Ancient History

Welcome to the BBC’s Fair and Balanced production of the secrets of ancient history. Today’s programme covers the end of the dark ages and the early years of the rise of the grand Network as the powerful world leader that we know today. I’m your host, David Attenborogh XVII. Thank you for joining us.

Roughly in the year 157 B.F.A., The former peoples created something they called the Inner Net. There’s no evidence yet of any Outer Net, though there are diligent Journalists searching for it. This Inner Net allowed them to freely exchange ideas, which is what led directly to their downfall. Once the people realized that they had different ideas, they started to disagree. There are records of wars that happened in the Inner Net, most of which culminated in the resurrection of one of their worst war criminals, someone named Hitler. The resurrection of Hitler was usually employed as a means of ending the war, but it backfired as often as not.

Not long after, the wars spilled out of the Inter Nets and into the rest of their lives, affecting television, politics, and something called news papers. News papers were a way for people to shove their opinions on current events into the faces of others. People started reading only the news papers that agreed with their own opinions, and when the Inner Net wars spilled out into the rest of society, neighbour was pitted against neighbour, siblings started fights, husbands and wives had strained marital relations.

It was obvious that someone needed to step in and save things before humanity destroyed itself altogether. At that time there was a television network that was already giving a fair and balanced view of current events, with a small but loyal following. It was one of those followers who realized that the world would be a better place if only everyone agreed with each other. Obviously, he had the only right information, so he set about making everyone agree with him and watch what was then called Fox News. It was slow going at first, but in 12 B.F.A., when a Journalist from Fox News became president of the former United States, he was able to implement several laws that hastened the process of unity.

Other false news networks found their funding cut, while Fox News was broadcast twenty-four hours a day, ensuring that everyone had a chance to see it. Once more people started watching Fox News, disagreements went down sharply. The people who were left still disrupting the unity were suddenly easy to spot as the dissenters and rabble-rousers that they were. The world watched the next presidential election of the former United States very closely. Both candidates were running on a platform of proposing what to do about the dissenters. The more moderate candidate won, and the dissenters were rounded up and left on a series of islands without any means of escaping back to the mainland.

When the leaders of other countries saw that, they gratefully followed that example and rounded up their own dissenters. Some countries were rather more harsh and killed them, but after everything was over, it was generally agreed that it was a much nicer place to live when everyone agreed with everyone else.

Coming up after the break, we’ll take a look at the gruesome fates of some of the people who dared to think for themselves in the years following the unity, and how Fox News became The Network, which runs the world so well today.

Weekly Post: Before the Lights Go Out

"You remember the promise we made? Back. Before." It's more of an order than a question, as he says it.

His voice has grown gruff and harsh since that day. That day that had been so absolutely beautiful and gorgeous and perfect that it had taken all this time of pain and suffering the balance it out. To make things fair.

"Yeah. I remember." But its less than true. I can remember bits and pieces of conversation. "And a deals a deal."

We, neither of us, say anything. We just sit there staring out at the bluest sky we've seen in a very long time. So much smoke and dust and the burning at the back of your throat that can only come from the food provided here in the System.

"Almost noon." I say looking at the wedge of concrete to the side. "You sure they'll be here?"

"Don't be stupid. The intel's good." He looks down before saying, "Did you say good bye to them before you left?"

"No. I couldn't." I want to pound my fist into the concrete until concentric cracks spread from my bleeding hands like permanent spiderwebs. Instead I cough, like there's something in my throat, to hide the sound that just tried to escape.

"I couldn't either." He stares, fixated at twisted metal structure in the distance, debris and bits of bark scattered around it. "Got anything on ya?"

"Just some grape juice." I reluctantly hold up the small, square container with the straw in it.

He just takes a long, noisy slurp from it. Then hands it back to me, the body twisted and contorted like the structure in the distance. His eyes still fixed on it. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking if we could just get there. Beyond it's garbled shadow we would be free. Free from the System and the Enforcers and the never ending cycle.

Then the chime sounds.

There are others in the room with us, but they are not like us. They huddle and whine and whimper as the lights begin to dim. They know what's coming. We all do. But the two of us, hunched up here with only the invisible barrier between us and the outside world, we are left a small pool of cold orange light. Soon the light barrier will come down too and then there will be nothing but darkness.

We do not hear them approach, silent like the predators they are. We are nothing but prey to them. No not even that. We are nothing but numbers to them. These strange things with their long reaching arms and their rows of teeth and the sickly, sweet singing that escape from their drawn lips. We do not hear them until it is too late.

"Rocky-a-bye baby, on the tree top."

"Run!" He yells as he pushed my shocked form over.

"When the wind blows the cradle will rock."

"They're after us! Hurry!" But he knows just as well as I do that there is no escape.

"When the bow breaks the cradle will fall."

And then the long arms have him and lift him up into the darkness above.

"No!" But now its not him I'm worried about.

"And down will come baby..." One has him, the other comes towards me. "Cradle and all."

Weekly Prompt: Hungry for more?

Hi everyone. Sorry about not staying on top of writing prompts but hopefully we can get back into gear here. So this week, we'll be writing something short and sweet and hopefully something that everyone can sink their teeth into.

If you haven't heard yet there is this book series by Suzanne Collins called "The Hunger Games" which has recently been made into a blockbuster movie. But she's not the first person by a long shot to write dystopian novels. There is a rich history of dystopian writing going as far back as the invention of writing itself.

For this week's prompt we will be adding our own voices this this chorus of writing. For the sake of brevity let's keep it to a single page. You can do it in any format you like (story, poem, play, letter, etc) and from any perspective, though traditionally these are told in first person POV.

Common used tropes are police states as the central thematic element (1984, The Handmaiden's Tale, V for Vendetta, Hunger Games) or the loss of civilization (Riddley Walker, I Am Legend, The Last Man). Or if you're feeling up to a challenge, you could try to write one that didn't follow either of these.

Anyway, there it is. Prompt for the week. Have fun with it and bring it to the next meeting! :)

And may the odds be ever in your favor. ;)

This Week: And the award goes to....

Hello Jordan, Bec, Kassie and anyone else who ends up joining. :)

So this week was the Acadamy Awards. And the film "The Artist" ended up taking away best picture. The reason is pretty obvious, though here's the trailer in case you haven't seen it yet.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OK7pfLlsUQM

The Artist pays homage to classical Hollywood in many ways, the lack of sound. The ratio it was presented in and the speed of the film's frames. Even the music at one point is actually the love score from Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo. It is meant as a love letter to Hollywood, according to the Director.

So, for this week's writing, try making your own version of a love letter to classical writing. And you can interpret that anyway you want. For example, you could try your hand at epic poetry, in the style of Homer or Tolkien set in the heroic hexameter. Or you could try writing a fable, like Aesop or Mother Goose. You could write a scene of an episode for one of your favorite TV shows (maybe there's more going on at Downton Abbey then anyone knows). You might want to try doing a scene from a book (like Pride and Prejudice) adapted into our modern time, or you could try taking an event from our lives and placing it in the Regency Era of Jane Austen. No this isn't like "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies". This isn't meant to exploit what we love. It's meant to pay homage to it by allowing ourselves to really appreciate the finer elements of the work we are honoring by placing ourselves in the mindset of that writer.

Remember, this is less about perfection and more just to help us all keep writing.

Mine will be up in a few days... once I figure out what to write and then get to writing it :)

Scarlet

I'm not a writer. Not yet. I aspire.

I think in colours and pictures; I've told myself tales for as long as I can remember. Every so often I try to make more room in my head by moving something out onto paper. Sometimes it works. Sometimes the idea dies in transit.

I see the world in a way that makes most people tip their heads and say "what?". Fortunately, there are some who understand. I'm glad to have found a group that not only understands, but can contribute as well.

Also, I'm shy. Or "slow to warm up", as a few friends insist. I think they think "shy" is too harsh a word. I roll my eyes at their quaint but misguided notions, yet I am content to remain silent. For now.

-Kassie

In Processu

In introduction...
I am a work in progress. Or rather In Processu.

I have built my own TARDIS and see worlds that no one else sees and voices that no one else hears. I’m not crazy. My parents had me tested.

I am driven like a golden retriever running after a toy and have recognized that Life is a mere dream, a fleeting shadow on a cloudy day. I love metaphors like…like…like…

I have conversations with Hobbits, debate consistently with a particular raven, and wear old keys around my neck. My wardrobe leads to Narnia and am a member of the VFD. I know Who the Doctor is.

My fingers are sticky from honey and rosin from a cello bow. If a monster would devour me he would inform you that I tasted like cinnamon and vanilla Chai. And macaroni and cheese sharp cheddar style.

My favorite place is the House of a mouse and I left my soul in the town of knowledge and beautiful spires that looks like Castles.

My dreams are in two languages and my life is narrated by a British accent.

I’m in no rush, but one day I’ll meet a man who will help me conquer the fire swamp and will inform me that defeat is inconceivable. (And he will even know the meaning of the word.)

I problem solve like Sherlock but as friends I would get along much better with Dr. Watson.

I spend my money on books, tea, and traveling. I have no regrets… except when hauling my broken rolling bag up and down a London train station.

I can hardly wait until the curtain rises on “The Hunger Games” and most importantly “The Hobbit.”

One day I will publish my book and work for the BBC. They just don’t know how much they want me yet.

I am a firm believer in the One who holds my future in the palm of a strong hand and constantly wish that I was privy to that information.

I am a life student who endeavors to learn every day until I’m Pushing Daisies and will finally make my Trek into the Stars.

Seriously though, thanks for letting me join even though I'm currently nine hours ahead of you all. I look forward to skyping in soon.

Jordy

Hi friends.

I've been writing about other people for so long- imaginary people, granted, but ones that lead remarkably demanding lives- that I find I'm at a loss as to how to describe myself. But I'll give this my best shot.

I'm the love child of amino acids and honeyed tea, kept alive on divine hope and repressed romance. Most of my favorite people are dead, but the live ones I dote on with enthusiasm. So much, in fact, that the characters of my biggest project find their muses in some friends I had 5 years ago.

I'm hard-pressed to let any of my passions go. I made Charlotte Bronte my Muhammad when I was twelve, and she's stayed that way ever since. I heard my first Bizet aria when I was nine. Now I cloister myself in the university practice rooms, merely to warble for a precious five minutes between classes. I've been a slave of literature and writing for as long as my happily biased memory allows. But that is, of course, a love that doesn't require a tendency to enthusiasm, even one as easily provoked as mine. That love takes only a taste of true storytelling, which commands a life-binding magic of its own. I hope to capture just a bit of that magic, bottling it up my bedside to keep me company on chilly nights, for now, but some day letting it loose, a hard-bound friend to people I'll never meet.

And you know. Some money would be nice.

I love you all. So for goodness sake, do let's get started.

~ J