Jeremy leaned against the rough brick wall of the clothes shop at the corner of Davey Place and Castle Street. He couldn’t remember if the shop was still a Monsoon and he didn’t check; another unresolved thought in his head was all the better.
He nodded to the big issue seller, closed his eyes and listened.
He could hear two off-key flautists busking down the street; the shuffling conversations of passersby; the thump of bass from the Panasonic shop; the Royal Arcade’s Christmas music; some Asian singer warbling from the Thai takeaway.
He couldn’t hear the voices.
What blissful cacophony.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Acolyte
I denounce my body.
Is the first commandment. You are but fertile ground for the red plague: let it inside you, let it become you.
I denounce my bonds.
Is the second. Forget your past, forget your family and friends. Those things have no meaning.
I embrace my thirst.
Is the third. It will be all you know.
She licks the warm, sticky gore from her hands, trembling as it slides down her throat.
She looks at the flesh that lies around her, broken, torn and hollow. It had names yesterday. She had family yesterday.
Today she has the plague.
(originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)
Is the first commandment. You are but fertile ground for the red plague: let it inside you, let it become you.
I denounce my bonds.
Is the second. Forget your past, forget your family and friends. Those things have no meaning.
I embrace my thirst.
Is the third. It will be all you know.
She licks the warm, sticky gore from her hands, trembling as it slides down her throat.
She looks at the flesh that lies around her, broken, torn and hollow. It had names yesterday. She had family yesterday.
Today she has the plague.
(originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Fever
Tied down with burning sheets.
Her cool hands are excruciating relief; soft flutters of calm; gentle bulwarks against the storm I can feel swelling once more, drenching the linen and washing me away. My wife shush-shushes me as I am tossed between lucidity and patterned blindness. In the distance I hear someone crying for their wife, my wife. My wife is long dead. I am seeing everything and too much and none of it makes sense. My limbs writhe of their own accord, seeking some form, some sigil that is free from these panic-laden eddies.
Drowning in my own mind.
Her cool hands are excruciating relief; soft flutters of calm; gentle bulwarks against the storm I can feel swelling once more, drenching the linen and washing me away. My wife shush-shushes me as I am tossed between lucidity and patterned blindness. In the distance I hear someone crying for their wife, my wife. My wife is long dead. I am seeing everything and too much and none of it makes sense. My limbs writhe of their own accord, seeking some form, some sigil that is free from these panic-laden eddies.
Drowning in my own mind.
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Glory
Leaves swirl around her. She becomes the centre of the eddying wind, the sudden focus of the world.
No longer just a passing stranger, she is transformed:
A hidden princess – no, too old, too lined: a queen – discovering the truth and power of her ancient, Elven lineage. A web of invisible arcana reaches out from her, pushing at reality.
She is transformed:
Her dabblings in arch-diablerie catch up with her and the demons she thought contained dance about her, stirring up the leaves, cackling, unseen by everyone else.
The wind shifts again, she walks on, once more just another passerby.
No longer just a passing stranger, she is transformed:
A hidden princess – no, too old, too lined: a queen – discovering the truth and power of her ancient, Elven lineage. A web of invisible arcana reaches out from her, pushing at reality.
She is transformed:
Her dabblings in arch-diablerie catch up with her and the demons she thought contained dance about her, stirring up the leaves, cackling, unseen by everyone else.
The wind shifts again, she walks on, once more just another passerby.
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
Big
Ansel took a bite of lamb. He savoured the salty burst of juices and smiled at the crackle of delicate bones between his teeth – the sound reminded him of happy days playing in human camps, amongst wooden huts.
He took another bite. It was these simple moments he enjoyed the most.
The third, final, bite. Some of his brothers would be done in two, but Ansel always saved the best for last. He popped the lamb’s head into his mouth. Mmm, the crack of the skull; the delicious, spongy brain meat.
He let out a contented belch. The ground shook.
He took another bite. It was these simple moments he enjoyed the most.
The third, final, bite. Some of his brothers would be done in two, but Ansel always saved the best for last. He popped the lamb’s head into his mouth. Mmm, the crack of the skull; the delicious, spongy brain meat.
He let out a contented belch. The ground shook.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Puppet
Wired. Silken strings throb beneath his skin, uplifting.
He takes his first steps, tentative, a newborn foal.
Step, step. Steady, step, step.
He dances for them, for all of them. And they all want him, want control.
And none of them want to share.
Pushed, pulled, thrust, thrown. Too many hands on him, too many puppeteers.
He screams, screams and they panic.
They let go and he crumples, a deflated dream. They stare at him. They accuse him with their shock and their silence.
He would walk away, should walk away, but he hasn’t the strength to rise by himself.
He takes his first steps, tentative, a newborn foal.
Step, step. Steady, step, step.
He dances for them, for all of them. And they all want him, want control.
And none of them want to share.
Pushed, pulled, thrust, thrown. Too many hands on him, too many puppeteers.
He screams, screams and they panic.
They let go and he crumples, a deflated dream. They stare at him. They accuse him with their shock and their silence.
He would walk away, should walk away, but he hasn’t the strength to rise by himself.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Roulette
MyLifeYourLifeMyLifeYourLifeMyLifeYourLife
MyLife YourLife MyLife YourLife MyLife
Your Life My Life. Your Life My Life. Your Life
My Life. Your Life. My Life.
Your Life.
My Life.
Your Life.
...
Ah. Oh dear.
You lose.
Rigged? No. Quite impossible.
I did suggest chess, remember? You can’t blame me for a game of chance.
Can’t blame yourself either, though I suppose that’s no comfort.
I’ll give you a minute.
Just remind me, what was your wife’s name? I’d hate to slip up on something so basic.
MyLife YourLife MyLife YourLife MyLife
Your Life My Life. Your Life My Life. Your Life
My Life. Your Life. My Life.
Your Life.
My Life.
Your Life.
...
Ah. Oh dear.
You lose.
Rigged? No. Quite impossible.
I did suggest chess, remember? You can’t blame me for a game of chance.
Can’t blame yourself either, though I suppose that’s no comfort.
I’ll give you a minute.
Just remind me, what was your wife’s name? I’d hate to slip up on something so basic.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Doors
He dreams a vast emptiness.
Sometimes it is a desert, lifeless sand for miles, other times it is bare stone or warm, soft dust. Once it was gently swaying grass as far as the eye could see; just the once.
He crosses on foot, for hours, until he reaches the doors.
Hundreds of doors.
Behind them, he is sure, so sure, are wonderful places where his family and friends wait for him. But whichever door he picks, as it opens he knows he has chosen the same door, again. And it is too late.
He steps through, he wakes, alone.
Sometimes it is a desert, lifeless sand for miles, other times it is bare stone or warm, soft dust. Once it was gently swaying grass as far as the eye could see; just the once.
He crosses on foot, for hours, until he reaches the doors.
Hundreds of doors.
Behind them, he is sure, so sure, are wonderful places where his family and friends wait for him. But whichever door he picks, as it opens he knows he has chosen the same door, again. And it is too late.
He steps through, he wakes, alone.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Pixies
This little pixie went to market,
This little pixie stayed at home,
This little pixie had roast meat,
And this little pixie had none.
And this twisted little pixie, sat alone in his police cell, couldn’t stop giggling hysterically.
Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee!
All his older brothers were dead. The eldest was in pies; the next in the cold, damp soil beneath the floorboards. He had tied the twins up... cut parts off one, seasoned the meat with salt and a slow poison, then cooked it and fed it to the other.
Never would he be ‘little piggy’ again.
This little pixie stayed at home,
This little pixie had roast meat,
And this little pixie had none.
And this twisted little pixie, sat alone in his police cell, couldn’t stop giggling hysterically.
Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee!
All his older brothers were dead. The eldest was in pies; the next in the cold, damp soil beneath the floorboards. He had tied the twins up... cut parts off one, seasoned the meat with salt and a slow poison, then cooked it and fed it to the other.
Never would he be ‘little piggy’ again.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Lure
“Can you smell chocolate?”
“What? No.” Charlie frowned, “I was trying to explain how magic has evolved, pay attention.”
Elizabeth paused. She sniffed at the air.
Charlie continued, “People still think of magic as it was in the middle ages.”
“I’m sure of it.” Elizabeth muttered. “I can. Now I really want chocolate.”
Charlie took hold of her chin and examined her eyes. He sighed and looked upwards.
“Hey, you,” he shouted at the rooftops. “Not this one.”
The wind carried soft laughter, and a swish like a fishing line being recast.
“It’s gone,” Elizabeth sniffed. “What were you saying?”
“What? No.” Charlie frowned, “I was trying to explain how magic has evolved, pay attention.”
Elizabeth paused. She sniffed at the air.
Charlie continued, “People still think of magic as it was in the middle ages.”
“I’m sure of it.” Elizabeth muttered. “I can. Now I really want chocolate.”
Charlie took hold of her chin and examined her eyes. He sighed and looked upwards.
“Hey, you,” he shouted at the rooftops. “Not this one.”
The wind carried soft laughter, and a swish like a fishing line being recast.
“It’s gone,” Elizabeth sniffed. “What were you saying?”
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Epic
a trilogy
one
“No! Leave him alone!”
Rian shoved the white-robed Waabuleh priests away from his father’s corpse. The blue-skinned godlings trilled their incomprehensible language but he ignored them, hunching protectively over the charred remains.
two
Rian curled up on himself in the mud. His father’s murderer, Brattak, emperor’s wizard, turned his back on the squire and walked away.
The wizard’s spittle felt heavy on Rian’s face.
three
Rian charged Brattak; he was drenched in the demon wyrm’s still-warm lifeblood and the wizard’s blackfire spells rained impotently against it. He drew his father’s sword, forever his father’s son, and swung.
Dedicated to the memory of James Miller, who led us on many an epic adventure; who embarked upon that final, greatest adventure far too soon.
one
“No! Leave him alone!”
Rian shoved the white-robed Waabuleh priests away from his father’s corpse. The blue-skinned godlings trilled their incomprehensible language but he ignored them, hunching protectively over the charred remains.
two
Rian curled up on himself in the mud. His father’s murderer, Brattak, emperor’s wizard, turned his back on the squire and walked away.
The wizard’s spittle felt heavy on Rian’s face.
three
Rian charged Brattak; he was drenched in the demon wyrm’s still-warm lifeblood and the wizard’s blackfire spells rained impotently against it. He drew his father’s sword, forever his father’s son, and swung.
Dedicated to the memory of James Miller, who led us on many an epic adventure; who embarked upon that final, greatest adventure far too soon.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Bespoke
“That word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“Oh, so just cos I ain’t a city boy I don’t know what I mean?”
“You know what you mean. I know what you mean. ‘Bespoke’ is not what you mean.”
“So now you know me business better than me?”
“No, but... my signs are bespoke; chickens... are not.”
“Listen, kid, poultry farming ain’t what it used to be. If I says me chickens are bespoke, they’re bespoke.”
“But, they’re chickens. Chickens happen, you don’t tailor-make them.”
“I do. Guaranteed to the millimetre, to the pantone. Bespoke chickens. It’s the future.”
“Oh, so just cos I ain’t a city boy I don’t know what I mean?”
“You know what you mean. I know what you mean. ‘Bespoke’ is not what you mean.”
“So now you know me business better than me?”
“No, but... my signs are bespoke; chickens... are not.”
“Listen, kid, poultry farming ain’t what it used to be. If I says me chickens are bespoke, they’re bespoke.”
“But, they’re chickens. Chickens happen, you don’t tailor-make them.”
“I do. Guaranteed to the millimetre, to the pantone. Bespoke chickens. It’s the future.”
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Starlight
A billion suns and I get lumbered with this one.
Stroking his ego and stoking his flames all the endless day. There is no respite for me, no eclipse or turning the other face. No night.
Mama Void and Papa Dust cast us together and their dictates are final. They are not indulgent of their children, they brook no quarrels. Not to suggest they are uncaring, but unwavering, certainly.
He lashes out, plasma exploding in a burst of magnetic energy which settles across me warmly, tenderly. He is showing off, showering me with particles and radiation, kisses of fleeting eternity.
Stroking his ego and stoking his flames all the endless day. There is no respite for me, no eclipse or turning the other face. No night.
Mama Void and Papa Dust cast us together and their dictates are final. They are not indulgent of their children, they brook no quarrels. Not to suggest they are uncaring, but unwavering, certainly.
He lashes out, plasma exploding in a burst of magnetic energy which settles across me warmly, tenderly. He is showing off, showering me with particles and radiation, kisses of fleeting eternity.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Moonlight
The wind carries their howls. It carries their bloodlust and intent.
They are hunting us, even as we hunt them.
They are the only prey we do not eat though; such flesh as theirs must never pass our throats. We hunt them purely for survival.
They hunt us for sport, for slaughter and dark joy; a need for torn flesh in their teeth, blood spilt in moonlight.
They are stronger, but we are cunning. We are wolf.
They have lost nature’s subtlety, there is too much of man in them; too much of the men they were, in the daylight.
They are hunting us, even as we hunt them.
They are the only prey we do not eat though; such flesh as theirs must never pass our throats. We hunt them purely for survival.
They hunt us for sport, for slaughter and dark joy; a need for torn flesh in their teeth, blood spilt in moonlight.
They are stronger, but we are cunning. We are wolf.
They have lost nature’s subtlety, there is too much of man in them; too much of the men they were, in the daylight.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Pan
His soft skin was pale as driftwood; his hair as unruly as tangle weed. His slender body was featureless as a child’s, his hoofs like those of a goat.
He played a breathy, fey tune on wooden pipes.
Slowly, they approached, like the first hint of an evening star. Coy, delicate and pretty. Winged, tiny and bright.
Fairies.
They danced for him.
And when they tired they snuggled in amongst the curls of his hair and fell asleep. Then, one by one, he popped them into his mouth; crunching their bones carefully, quietly, so as not to awaken the others.
He played a breathy, fey tune on wooden pipes.
Slowly, they approached, like the first hint of an evening star. Coy, delicate and pretty. Winged, tiny and bright.
Fairies.
They danced for him.
And when they tired they snuggled in amongst the curls of his hair and fell asleep. Then, one by one, he popped them into his mouth; crunching their bones carefully, quietly, so as not to awaken the others.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
iThing
Robert caressed his iThing.
It murmured as it adapted to his touch, downloading apps, auto-evolving as it predicted his desires.
‘Hyper-ergonomics’ they called it. The iThing was ‘whatever you needed it to be’.
It began as a flat lump of stylish white potential. It was intuitive beyond any of its predecessors; shape shifting; building a dynamic, custom control set from the moment you picked it up.
Robert knew he could never find someone that understood him as well as his iThing. He pressed it to his face, feeling it penetrate his skin. He moaned as it whispered in his brain.
It murmured as it adapted to his touch, downloading apps, auto-evolving as it predicted his desires.
‘Hyper-ergonomics’ they called it. The iThing was ‘whatever you needed it to be’.
It began as a flat lump of stylish white potential. It was intuitive beyond any of its predecessors; shape shifting; building a dynamic, custom control set from the moment you picked it up.
Robert knew he could never find someone that understood him as well as his iThing. He pressed it to his face, feeling it penetrate his skin. He moaned as it whispered in his brain.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Geek
It was all about performance.
A man was sat on a bench in Windsor Park, where the path curves round the willow trees and the duck pond is just out of sight. Mothers hurried as they dragged their staring children past.
The man stared back with bright, sharp eyes atop an expansive, unruly beard. His clothes were ragged, a faded rainbow of dirty greys.
He winked at two young boys, chosen at random, then reached into his coat and theatrically produced a scraggy chicken. Its dead head lolled.
Next, with the children’s undivided fascination, he bit the head clean off.
A man was sat on a bench in Windsor Park, where the path curves round the willow trees and the duck pond is just out of sight. Mothers hurried as they dragged their staring children past.
The man stared back with bright, sharp eyes atop an expansive, unruly beard. His clothes were ragged, a faded rainbow of dirty greys.
He winked at two young boys, chosen at random, then reached into his coat and theatrically produced a scraggy chicken. Its dead head lolled.
Next, with the children’s undivided fascination, he bit the head clean off.
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