Mwwhahahaha: Revenge!




A friend of mine who runs the “Writers Write” blog, suggests that beginner writers take revenge for a plot.

Yes, I remember… (*joints creaking*) one of the first novelette-sized stories I wrote, (*when I was eleven, the older I get the better I used to be*)     😉    all went about revenge…

It’s actually a brilliant type of plot, also for pro writers.  You don’t have to be a beginner to appreciate the versatility of the topic.  Revenge is such a base, mean, human, satisfying drive, and many people are too evolved themselves to ever actually visit revenge on anyone, we prefer to believe that “the wheel turns” and divine justice will be dealt.  But it’s fun to play with the thought of giving someone who has slighted or injured us, a good dosage of their own medication.  Myself, I’d like to play some magical mischief on banks, governments, the big Pharma and Monsanto, turn all their sugar to salt, make their computer systems write credits to their customers instead of debiting, every time an unreasonable bank charge goes off; force them to take high dosages of their own vaccinations, and make their round-up ready weeds climb in through their bedroom windows.

I often use revenge in stories, as a sideline (usually not as the main plot but that is just me).   Do you have some nice flashy excerpts of revenge from your books?  Want to post them in the comments or link to them?  🙂


10 thoughts on “Mwwhahahaha: Revenge!

  1. Thinking throughout all my stories and the few novels I am struggling to think of any instance of revenge.
    I wonder if this is an indication that as much a we would like to turn the sugar into salt it isn’t a natural part of put make up?

  2. Better simply to have an idea and just throw words at it. Works for me. Revenge, love, bagels, whatever – just throw words at it until some stick.

    If you want a good book for younger readers where relentless pursuit drives several of the characters – and that includes revenge, which doesn’t quite come off – then try Philip Reeve’s ‘Mortal Engines’. I could shoot holes in it, but not in the pace and the way the plot rattles along.

    The closest I come to revenge in a plot is the following supposedly first-hand account of Bosnia during the break-up of Jugoslavia, when neighbours who once co-existed begin to turn on each other.

    “You don’t have any idea what it’s like,” I said to him.” You don’t know what it is to have your everyday life suddenly turned upside down. Everything out there looks the same – your house is the same, the street is the same, the sparrows sitting on the fence are the same, the clouds in the sky are the same – but some very important things have changed. Like you’re afraid for your life. You’re afraid of your neighbours. You’re afraid that your friends or your father will be killed. You’re afraid you will be killed – or worse, you’re afraid you’ll have to endure life when you would rather be killed. I’ve been there. I’ve seen this. I’ve been trying to forget it, but I can’t. All I’ve been able to do, until now, is avoid talking about it.

    It’s men. It’s always men. They have the guns. Not the women. They come into your street in fatigue trousers and camouflage vests, and stupid bandanas round their heads. They come in trucks, and jump out, and start kicking all the doors in. Or they swagger round the corner with bandoliers over their shoulders, and kick in a selected few. Then they drag someone out. If it’s a man or a boy, they kill him. If it’s a woman, they rape her. Then maybe they kill her.

    Maybe it’s someone you know. Maybe it’s someone you don’t like. That doesn’t make it less horrible to see. Maybe it’s your mother or father that’s being raped or killed. Maybe – and this is worst of all – the faces of the men with the guns are faces you recognise. Maybe a teacher, a baker, a plumber, a civil servant. Maybe the man in charge was the local librarian!

    Who are they? It doesn’t matter. They could be the people from the next town. Who cares if they are Croat, Muslim, Albanian, whatever. Who cares if they’re even your own people, and they have found an excuse to hate you – you were friends with the wrong people, you didn’t help round up so-and-so. It’s men. Men. Men. I have seen them form a circle, and put someone they’ve captured in the centre. They give him a knife, and then one of them steps into the circle, and he has a knife too. I’ve seen a captive try to run away or break through the circle, only to be grabbed and pushed back in. I’ve seen a captive fight for his life, only to be butchered for his cheek. I’ve seen a captive dare to wound one of the men in fatigues, and then the others kick him to the ground, kick him to death, and then piss on his corpse. I’ve seen two neighbours forced to fight, with the promise that the one who wins and kills the other can go free, only to see the winner shot where he stood. Always men. Men. Laughing. Always laughing.

    And the women? If there were women with them they were somewhere off to one side. Oh sure they egged the men on. Oh sure they called the captives all sorts of names. Croat bastard. Muslim faggot. Dirty Serb. Albanian shit. Do him, Goran! Stick him, Marian! But they didn’t do the fighting, they didn’t do the kicking down doors.

    No. But sometimes when a captive was down, and desperate to be left alone or even to die, I’ve seen women take a knife and gouge out an eye or two, or take a testicle from a live man as a trophy. I’ve seen a woman cut another woman in a way that makes me sick to think about. I’ve been trying to forget all this, but I’m damned if I can.

    But these men, they were the ones who stood up and fought. They were dirty, they were cruel, they didn’t care who they fought, or killed, or tortured, or raped. But they were the ones that did it. They stood up and did it. The women sneaked around the edges and watched, or did some petty atrocity to one of the helpless. I’ve seen all this! I’ve been there! It’s part of my life. Don’t ask to see the other scars I have, apart from this one on my face, because some of them I just can’t show you. Do you want me to go into detail about what happened to my own family – which of these nice scenes featured my mother and father? Or do you want to guess?

    (c) Marie Marshall.

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