AndrewJKnight

The Best Sci-fi Writing Quote EVER!

rightlyknightly — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 15:51:24 +0000

Modern sci-fi has largely lost its episodic ways. The reimagined Battlestar Galactica was extraordinary but offered little to people who didn’t like its universe. One episode of political maneuvering with genocidal robots chasing a rag tag fleet across the cosmos was enough to learn the ethos and structure of the entire series. With story arc’s heavily used in most modern TV programmes I, personally, feel that something great has been lost. Episodic TV allowed moods to change and catered for wide audiences. One week Star Trek would be serious, another it would be technical, another humourous and yet another heart-wrenching.

And it’s from the heart-wrenching Star Trek episode ‘The Visitor’ (ST: DS9) I wish to quote,

“I’m no writer; but if I were, it seems to me I’d wanna poke my head up every once in a while and take a look around, see what’s going on. It’s life, son. You can miss it if you don’t open your eyes.”

It’s exactly the above I’ve been doing in my hiatus from this blog. My scenery has changed, from darkest Leeds to beautiful countryside and more, a new child is on its way.

But Hang On…

Children can be EXPENSIVE! So this fear leads me to my latest blogtastic discovery, greatcontent.co.uk.

Greatcontent.co.uk is a website that brings together companies that want copy written with people willing to write it. The price is fairly low, but it’s a totally take-it-or-leave it workload. For me having the ability to quickly generate £50 when I need a bit of a cash is a great ability. Additionally it allows me to continue developing my writing technique as each and every submission I make is rated.
Now, having taken a look at the world around I think it’s time to crack on with Fifty-Two.

Knights Highlights – July 2012

rightlyknightly — Mon, 30 Jul 2012 12:08:57 +0000

This is the last month I’m writing for Rare Breed Digital and Data Scout. Due to moving house & other commitments I’m toning down the throttle on my freelance career – for a while at least!

A Question of Cool

Coolness is now a commodity…

A New Job Description

How the race to the bottom has caused garage developers to take on new roles

Friend FRAUD

The problem undermining Facebook’s business model.

Look to Last Place

How last place can sometimes tell you more than than field leaders

Olympic Special

Considering everyone else is going Olympic crazy it seems pertinent to join them!

What would you do for a recommendation?

Just how do stores like iTunes, Google Play and Xbox live show you content that’s relevant to you?

Knights Highlights – June 2012

rightlyknightly — Mon, 02 Jul 2012 18:53:22 +0000

All the Power in the World

What supercomputers truly mean for the future

Integration

A funky little picture explaining one element of Data Scouts offering

Mobile Application Development is a bit like… Football!

With the Euro’s happening I couldn’t not write a subject crossover, could I?

Ninten-do’h!

The impact (or lack thereof) of the indescribable Wii U at E3.

Supply and Demand

How the lack of supply constraints is leading to a race-to-the-bottom approach to mobile application pricing

The Third Way

Microsoft finally come neck-and-neck with Apple

The Invention of Innovation

More effort for less gains, the true story behind spiralling patents.

The Ultimate App for Stress Relief

In a busy week for tech news who is it that comes out on top? The University of Portsmouth of course…

Tomorrow’s World pt 1

Data Scout have a go at futurology

Battlespace Merchandise

rightlyknightly — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 15:42:00 +0000

Following the acceptance of my short story, Message in a Bottle, to the Battlespace Anthology there has been an unexpected development… Merchandise! ( proceeds from which will be donated to the Warrior Cry music project).

Chuffed to bits with my name on a mug!

This and other merchandise from the Battlespace anthology can be found here

Story Acceptance – Battlespace Anthology

rightlyknightly — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 15:08:11 +0000

My short story Message in a Bottle has been accepted for publication in the Battlespace Anthology.100% of the proceeds from the e-book and printed book will be donated to the Warrior Cry music project. I’ll post later with more details as and when I receive them.

Knights Highlights – May 2012

rightlyknightly — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 15:04:33 +0000

A welcome restriction?

Realms of the Haunting and a fearful young child.

Beyond SOQL and SOSL

Data Scout add their Fuzzy algorithm into their spring launch for developers to play with as they please.

Customer Focused

I’m not Raluca Cherciu, but I did receive that call…

Data Drain

Tu-me, tu-you.

Data Management in the Cloud

Data Scout discuss cloud based Data management.

Freedom to be exploited?

The sister article to ‘A welcome restriction?’ discussing just who has control of your digital life.

Information Governance

Data Scout share some top-tips for Information Governance for Salesforce.com

Rise and Fall

How the building of ‘freedom tower’ and the conviction of a terrorist is linked to random chat apps

Taking data plans from vision to value

Data Scout explain why businesses need master data plans!

That’s the way the cookie crumbles

Monstrous cookie laws are introduced to an industry that takes a blind eye.

The China Syndrome

A question most western companies will have to ask themselves sooner or later…

The Samsung Galaxy S3

A.K.A. cheapest looking phone ever!

The Smart Accessibility Awards

The Vodafone foundation launch a series of awards celebrating the best in apps for disabled groups.

The Telegraph Short Story Competition May 2012

rightlyknightly — Mon, 28 May 2012 18:01:10 +0000

This is my entry to the Telegraph Short Story competition for May 2012. The subject is ‘Time-shift’ with a bit of jubilee nostalgia thrown in. The rest of the stories from the competition can be found here.

Blink of an Eye

It’s a far, far stranger thing that I feel now than I have ever felt before. My vision is clear and hearing acute but my brain refuses to grant detail. I feel disconnected from my body, like a dormant computer waiting idly for its master. My chest is pinned tightly under twisted metal. A breath ago our driverless vehicle was hit by another. Whoever sat beside me is now screaming to high heaven, but the noise, the sight and recollection of who they are isn’t forthcoming. Despite my situation, I struggle to feel bothered, pulled by the allure of old memories.

As a child my dad and I used to watch old blockbuster movies.

“These movies never get the future right,” he’d say.

And he was right. If you ever get a chance to see one of the old 2D films you’ll see vast interstellar ships, gargantuan in size, often float into port earning not so much as a scratch from such delicate manoeuvre while people teleport from place to place, taking in beach, mountain and space station without even batting an eyelid and characters are all sharply dressed, not a single hair out-of-place, each and every person only benefiting from the abilities technology brings.

My dad used to relish telling me how the movies always ignored the small, personal tragedies of everyday citizens, how when it came to it most people were frustrated with new technology because new invention always brought new difficulty. He particularly loved telling the tale of how each and every movie missed the fall of capitalism and the British monarchy, how both ended when everything was automated to a single button press leaving humanity to merely consume and the monarchy to be totally ignored. In movies, he’d say, such complex concepts were rarely considered, making way instead for alien invasions or other ‘popcorn-fluff’. What happened to the general populace in films was never much more than an afterthought.

Trapped by the crushed steel-alloy of my car I too feel like an afterthought. Despite my skull being firmly pressed against the dashboard by the broken headrest and my eyes now tightly closed covered in a liquid I know to be my own blood I feel somewhat at peace. However that peace, through continued recollection, shatters.

I’d grown into a world that was less equal, more hostile and totally lacking in the optimism the old 2D colour films had promised; soon I too became abrasive and emotionless. When the war they all called ‘World War Three’ came it wasn’t aliens that caused it, just your usual political, religious and extremist bullshit. Instead of following the philosophy I’d grown up with I signed up for the Republic Air Force and found myself a pilot in the Skylon Strategic Bombing corps. I piloted the Skylon Stratofortress, Cheery Loner.

Although my country the United Republic joined the war late, its entry brought weapons the world had never seen – Time Bombs. With their power we had the ability to tear at the very fabric of reality meaning we could speed up or slow down events however we saw fit.

Initially we only targeted enemy military assets; during one of my early missions I dropped a fast-bomb on a naval armada. Within seconds of the explosion the ships burned all their fuel, food rotted, milk soured, bulkheads rusted and people aged. But we didn’t stop at military targets.

Combining a slow-bomb and an old nuclear warhead together we developed the ultimate offensive weapon and propaganda tool. Hiroshima was bad, but it was over too quickly. What nation could stand to see their capital reduced to dust behind an impenetrable barrier of time? We set the timer to eighty years and dropped the bomb. Behind my plane the time explosion occurred, creating a dome of ‘slow-time’. Five real-time minutes later (an instant to anyone inside the dome) the nuke went off. As distant as my plane was the spark looked bright, but small, like a distant star. I didn’t care to look further; seeing family, friends and fellow citizens slowly burned and annihilated was for the enemy to suffer, not me.

Anyone who dared press a finger into the slow-time dome would become trapped part in normal time and part in slow time. Blood that would flow from heart to arm, to outstretched palm would enter fingertips held within-slow-time, thus not return to the heart at the normal rate. Without urgent amputation anyone foolish enough to touch the barrier would end with their fingers bursting apart or body-rocking heart attacks. This fact wouldn’t stop relatives committing suicide this way.

The rights and wrongs of what I did weren’t for me to contemplate. I told myself I was just a pilot, soldier and tool of the country’s aims and it wasn’t my place to worry about the morality of our actions.

After the explosion arrived my just desserts. We’d been too arrogant believing our aging Skylon fleet was quicker than ground-to-air missiles and too low for orbiting space ships to attack. We’d though we could attack with impunity. How wrong we were. Fifteen minutes into my flight home the proximity alarm sounded. From above a hulking space ship foolishly entered the atmosphere, desperately trying to destroy the aircraft responsible for the sentencing their capital city to a lingering death.

Recklessly they followed me as I dived lower. The protective plating sheared from their hull, but still they continued, my attempts at evasion merely hardening their resolve. Their weapons systems, meant for bigger prey, missed me but burned the air for tens of miles. Finally, despite my best efforts, one shot glanced across my bow. The reverberation was bone-shattering, two of my engines disintegrated leaving my plane to enter a death spiral.

Now, in the crumpled remnants of this car I can still clearly see the bomber spinning and lurching, the air filled with shrapnel, the remains of my colleagues and copious amounts of vomit. In the distance the spaceship pulled away, back to the safety of space. I’d plummeted to Earth, continually turning and twirling in a downward spiral of death. At some point I’d blacked out.

I can hear the emergency services cutting the frame of the car. Before this accident I remember travelling on the road, having been programmed by my friend… Michael Emery (I think that’s his name, although something about him looks… wrong). But I don’t remember getting into the car with him; I don’t remember where we came from or where we were going to. In fact, the only thing I remember before the car, the crash and the impending rescue is the plane and the bombing.

Like drifting on a cloud I’m pulled from the car, my body so badly beaten that it doesn’t even bother to try accounting for the pain. Lifting my arm it’s not the blood, bruises and pierced skin that shock me. My skin is haggard, withered and drained. When I was a pilot I was a naive twenty-one year old, now as I’m placed in the ambulance I’m certain my thoughts are held within the body of a pensioner.

Confused thoughts start whirring through my mind only to be cut short as I finally, thankfully, black out.

Sometime later, in a nearby hospital

I open my eyes, just for a moment and see my friend, wheelchair bound and in conversation with an artificial intelligence.

“Is he going to be alright?” Michael Emery asks.

The A.I. responds coolly, “Saul Tibbley suffered major trauma to his body, brain and neck. Saul’s neck will be restored in approximately six months, his arms, legs and soft tissue in a matter of weeks. His brain shows signs of historic scarring meaning my analysis of the effects of the accident cannot be completed.”

“Ok, thank you. Can you check just one area for me? Please review all areas of his brain associated with short-term memory.”

“I will report back to you in six hours,” the A.I. answers.

That short snippet of conversation is enough to drain what little energy reserves I have and I fall into a deep, dark sleep.

Many weeks later

I wake up into a dark, quiet room. Immediately the plethora of machines surrounding me tells me my location – a hospital. It’s too quiet, there isn’t a sound of a nurse wandering or even the gentle snoring of other patients. I’m on my own in this darkened room.

My body aches through lack of movement. My arms and legs feel especially weak from where pins have recently been removed. However as I bring my palms over my body it’s not the wires or the scars that take my attention. My skin feels mottled and… burnt? I don’t remember a fire in the car. Assessing my memory for other causes of my skin’s complexion I realise again that I can’t remember anything between dropping the bomb and the car crash.

Raising my hands to my head I feel a hair-free scalp and a ridge of scar-tissue where my skull has been glued back together. My memory is missing.

In fear I shout, “Doctor!”

Immediately the lights turn on and the same A.I. as before enters the room. As soon as it reaches my bed I ask, “What’s happened to me? Why can’t I remember anything?”

In return the A.I. remains as calm as ever and simply states, “I cannot answer your question but have contacted the individual with the right authority to do so. Your friend, Michael Emery, will be present shortly. Please do not raise your stress levels.”

Confused and angry I attempt to lift myself up, only to be defeated by unused muscle. With a little effort I use creaking fingers to raise my bed into a seated position. When ready I ask, “Why won’t you tell me what has happened?”

“I have been instructed not to do so. Michael will be here in a moment.”

As I resolve to wait, knowing it’s pointless battling an A.I., I become acutely aware of my withered bodily frame. Something isn’t right.

Finally I hear the door opening.

Michael Emery, now healed from his injury strides toward me. With an outstretched hand he grabs my palm and shakes it. “It’s so good to see you up,” he says.

Staring at him I feel momentary comfort, his identity a memory I can access. Michael is an old friend I met when signing up for the RAF… but something about him looks strange, different and once more I’m perturbed. “What’s happened to me?” I ask.

Michael perches at the bottom of my bed, fidgets for a moment then stares me in the eyes.

“We were in a car crash. Someone hacked the other driverless car’s computer and crashed it into ours. We both nearly died.”

“Who would do that?”

Michael takes a breath, “Do you remember your name? Can you tell me who you are?”

“Of course I remember my name,” I balk, “I’m Saul Tibbley, RAF pilot number 06081945. And I wasn’t asking about the crash, I remember that. I was asking why I don’t remember anything between my plane crashing and waking in a car crash. Has… has my brain been damaged? Have I lost my memory? You can tell me… be honest.”

The look Michael gives clearly hides deep emotion, “Saul… the car crash didn’t damage your brain.”

“Then why can’t I remember?”

Michael gulps, “The crash… it… repaired your brain.”

“What? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“When your skylon crashed you were pulled from the wreckage half-dead. You were in a coma for three weeks and your body took… months to men-”

“Months?” I interrupt.

“Yes, months to mend. Eventually you were back to being physically fit but one part of you was unfixable. Your brain had received massive scarring and your short-term memory was completely lost. The damaged tissue was too deep for any physician to operate on. So for a long time you’d wake roughly every five minutes, with your last thought being flying the plane. The car crash we both just experienced actually served to rupture the scar tissue in your brain, allowing areas of your brain that had been separated to start communicating with one another again.”

Michael’s explanation, images of my aged skin and the sound of my voice amalgamate into an unnerving understanding, “How long? How long did I live without a memory?”

“Saul… my name isn’t really Michael. I was chosen to be your chaperone because of my physical similarity to an old RAF colleague of yours. It was easier for you to be with someone you recognised when you ‘woke-up’ hundreds of times a day. And… I’m the seventh Michael Emery you’ve known. You’re ninety years old.”

The aching muscles, the leathery skin, the weak joints and warbling voice all make horrible sense.

“I’ve lost all my life? Only at its twilight do I start living… Was… Is… Is it worth it?”

Seeing the frailty in my eyes and feeling a deep sadness at a role he thought he’d never have to play Michael responds with frank, brutal, truth.

“We’re still at war. The city you bombed is now almost totally destroyed but it only served to isolate the United Republic. The security services tell me the car that crashed into us was hacked by an enemy nation. They were trying to kill you. They don’t want you to die naturally.”

“Die naturally? This is the future isn’t it? How long can people live?”

“From exposure to time-bombs you received a terminal illness. It’s my job to comfort you until the end.”

“And when is that supposed to be?”

Michael stands up and turns around, initially too scared to tell me the truth. He’s but a boy, only twenty-something himself. He’s totally unprepared for this situation. When he does eventually speak it makes the whole situation terribly worse. In two words he makes me realise how short lived my long life has been. He says,

“You’re overdue.”

Knights Highlights – April 2012

rightlyknightly — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 12:51:48 +0000

This month I’ve started blogging for a second company, Data Scout. Their articles are more marketing and data-product focused than the mobile application development articles I write for Wooza (who have themselves become ‘Rare Breed Digital’).

A mobile a day keeps the doctor away

My imaginings of how mobiles can be developed to aid human health.

Data Scouts Data Restaurant

Purchasing several apps for different stages of a problem is like eating a five course meal at five different restaurants.

Data Scout’s Dictionary of Data – No.1 Salesforce.com ‘How to Guides’

The foundation stone of a series of articles for Data Scout exploring the best web resources on Data management.

Data Scout’s Dictionary of Data – No.2 Trust

How trusting relationships can sometimes lead to adoption…

Data versus Goliath

How small companies like Data Scout are taking on established played like Microsoft – and winning!

Does Freemium come at a Premium?

Wooza ruminate on the business model: Freemium.

e-Book Bother

Sneaky showing of The River in my professional work along with a review of the ‘agency’ model.

Fuzzy Logic

I explain how Fuzzy Logic works, why it’s useful and how it helps Salesforce.com data cleansing.

Tactical Withdrawal

Would someone please tell RIM they’re better off gone?

The difference between Data Integration and Master Data Management

Saleforce.com data integration meets Roman aqueducts.

The Wettest Drought EVER

How the weather in the UK is surprisingly like what is happening in the tech industry.

Right First Time

The importance of getting products right first time. And then not ruining it. I’m looking at you Dark Souls Prepare to Die edition.

The Fast and The Spurious

Fast cars and data management (unfortunately the murderous ice-cream van owners didn’t make it into the final cut).

The Personal Touch

Ill, so very ill. And blinded. Blinded by my own reflection in the iPad3.

Why MDM is crucial to CRM success

FYI IDGIE!

Work smart not hard with your Data in Salesforce.com

A short, snappy article about why you should consider automating manual activity in a salesforce.com

The Telegraph Short Story Competition April 2012

rightlyknightly — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:11:06 +0000

Writing The River was a solitary experience. Since then in an attempt to publicise myself I’ve written articles (both online and in print), submitted stories to anthologies (one of which may be published!) and entered competitions. In this last stage I’ve unexpectedly found a writing community that offers innovative stories but also even-handed critiquing.To evolve as a writer this is absolutely essential.

It’s following their advice that I’ve pushed myself out of the box yet further with my latest story for the Telegraph Short Story Competition April 2012. This time it’s in past tense, hopefully less choppy and on a lesser, more character orientated scale yet (fingers crossed) it still retains a decent story line.

So, on the subject of ‘whodunit’ here’s my offering…

Off’s Dead

Amy Rowe’s life had always been so simple. She’d learnt well in school, regurgitated knowledge during exams, gained relevant qualifications then started all over again in an attempt to attain the latest must-have piece of paper. She’d known nothing other than stability; her teenage boyfriend had become her youthful fiancée and finally her adult husband. She’d stayed in her home city for her degree and even rented a room from her parents. Only when she and her husband were ready, financed and maternally nudged had they moved in together, yet still they’d call their respective parent’s house’s ‘home’.

After her degree she’d dutifully looked for work. Not knowing anything other than the system she’d been brought up in she’d determined that the best role for her was that of a teacher. Despite owning only a few wisps of creativity she’d always been an A-grade student in imaginative subjects, having always known what boxes to tick. This is how she found herself back in her old high school in the room she’d often impressed long-gone drama teachers.

But all was not well for Amy. Unlike when she first attended school, as a teacher she had to focus on the entire class, not a cliquey subsection. For the first time in her life she was exposed to the entire spectrum of teenage growth, ideas and disruption. ‘Everyone loves drama teachers’ she’d thought so had been more open than perhaps was wise with her students. Quickly one year eleven class took advantage of information they’d learnt about her. They’d question how she can teach acting when she’d never been in an out-of-education production, they’d chide her about how they’d slept with more people than she and finally they’d question, rebel or generally play-up whenever Amy would try to do anything. Her argument that to pass exams her students need look no further than her fell on deaf ears.

For the first time in her life Amy was beginning to look at the path she’d dutifully walked and question, ‘was that the right path for me?’. However each time she questioned herself she’d swallow the emotion, hide it away and turn it into aggression whenever close friends dared discuss the merits and negatives of the modern day education system. Her partner was cut from similar cloth so had no life experience with which to help her, leaving Amy to suffer alone.

Today, Amy determined to change the course of lessons with the year eleven class. Arriving at school several hours early she planned, prepared and stocked-up on the best drama equipment available. She’d offer them the best lesson possible; in fact it’d be so memorable that its effect it would bleed into future lessons, she’d never have a problem with them again, or so she thought.

At 8:30 she took all her collected materials from storage to the drama room. The door was already unlocked. Inside, the room was roughly cube shaped with a small gantry above housing all manner of lighting equipment. Around the room black curtains covered the walls. One solitary but strong spot light beamed a piercing white circle onto the centre of the room. So contrasting was the beam to the dark of the rest of the room that after immediately stepping from the lights gaze you would fall into imperceptible shadow.

“Hello?” Amy asked. After receiving no response she settled her mind, yesterday’s teacher must have left in a hurry absentmindedly leaving the room unlocked.

At 9 o’clock the bell rang. A good ten minutes later the first students strolled into her classroom. Despite their lateness she kept a wide, welcoming smile. She’d keep them later; the room was sound proofed so her student’s wouldn’t hear the bell; other teachers could wait. As the last of the children entered she locked the door.

Around the edge of the circular beam Amy had placed chairs. Now, thirty or so students sit in a ring laughing, snorting or shouting at one another. Instead of her usual high-pitched scream to gain control she simply stepped into the circle holding a large box which she then placed on the ground allowing its contents to be seen by all.

As sixty young eyes saw thirty glistening blades the room fell silent.

“Today we’re going to kill each other,” Amy stated coldly before continuing, “but first, I’ve had enough of your attitude, disruption and terrible behaviour.”

She picked a curved blade, placed it to her throat and dragged it across her neck. Immediately a line of blood poured from her wound. Amy fell to the ground, using the last of her conscious ability to give as comfortable a fall as possible. Most students screamed, some were silent in complete shock and a few jumped out of their skins, then their seats in a rush to the locked door.

“The door won’t open!” shouted Alfie, a short blonde haired boy.

“What? Let me try! Out of the way,” exclaimed Ethan, the large-beyond-his-years alpha male of the group. He grabbed the handle and tugged with all his might but his effort was to no avail. Alfie banged on the door, “Help, help!” he yelled.

But the corridor outside only housed other drama rooms, each one also sound-proofed. No-one could hear their exclamations.

“What’re we going to do?” whimpered Bryan.

“Vouldn’t zee Frau have zee Key?” offered Geirhard Off, the latest addition to the class.

“Maybe she does but who the Vuck is going to go near her?” slated Chanelle, the usually pristinely presented, orange faced alpha female of the room.

“I’ll… I’ll do it,” braved Alfie turning to Amy’s body. Other than nervous breath the room fell silent. As an August child Alfie was smaller than his contemporaries but made up for his physical deficiencies through a wicked tongue and disruptive sense of humour. He took a tentative step closer to Amy’s body.

When close enough to reach her he paused. Everyone’s eyes tracked his every movement. Amy lay face down, blood no longer oozing from her wound. Carefully Alfie put his arms over her body and pulled her to lie face up.

Amy’s deathly grimace came into view. Alfie leant back for a moment, readying his wits for rifling through his ex-teachers pockets.

As soon as his fingers touched her trousers Amy’s eyes opened.

A whirlwind of profanities blew through the room. Alfie fell back and scrabbled away as fast as he could. But before the students regained enough composure to start wailing again Amy began to laugh, a self-serving giggle. From the floor she picked herself up, brushed herself down and looked at her students.

“Today, we’re going to learn how to kill each other and die well… on stage,” she smiled lifting the knife in such a way a button and blood capsule were visible and continued, “Now everyone I want each of you to take a theatrical knife from the box and I’ll show you how it works.”

After a final moment of silence half the room broke into laughter while the other half remained silent and glared curses at their teacher.

The lesson continued. The adrenaline from their teachers supposed suicide subsided in the students, but the adrenaline Amy had gained from her trick made her feel Godlike. For the first time ever she felt in control. She’d done something totally out of the box, scared the children who regularly scare her, gained a level of control she’d never thought possible and finally she was winning her class, after their initial fright they were all beginning to enjoy their lesson.

Alfie acted as a Roman commander, having lost a battle. After lengthy prose he ‘fell’ on his sword giving an over-the-top death performance which everyone enjoyed. While Ethan and Chanelle acted the parts of Romeo and Juliet. Oozing a crushed blood capsule from his mouth Ethan stumbled about, poisoned to death only for Chanelle to awaken, see her dead lover, and then stab herself.

As the level of gore increased the class became more enamoured with Amy. Having become intoxicated with her newfound ‘best-teacher-ever’ status Amy upped the ante.

“Following the Romeo and Juliet theme let’s do Capulet’s versus Montagues. Everyone whose surname begins A to M you’re Capulet’s, take your blades. Everybody else you’re Montagues. Let’s re-enact the battle. I want to see as much death and gory as possible!”

Stood just outside of the spot-lit centre of the room Amy saw carnage as the children she hated ran toward one another, knives held high. Children would run from shadow into the light to ‘kill’ a friend before jumping back into the relative safety of the dark. Above the carnage a shrill voice screamed.

Everyone froze. Even though their blades were plastic the knives could cause injury, especially if directed to an eye or other sensitive area. Apart from a few brawling Capulet’s the fighting stopped as Geirhard Off stumbled from the dark, clutcing his stomach.

“Meine Mutter…” he whined before releasing his grip. From his abdomen blood flowed. He fell to his knees, the shockwave shaking his overweight body which in turn caused an explosion of bodily matter that splattered across the floor.

In an instant everybody knew that the boy nobody knew was dead. Only one student, Alfie, responded in disbelief. Instead of silence he laughed.

“Good one Geirhard, now get up.”

But Geirhard couldn’t move.

Amy stepped over, placed her fingers on his neck and looked at his wound. She found no pulse and saw a realistic blood red her knives had yet to produce.

“He’s… he’s dead, aint he?” asked Ethan.

Amy, still as a statue, thundered with a deep, hidden rage. The children she’d tried and succeeded in impressing had caused the death of the most annoying child she’d ever met. Geirhard Off had only joined a week earlier but become a regular pain in her classes. In some way’s she’d appreciated his presence, with his near-ludicrous German accent and large frame he’d taken the flak from the class that usually was directed at her. And now, even though she’d never seen a body before she knew he was dead.

“Who did this?” Amy asked in a calm, measured tone.

Her question received no response.

“Who did this?!” She asked with added power. Again no one in her class responded, all were too shocked to say a word.

“Right, have it your way,” stated Amy as she walked to the only door in the room, placed the key into the lock then bent it in such a way that the key snapped.

“We’re not leaving here until whoever did this to Geirhard owns up.”

“We need to get an ambulance, he mi-” started Alfie.

“SIT DOWN Alfie. Geirhard is dead. Murdered in this room by one of you. In fact that goes for everyone. Bring your chairs into a circle and sit. Now.”

The children tearfully pulled their chairs into place while Amy dragged Geirhard’s lifeless body from view. Out of the spot light, in the dark, his bloodied body wouldn’t cause continued distress.

“I think miss has gone mental,” commented Alfie to another, petrified student.

Amy, having been in the dark herself heard Alfie’s comment and jumped into the circle, pushed Alfie’s chair over and glared, “Was it you? You were always picking on him!”

“No miss, it wasn’t me, honest! I were already playing dead when Geirhard screamed. Honest miss.”

“Get off him miss, you can’t do that to us, we know our rights,” interrupted Ethan.

“In here you have no rights,” seethed Amy.

“I think miss is having a breakdown… we need to get out…” said Chanelle.

Amy left Alfie, strode across the room and seeing Chanelle remembered all the cocky girls from her school that had tried, but through emotive isolation, failed to make her own teenage life hell. Amy felt revulsion at Chanelle’s straightened hair, short skirt and poorly tied tie. To Amy people like Chanelle were a waste, an affront to the way life should be, the set path she’d walked. Chanelle was a waster who Amy had to waste time upon. Completing the breakdown that had started when she’d woken dreaming her day could be anything different to the nightmare of a life she’d chosen, she thrust out her arms and grabbed hand-full’s of Chanelle’s hair then pulled – hard.

Chanelle squealed as she was pulled from her seat. Ethan jumped up only to meet a swift and well placed elbow from Amy. He too fell to the floor. Seeing their male and female leaders physically beaten by their teacher caused the remainder of the class to commit to submission. They wouldn’t challenge Amy the way Ethan had.

However, stealing Amy from her trance-like anger was the familiar noise of someone secretly using their mobile phone.

“Who’s using their phone?!” Amy demanded.

No child responded and Amy couldn’t see the perpetrator. She turned and turned, scanning each child in the circle but couldn’t see who was using a phone. The tapping stopped.

“Who did that? Who used their phone? Who attacked Geirhard?!”

Despite her newfound physical power the fact her words were unanswered frustrated her more and more.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Five minutes pass and in that time Amy, having totally lost her inhibitions has attacked, shouted, berated and told each and every child what she’s truly thought of them. Geirhard’s death has become only the backdrop to her increasing insanity. Her interrogation of a boy called Finley, her favourite in the class was broken by a loud thump on the floor.

Quickly the thump was followed by another, then another.

Through the door she heard, “Police. Amy Rowe, you must let us in!”

Suddenly desperate and near out of her mind Amy turned to where she’d placed Geirhard’s body in an attempt to either block the door with his mass or threaten them with what she may do to her ‘hostages’. But as she looked where she’d placed his body she found nothing other than a slight dampness from leftover blood.

“Where has Geirhard gone?!” Amy screamed.

Another thump and the door partly cracked open.

“No, no! You can’t come in!” shouted Amy before running to the centre of the room. “I’ve got hos-”

Before she can finish her sentence a man, dressed entirely in black stepped into the circle and pushed Amy to the floor. The police crash through.

Officers held Amy tightly while the black-dressed man took off his balaclava, fetched a flannel from his pocket and cleaned black make-up from his eyes and mouth.

“Who are you?” Amy screamed.

“My name is Simon Gough. You’ve met my colleague,” Simon looked to a darkened corner of the room. “It’s ok now Grant, you can come out.”

Out off shadow stepped Geirhard Off, although something was wrong – his hair was ruffled and his body had lost its shape.

“What is this?” said Amy, shocked at Geirhards sudden revival.

“Can you help me out?” asked Geirhard-now-Grant.

Grant took his jumper off revealing a fat-suit, knocked out of place by his Shakespearian battle. It was skin coloured and tight around his neck. When Amy had checked for a pulse she’d felt only felt fakery. After his fat suit was taken off he pulled off a wig and, taking his colleague’s flannel, also wiped down his face removing fake spots and freckles.

“Who, what…?”

Responding to Amy, just before she was led away, Simon Gough explained, “I’m an OFSTED inspector. With government approval I developed I new method of testing teachers. I call it trial-by-fire. Grant was given a new identity and placed into your class this week. Using the latest theatrical make-up technology he was given all the usual teenage deficiencies thus making him as big a target as possible to see how you would handle a child bullied. After ingratiating himself into your form he was to suffer an imaginary injury this morning and I’d assess how you responded. After going into the ambulance that you were expected to call you’d never see him again and I’d pass your file for analysis. I allowed your lesson to continue as it was… novel. But I had to call the police when your behaviour became unbalanced.”

Looking at Geirhard-now-Grant Amy saw that without make-up and a fat suit he looked older, like a youthful looking twenty year old. She also saw spatters of fake blood from a blood pack sewn into his fat suit – a necessary ingredient for his false injury.

“What’s your analysis Grant?” asked Simon.

“I think Amy’s continued employment would be a detriment to the education system,” he said.

“Detriment the education system? I AM THE SYSTEM.”

The competing aims when writing articles for others (with a bit of Paul and Barry)

rightlyknightly — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 20:31:34 +0000

Small businesses have small websites often sidelined by Google and low in the search rankings. Each and every entrepreneur wants their website to become popular and their brand to be the first Google hit for a variety of searches. With popularity sales of their product or service will soar – or at least that’s the dream.

In fact trying to improve a websites search rankings while creating original, interesting content are often competing aims.

To Me, to You

The Chuckle brothers were way ahead of their time with their catchphrase “To me, to you”. As they’d struggle to carry a variety of objects, often leading to a number of ‘hilarious’ situations, they’d pass whatever the object was to one another backwards and forwards. Hitting the right tone for an article written for a company you’re not intimately involved with can often feel like a similar exercise (albeit it without Paul and Barry).

When writing articles for others there are four subject areas with two competing aims. They are;

Opinion (writing what you think about an industry or wider news from that industry)

Product (writing about your companies specific product)

Subject (exploring the ‘hook’ you’ve created to pull people into your article e.g. the chuckle brothers section to this article)

SEO (ensuring the right phrases and words are used in the article).

It would be great if all articles could tick all boxes but unfortunately this is not possible. Using my personal example of writing The River, you can see how these aims often fight against one another.

It’s all about me, me, me

Focusing on an Opinion and Subject based article

“Writing The River was an exhausting, emotional experience. It often felt like a battle as I struggled through a no man’s land of poorly written drafts. Unfortunately the self-publishing industry seems to be its own enemy. Having self-published it feels as if I’m not standing next to giants, but in fact I’ve worked hard to kneel in the squalor of bad self-published porn and books that were written hastily and poorly. “

Writing like this is fun. It’s self centred. It’s all about ‘I’. Unfortunately it’s only interesting to friends and people that know you. It’s especially disinteresting to Google as it’ll see no man’s land and porn, not necessarily the search terms I want to be associated with.

It’s all about self publishing and sci-fi authors
Focusing on Opinion and SEO based articles

”Like many self published authors I found writing The River to be an exciting, exhausting but ultimately rewarding experience. However the industry seems to be a bit too open lacking in editorial control which is why I’d prefer for a sci-fi literary agent to stumble across my works and enjoy them as much as I do.”

This is slightly less fun to write and to read but will be scanned by Google and hit all the right keywords and help me toward my own personal aim.

The River, a modern Greek tragedy
Focussing on Product and Subject based articles

“Aeson’s tribulations in The River are as tragic as any other Greek myth that bears similarly named Characters. Despite being written in the 21st century about a world several thousand years in the future its themes are as ancient as story telling itself.”

This too is sort-of fun to write but despite being quite in depth about my product (I chose the name Aeson and Tisiphone intentionally for their Greek-myth meanings) it struggles to rise about the fun Greek-theme and is poorly SEO optimised.

The River by sci-fi author Andrew J Knight
Focusing on Product and SEO based articles

“The River is a Self Published Science-Fiction book, available on Lulu. The River will soon be available on kindle and other e-readers. With new Sci-Fi concepts you’ll be left in amazement with this new novel by Andrew J Knight”

This ticks all the boxes for my aims but is less interesting to write and less interesting for a reader to read.

Knight Time

In the end writing one article with these competing aims is next to impossible. A mix of articles like this is best but the choice of what to aim for first (SEO or readable content) is up to the business owner. Over do the SEO in your articles then the fledgling readership you attract to your site will be put off, ne’er to return. Focus too much on good content and Google will never find your site. I like to think that as a professional blogger I manage to balance these factors well across the course of my work with a company.