDON, 1967
The cafe was deserted save for one sole customer over by the window and a waitress in her mid-twenties. The customer was bearded, generally unkept in appearance and was reading his copy of NME with apparent gusto. He seemed to be particularly interested in the review section for some reason. A discarded 'Melody Maker' lay on the table he was sitting at, tucked up beside the ashtray and the half-drunk cup of coffee. An air of fun mixed with superiority surrounded him.
Outside, it was raining.
The waitress came over to the man to clear away the detritus on the table. "Ya want anything else, love?" she enquired with little interest. The man just shrugged. He seemed lost in thought. Or lost in something, thought the waitress, absently.
The waitress cleared away the rubbish and moved away to a safe distance. She noticed that the man had been reading up on reviews of the popular beat-combo, 'The Beatles'. She couldn't be bothered with such abject rubbish herself. Her parents had drilled it into her that the music of 'The Beatles' conducted the music of Satan, especially after they had been featured in an episode of 'Doctor Who' a few years back. That was also the work of Satan, she had been told. She wasn't allowed out much.
After the waitress left him, the man put the music paper down in disgust. They had got it all wrong, he mused. They just didn't get what the band's music was really about. He sighed, with feeling. Ah well, they did fairly well anyway. A smile intruded on his otherwise taciturn expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the half finished lyric sheet that McCartney had done. It was for a song called 'Black Fields'. It needed a bit more work done on it, thought the man as he pulled out a pencil from his pocket and pushed back his glasses with one finger absentmindedly.
Outside, the rain stopped suddenly.
A rainbow spontaneously formed in the middle of the street.
At the far end of the street, out of the line of sight of the male songwriter in the cafe, a large purple metallic figure appeared from within the air itself. It regarded the rainbow curiously, as if such a thing were beyond its alien comprehension. The rainbow's light refracted off of the alien's body, casting a paler version of its' colour across the street. The colour of strawberries.
The red pulsing of the ball with the spikes held in its one good hand changed to a more re-assuring green. The being's one distant eye flared suddenly in seeming triumph.
And then it said something which human senses could not possibly have comprehended, but the meaning was clear.
The being had been lost, and now it was returning home.
With a satisfying plop, it vanished from the Earth's reality, never to return. Where it went thereafter is a question for the imagination.
In the cafe, the man gazed out in wonder at the colour that was spread all across the street. It made him smile. It made him happy. And it sparked off a chain of ideas for the song he and his friend had been working on. He crossed out the 'Black'. He had a much better title: 'Strawberry Fields'.
"Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields,
Nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about,
Strawberry Fields forever."
THE END
10/8/01