Archive for April, 2013


BlogEverday

Well, I need an excuse to do more on this blog, so goddammit I’m gonna do more! Presenting Blog Every Day in May, or as I like to call it, The May Day Blog Slog.

 It’s exactly what it sounds like. Every day in May, I’ll be writing an entry on Dear Saul. What will it entail you ask? Well, if you check this page out, it’ll tell you all you the subjects I’ll talk about each day. You’re more than welcome to join me in this little adventure, either by writing every day on your own blog, or just following my exploits. Rest assured, if you just read my usual stuff and nothing else, I will be keeping up to date with that, don’t you worry.

Honestly, I can’t wait. Not only will it be a ton of fun, and give you guys more content, but this is an exercise in relaxation. I have a lot of stuff to do, especially since May is my last month before the end of the school year. It’s important to take a moment out of your day to just… unwind. Some people listen to music, some people do yoga, I write. And write I shall.

Wish me luck,

-Fiachra

Aw shit.

It’s happening again.

And this time it’s not my fault.

If you know what I’m talking about, I should probably check my restraining orders, because this happens to me and only me it seems. My earphones broke last week. No biggie, right? One side breaks, and you spend the next month or so moving the wire around to exactly the right spot so you can hear out of both sides, then the other one blows and it’s game over. Happens to everyone. Except in my case,  they never stopped feckin’ breaking. 2011 – 2012 will forever be known as the years I broke eleven pairs of earphones. ELEVEN PAIRS. I don’t even know how I got my grubby hands on eleven pairs of earphones, but I was cursed to never have a decent pair ever again. A deep depression washed over my broken and defeated frame, as I listed to songs by Nico Vega from one ear only…

…and then it stopped. I got a decent pair of headphones, took care of my remaining pair of earphones, and started afresh. The headphones I use to this day (my treasured pair of House of Marley’s) and my earphones lasted, well, until last week. R.I.P white unknown brand of earphones. This isn’t’ what concerned me.

What concerned me was, after finding spares, I broke two more pairs the next night.

Two, COUNT ‘EM TWO pairs of earphones in one night. Likely they were slightly damaged already, but nevertheless, the curse returns. and I, fearing for the safety of my property, cannot…

I…

Okay, as I tried to find a suitable picture for this post, I searched for ‘earphones on fire’. My response?

taco phones

Don’t see it?

This is Google’s accurate representation of ‘earphones on fire’.

Well, that killed my story. On to the next. Hopefully that doesn’t contain what look to be tacos.

I got another nickname today, which brings my count up to 8.  Huh

-Teeth

-Fiacla (Irish for teeth in case you weren’t from around here)

-Figrolls (I quite liked this one)

-Crow

-Watson

-Fifi (Don’t ask)

-Johnston-Mush (Mush is an Irish thing, so it isn’t as offensive as it sounds 😉 )

and the latest one, Anderson, given to me by the lovely Brook from Everything and Anything to Love. I quite like it because I now believe myself to be Anderson from Mass Effect.  If I had a voice like that, hell, I could do whatever I damn well please. That guy sounded as good as Martin Sheen, and Martin Sheen played the bad guy. Bad guys always have the best voices.

I get to be this guy? Feck it, I can die happy now.

Along with the killer nickname, Brook and I have also compiled a To-Do list for over the summer, which includes:

-A writing club

-A Podcast

-Camping

-Fishing

-A musical project

-Joining a zombie walk

-Butt-Numb-A-Thon Ireland (Yes, this is actually a thing)

-Etc.

Good lord, we have some work to do. I should get to work. I have a Butt-Numb-A-Thon to plan…

-Fiachra

Fond Memories

Dear Saul,

When you get old, you’ll soon realise that your memories of anything below 1o years old start blurring together and turning to dust. That may sound nightmarish, but believe me, you’re shedding nothing but dead weight. You’ll be left with the best memories you can remember, and you’ll forget the crappy ones long before that. The memories of a favourite birthday, of your best childhood friend, those are the memories that will keep, and you’ll be glad you kept them.

An example? I’m 16 in June (Oh no, people on the internet know my age. What else would you like to know, my blood type?). I remember my life pretty well, but some really good times stick out. One of them being sitting at a friends house enjoying the hell out of NHL 2005. It was just one of those games that was fun to mess around in with friends when you’re young, and the soundtrack sticks out so much in my head:

 

I promise the name of this song is entirely coincidental, I promise. But in any case, any time this song, or any song from NHL 2005 (or Burnout Paradise, a game I love very dearly), I get a nostalgia high. It’s a nice thing to be able to have, something to remind yourself of better times. Some people have music, some a piece of jewellery, some just stick to thoughts of good days.

Try keeping those memories close, they might come in handy at some point. Don’t worry about losing the rest of them. I don’t think you wanna remember crappy school lunches or primary school bullies.

Regards,

-Fiachra

P.S I should probably try to cut down on the amount of times I said ‘memories’ in this post…

This is another story I wrote early on. More of a test in imagination than anything else. Any criticism is more than welcome. Enjoy:

Somewhere, there is a desert, stretching across an entire planet, sand a sunset orange. This planet revolves so slowly that days span decades. One side is constantly bathed in sunlight, the other in a freezing dark. It is unkempt and untouched, like a photo. If anyone were to see this place, they would call it beautiful. Others would call it hell But the geography of this landscape is irrelevant, though, as there is only one species living here that will ever see it in its entirety.

Brutes.

In this desert there are hundreds of colossal beasts that roam the area known as Brutes. Each is unique in their appearance, no two are alike. Various textures make up their skin, some extravagant in colour, with fur shades of colours we can only ever dream of seeing, some with skin of marble, without a single flaw or mark on their bodies.

Their behaviour, however, remains the same, and follows one simple path: walk. Brutes will never stop to feed (Brute’s have no reason to breathe either, which leads to most having no mouth), to graze, to mate (There is no record of a Brute’s reproduction cycle). They have no other purpose, other than to constantly travel, and to ensure it’s survival, however little danger the outside world poses. It could be argued that these creatures are not even sentient, merely autonomous life forms dedicated to these few purposes.

But no matter the case, the Brute does not only hold a responsibility for it’s survival. It also holds a more physical, load.

A race. An entire species, a society, fills every crevice of their being. These creatures, these living continent, are, in a way, more alive than any of us can hope to be. Like the Brutes, each civilisation is different, so I endeavor to focus on only one: The Konok, as its inhabitants, The Nopok, name it. They are notable for having the most thriving, most variable culture known to inhabit a Brute.

Like all civilisations, landscape dictates culture, as culture dictates personality. Each part of the beast has a landscape wildly different depending on which part it is, and with that, the attitude, shape and community of the people living there.

The Nopok that have chosen the torso as home are, obviously, the most numerous. They make up the majority of the species, and their type can be found almost everywhere within the Konok. They are the most average-built, as their community has no favoured profession, though their advancement technology wise should be compared to that of the first colonies in America, such as Jamestown, the natives being some of the less well off of the species. They are lean built, skin a cloudy grey. They have a less gifted hearing ability, due to being near so many of the Brute’s organs. Their hairline is short, almost receding in appearance, but apart from this, they are very humanesque. Their is very little change in build or look during a life cycle, with only the inner cells of their body dying, their skin and other extremities remaining the same. Because of this, a lot of effort is put into aesthetics. It is common for fashion to be extremely varied from week to week, due to the amount of focus put into beauty, both male, and female, a focus not seen in other types of Nopok. As such, being the most common, there is an overall air of superiority floating around the population. Racism and discrimination is not unheard of, with many a riot breaking out simply from members of other sub-types of Nopok. These people are the only of their kind who have a form of time based of off a day/night cycle. The Konok’s heart, for such a large creature, only beats very rarely, and will eclipse any light coming into the torso. As such, These Nopok base their days and nights off of the beat of the creatures heart.

Those that have the good fortune to inhabit the legs are built for endurance. Subject to some of the worst earthquakes in the Konok, they have evolved to survive impacts and shifting. Stocky, thick skinned and hairless, they have kicked and screamed in a struggle to let their society to survive, despite their falling numbers and lack of technology. Favouring craftsmanship and construction, housing is large and immoveable, usually focused around the best farmland and supplies. Houses usually included large amounts of people, to allow their population to thrive. As such, most of them are selfless towards there own, though they tend to shun those who leave them for a better life in the torso. Though mock for their backwards culture and discriminated, those Nopok from the legs our undoubtedly needed by others for their knowledge of building.

The Nopok of the arms, though only just reaching the technological age themselves, have long served as the custodians of the Konok. Scholars and scientists, their physical forms, although taller, are similar to those of the Nopok in the torso. However, their skin is a milky white, which has led to much racism along the borders and to those who choose to study in the torso. Their genetic code, however, has imprinted the knowledge of the Brute inner workings to them, leaving them as the only ones who can manage the health of The Brute, and its safety from disease and injury. This work leaves them precious little time for anything else, and most children are set to work during their earliest years, managing the Brute wherever possible. Despite this job, they are distant towards other subtypes, seeing them as obstructions to their duties, and are zealous in their persecution of those who interfere.

There are many areas which are, for the most part, uninhabitable. The lower torso is a mess of organs, and only the most unlucky soldiers and scientists are sent there to clear away infections or creatures away. Lower still is a cesspool of rubbish and centuries of garbage, a place (for obvious reason) is unsafe for colonisation. Closer to the heart, the more noise there is. Those who pick a bad time to come hear may be deafened by the beats, as if a bell tower had fallen on them. Finally, it is widely thought, though unknown if true, that the outside atmosphere is toxic to the anatomy of a Nopok.

Finally, there are those that live inside the head of the Brute.

Little is known about them, as the neck of the beast is sealed off, and patrolled by hired Nopok from other areas. Paid generously, they themselves are unaware of what lies beyond the wall. However, they are known to be the most technologically advanced of the species, due to the equipment guards are given at the wall.

However, rumours persist of a race of Nopok living outside this Brute. If one were to sneak through the cracks in the Brute’s skin (Guarded as well by the ‘Neck Soldiers’) then one might discover hanging cities built around the colossal body.

Cities, filled with mechanically gifted, very much not Nopok, very angry creatures.

Naming

Dear Saul,

It wasn’t until 11PM on Skype that I realised something about you name, when a brief moment of energy led someone to shout:

‘OMG, is ‘Dear Saul’ a pun on ‘Dear ‘Soul’?’

He’s right.

I… I can honestly say that I never thought of it that way, and had no intention of it ever being that way. Now that you’ve pointed it out to me, it seems so obvious a truck hitting it would probably be overlooked by everyone on-scene, including the driver. It seems I’ve accidentally given you one of the most perfect names a muse could ever be given, and I never realised. You being a muse, a bit of imagination given form, you are technically part of the soul, hence, I’m writing letters to a piece of me that’s been broken off to make something else. Only the observations of other people have lead to this amazing (I’m really starting to sound patronising now) discovery.

This does however lead to the inevitable question: Why did I choose to call you Saul? Well, Saul is a Hebrew name, meaning question. Given that you’re used for a lot of questions I have with my work, this seems kinda fitting, but it isn’t really why I chose the name. Saul was the Jewish name of Paul the Apostle, a figure from Christian liturgy. Watch me at work with my amazing religion studies knowledge.

Saul was originally a tax collector for the Roman authorities. Being part of a devout Jewish family from Tarsus, this made him… less than respected by his colleagues and the public, who saw him as a traitor to the Jews and an overall nasty man, who had a deep disdain for the newly formed Christian church. There are various accounts to this next part, but in a nutshell, Saul, while on the road to the city of Damascus, was visited by a resurrected Jesus, asking ‘Saul, why you gotta be like this, bruv?’

At this point in time, I might be ad-libbing slightly here. The real question asked was ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’. Jesus told Saul to go to Damascus to spread goodwill to the people. The event left Saul blinded for 3 days (A bit harsh to be honest) but eventually Saul recovered and converted to Christianity to do better things than take people’s money for their overlords. We don’t really know how or when he died (some think he was martyred) but they did find what appeared to be his coffin in 2009.

The whole point I’m getting with naming you Saul is change: Saul changed into someone completely different in an instant. He turned from this hate filled creature into someone who wanted to spread peace. I compared him to you, someone that can change in an instant, be whoever I need him to be to help in writing, blogging, or everyday life. You are fluid, flexible, and you are probably one of my most useful creations.

That’s the story of your name. Don’t let it go o your head,

Regards,

-Fiachra

 

 

First off, I wouldn’t recommend University College Dublin food, the lasagne seems a bit… Congealed.  Lasagne shouldn’t congeal, I’m pretty sure about that…

Other than that I can’t really complain. UCD was a great choice for work experience and the chance to go there was incredibly lucky. I doubt you’d want to here the details of using a mass spectrometer with argon gas or examining thin-sections of granite for k-feldspar and quartz under an S.E.M… Or maybe you do, I don’t really know my audience, but other than that all I can say is it was amazing. And I got a week off of school to go to a slightly bigger school that had great people but bad lasagne.

All in all, a fun week.

Apart from G.I Joe: Retaliation, which was utter bollocks. And that’s being generous. Bollocks have purpose, this only seemed to further Christopher Eccleston’s career as ‘man in cryotube.’ which was a long way from what he was in ‘Rise of Cobra’. Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t even Christopher Eccleston. I guess his ‘man in cryotube’ career ends before it can even begin.

I don’t wanna review that thing, this isn’t really a review blog, though I’ll give some thoughts:

Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson. Stop. Just stop. You’re not an actor, you got put in a movie with Bruce Willis, who just came here to show you up with his Tooth Fairy was bad enough, and you have enough sense to tell when something is gone sour. Please, go back to wrestling. Fast & Furious will survive without you. You can’t Tokyo drift anyway, not if you started wrestling looking like this:

Yes, this was a thing.

Also (SPOILERS) you can’t kill off Channing Tatum,  in the first 15 minutes.(END SPOILERS) He’s Duke from G.I Joe. He’s also the stripper from Magic Mike.

And a actual former stripper, much to my chagrin.

I didn’t actually know this until recently. But when I did, considering that Mr. Tatum plays Duke from G.I Joe I find the whole thing unbearable funny. Let’s just say I had high hopes for this film, and they just didn’t appear. Much like Christopher Eccleston.

You know what did appear? A new series here. Every so often I plan on releasing short stories by me or guest writers. If you wanna see more, please let me know down in the comments.

That’s pretty much all. Work has been tiring, not helped by lasagne. Not at all.

-Fiachra

I figured with all my blathering about me being a writer, I’d need some proof, so here it is. Part one of a rough draft of ‘Irvine’s Everest’:

 

These letters were received by Rebecca Langford, wife to Jacob Sacramento, renowned biologist and lead scientist on the Mt. Everest expedition of Patrick Jenneke, representative of Helix Biolabs in June 2013. What Helix Biolabs’, Jenneke’s and Sacramento’s reasons for climbing Everest is unknown, but the expedition had no known survivors. Helix continues denies any knowledge of the happenings on the mountain, saying Jenneke and Sacramento had been made redundant months ago. These letters, and what was found on the mountain, have been enough to charge Helix Biolabs with corporate espionage and unethical research.

Member’s of the expedition, several sherpas under Jenneke’s employment, and members of a Helix Biolabs security detachment have all been found dead on a path up the northern slope of the mountain, leading to a camp built by the expedition. Many sherpas looked to be in the process of fleeing, and were found to have been shot, most likely by the security force. Other sherpas and members of the expedition were found with contusions and heavy bruising caused by physical blows by a human arm, though considering the force of the impacts, this seems almost impossible. In the camp itself, Jenneke, along with the leaders of the expedition were found torn to pieces, as if attacked by a wild animal. Jacob Sacramento remains to be found. These are his last known correspondences to Rebecca.

1st June, 2013

Dear Rebecca,

The group has begun our ascent! We set off from Tibet to the Northern base camp, similar to Mallory and Irvine when they set off. I wonder, will we ever become as notorious as Mallory and Irvine, or Hillary and Norgay, or Shackleton and Crean? What we have the chance to achieve here would immortalise us in history forever. I know I’ve told you little, but I’ve told you all they’ve permitted me to. I couldn’t risk losing my position here on the expedition. As head scientist, I’ll be one step closer to fulfilling some of my wildest dreams, thanks to you and your perseverance. You pushed me into science as a kid, you pushed me into my research, and you made me agree to join Jenneke’s expedition on Everest. I can’t thank you enough.

Admittedly, the Northern ascent is worse to climb, but it’s easier to get through politically. Considering what we’re doing here, I’d rather not get stuck in Nepal right under the Chinese’s noses.

I’ll write again when we reach the Rongbuk Glacier.

All my love,

2nd June

Dear Rebecca

We met the sherpas at the base camp at the base of Rongbuk Glacier, rather than the ‘tourist’s’ base camp at the monastery. The sherpas were anxious about this, but more so about what we were doing. They haven’t been told what they’re carrying, though some complain of it’s weight. They have been forbidden to ask about or check the contents of their bags, and some have been threatened by the guards we’ve brought along. I find Jenneke’s taste in security to be sub-par. He relies on men with brute force as a skill: men not suited for a delicate procedure such as this, made even more dangerous by the threat of Mt. Everest’s climate

Originally, only 3 of the sherpa’s leaders were told what this expedition was for, and what was in the bags. 2 of them, with some persuasion, agreed to stay on, provided they keep their new-found knowledge a secret. The third was… not so willing. He refused to do so, and I haven’t seen him since we began the climb, where some of Jenneke’s men stayed behind to negotiate. They returned when we made camp today, saying he was unwilling to join, but agreed to keep quiet about the whole thing. How they managed to keep him silent is a mystery to me, but I’m far too concerned about the task at hand to think about it.

Any number of things could go wrong. If any of the sherpas find out our intentions, the whole convoy will know. We could have a riot on our hands if they disagree with the plan. On a mountain, this could prove disastrous for everyone. And there’s the matter of the tests we will perform. I oversaw the design, the testing, the approval of this drug and the equipment, but I still can’t help feeling this will go wrong. If it doesn’t, we’ll be credited with providing near immortality for the human race. If it does, we will be damned for our work. I pray I haven’t said to much already. Jenneke can be paranoid at times. Damn him for his secrecy!

Love,

Jacob

7th June

Dear Rebecca,

We’re at camp 5, after days of acclimatising, and only . I’ve barely noticed, but some of the security detail had to be moved down from the mountain, complaining of altitude sickness at camps 3 and 4. I doubt they’ll rejoin us. But this isn’t what concerns me.

A group of sherpas were spotted by Jenneke himself looking into their bags out of curiosity. It was all just medical equipment for testing brain activity, but it was enough for him to want to have them pulled aside, and taken over a snow bank, out of sight.

I think they’ve been killed. Jenneke’s a madman, he’d kill us all just so no one finds out. The men sent down from altitude sickness, the third Sherpa, they’re probably dead as well.

To hell with Jenneke’s secrecy. If this goes awry, and it may well, I need someone to know what we did here. Someone needs to know my work.

For 4 years, I’ve been involved in Helix’s Research & Development team. With the near unlimited resources of the Biolabs, we’ve had immense success. Organic prosthetics, reanimating dead tissue, the list goes on. But there was one accomplishment we all had are sights set on. The ability to reanimate and regrow dead glial cells and neurons (brain cells) and tissue. And we were able to synthesize something, something we believed could give humans new life, prevent cancerous cells from causing brain damage, prevent or even reverse necrosis, the list of possibilities was enormous. But we needed a cadaver. A perfectly preserved corpse, one with little damage to the nervous system and brain.

And then Helix showed us there greatest secret. The location of Andrew Irvine. No one had ever been successful in recovering his body, yet Helix had somehow found the location, with only he cold as his murderer. He was the perfect subject. It was wrong, inhuman, but if there was a chance it could save millions of lives in the future, is it so wrong? Only time will tell. I hope we can reach the second step, where Irvine rests, before the expedition descends into madness.

I love you, dearest Rebecca,

Jacob

Shorts

Dear Saul,

You may have noticed, My posts aren’t exactly very long. They very rarely make it past 300 words, much less sometimes. I know I write short stories, keyword here being short, but I suppose you’d expect a blog to be filled to the brim with stuff, chock full of opinions, columns, and 2000 word letters. Lots and lots of words, at the very least.

Alas, I must disappoint, there aren’t many of those here. 2000 word letters I mean, not words. We’ve got a few words around here. But not many. Now, I’m sorry if you prefer longer letters that you can delve into for ages, but I tend. It to do that, At least not with my journalistic writings, which thes kinda are. They’re letters to you, but at the same time they’re pockets of information. And I don’t want to bog you down with lore and unnecessary information. This blog might teach a thing or two, but I don’t want people to overload on trying to learn a thing or eight all in one sentence.

This reflects on my work as a fiction writer as well, to a degree. I like to keep the plot focused on the details at hand. I love lore and background, but there’s a time and place in the book for it. A good action or tense scene needs to be focused and brief, so as to avoid ruining the suspension of disbelief in the readers. That’s not to say this is the right way to do things, but it helps when I’m trying to avoid dragging out a scene, or focusing on a single event.

So that might be why I expect my posts to be short. That, or I’m a lazy git.

Warm wishes from Dublin!
Fiachra

I am a Man.

A Damn Manly Man, with capital letters and everything. And as a Damn Manly Man there are things that are required from me, such as shaving my chest using shark teeth and a hot glue gun, or toppling an African dictatorship while simultaneously pushing the resistance leader off a cliff, then going off to punch sharks.

That’s what a Man (or a Woman, don’t forget the capital letter) does. That, and work. For free.

So next week I’ll be in the geology labs in University College Dublin on work experience. If you happen to go to this one college in this particular country on a particular week with a particular interest in geology, come say hi! I’ll try to get a post in for you guys, as is my duty as…

…pause for effect…

A Man…

Another thing I must accomplish as my duty is to look baller in Youth Theatre photo’s:

https://fbcdn-sphotos-a-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/575759_10200852468495788_707056654_n.jpg

Arms crossed, chest out, this is the pose of someone who eats cacti and spits the needles out at supervillains. That, or a narcissist.

This is the Offaly Youth Theatre, and Thursday night we had our showcase, where we finally had 2 months of practice play out in 1 night. And I guarantee, everyone of those people were as talented and amazing as I was.

Perhaps not as narcissistic. But they were still amazing, and I thank everyone who turned out, those who performed with me, and to our mentors who pretty much drilled us into actors!

And two of those people in the photo have blogs, which I must definitely shamelessly plug, because they are amazing in a totally non-biased way.

The first, by Catherine Ann Minnock, will probably make your stomach rumble. She does some amazing recipes, as well as great opinion pieces.

http://www.2013unluckyforsome.blogspot.ie/

The second is from a good friend called Brook. Just starting and already becoming a brilliant blogger, you’ll adore her opinion pieces, and her outlook on the world.

http://everythingandanythingtolove.blogspot.ie/

And while I’m shamelessly plugging things, you might want some good music to listen while reading, right? Maybe you should meet my cousin Sarah Daly, under the Moniker of Metaphorest. She has some absolutely beautiful pieces of music, and has even worked on the music for a horror film that was kickstarted recently! I would seriously recommend you check her page and the film:

https://www.facebook.com/Metaphorest

http://metaphorestmusic.com/

http://www.lordoftears.com/
(The film she’s been working on)

Okay, I think you’ve heard enough from me being all nepotistic and narcissistic. I’ll see you guys soon.

Warm Wishes,

-A Man… I mean, Fiachra

Inspiration

Dear Saul,

You can’t say that you’ve run out of ideas. You can never say you’ve run out of ideas. At least if you consider yourself to be on the unfortunate trail that is writer’s block. But if you can see it, you can get a sliver of inspiration from it. Maybe not the ancient Greek idea of inspiration, where you work yourself into a creative fervor enough to make the gods take a quick peek to make sure you’re alright, but enough to come up with something new.

As a writer, artist, musician, filmmaker, as a content creator, you can get inspiration from pretty much anything, but I take a lot of it from (surprisingly) school, and its subjects. At last, the education system produces something of value.

I’m kidding.

I think.

The reason I take inspiration from school is for 2 reasons:

1) The experiences you have at school, whether good or bad, will stay with you forever. You never forget your best mate, your worst enemy, your most hated bully. You remember the fun teachers, the arseholes, the ones that looked like a – insert animal here –. And above all, if you went to a school with really bad food, you will NEVER forget it. I’m sure Mark Twain wrote under the inspiration of his high school’s greasy taco Tuesdays.

But whether or not you liked school is irrelevant. You can draw upon these memories, the emotion of it all in the blink of an eye. in two, you can recall even the tiniest details. If you can’t, those abstract fragments are just as useful. This translates especially well with music or writing, two mediums which require the listener/reader to easily access the feelings of the creator to get an overall sound image in their head.

Heh, music, sound image. Geddit? No? Okay so…

2) While maybe not entirely to do with school, the subjects there may pique your interest. You may decide you really enjoy science classes, and browse around YouTube, to find this:

As you can see, someone’s written a story about this, but the possibilities of a starship Earth-terprise is endless. And that’s just one scientific concept in one school subject. They ma not teach this stuff directly, but if you dig for it, then he gold starts to shine.

And school is just one thing to take inspiration from. With even the tiniest bit of skill, you can take Michelangelo’s David from the ruins of a demolition site.

So don’t complain about no ideas, and get to writing, chief.

Warm wishes,

-Fiachra

P.S: No April’s fools for ye all. It’s the Joker’s day off don’t you know. There’s 364 perfectly good days out there. I’ve got time. Muahahahahahahahaaaaa…

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