mat's writings - bits of string and biscuit tins custardy ice cream and the horse

new blog!

2009-12-11T12:58:00.000Z

OK

so my new blog is here - http://onethousandwordsperday.wordpress.com

all new stories and posts will go there, but Imma gonna let this blog stay, and I may return to use this as a proper blog, and keep the other for my stories...

time for something completely different...

2009-10-20T15:18:00.002+01:00

It may seem foolish to launch a new blog when you can barely update the one you've already got, but I say fie!

Starting a new blog that concentrates entirely on daily flash fiction, on stories by me, and any one else who sends them in is just the thing to keep my self discipline levels up when it comes to writing.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

We shall see.

whitechapel?

2009-10-04T23:04:00.003+01:00

What is the London area of Whitechapel good for? Well it's home to Brick Lane, to Freedom Books, and Aldgate Press, and saucy Jack, and it's home to the Freakangels, a free weekly webcomic written by Warren Ellis - it's been going for a while now, but I've only just discovered it, and it's brilliant, pure 2000AD if 2000AD was as good as you remember it.

Nearly a thousand

2009-08-10T15:37:00.002+01:00

so far today, as of 15.30 I've written 950 words, although obviously I've been doing other things in between.

Edited to add; Ok managed 1550 by 1620 or so (roughly).

Phew!

urrggh... promise fail, already... must type... more...

2009-08-10T10:58:00.003+01:00

Just a few days into the brave new world of typing a thousand words a day, and I failed... I failed on Friday, on Saturday, and on Sunday, all because of a heady cocktail of application forms, alcohol, and girlfriend... That means I have an extra 3000 words to type up today, or at least this week - I can't realisitically what with everything else expect to write 4000 today, so I think if I spread the 3000 across the week until Friday, that's what less than 500 words extra per day? I can just about manage that. Hopefully.

That much maligned genre

2009-08-06T18:55:00.004+01:00

Fantasy...

I recently posted my list (or at least a partial list) of fantasy recomendations on the SFF chronicles forum, here it is;

My recommendations; (some of which may have been mentioned in which case I appologise, but there are nearly 200 posts here)
The Clay Machine Gun - Viktor Pelevin Set both at the beginning of the Russian revolution, and after the collapse of the Soviet Union, it covers buddhism, revolution, philosophy, fighting, gender, magic mushrooms etc, and it's just beautifully written and translated.
The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov Another Russian novel, it can be read on two levels, one as a satire on stalinist Russia, and one as simply what happens when the devil comes to town. It's laugh out loud funny, lyrical, and moving all at the same time.
Anything by Flann O'Brien, especially The Third Policeman, or At Swim, Two Birds, the first is a sureal Irish yarn, with maddening but likeable characters, the second is a complex look at the lives of a writer and his characters, both hard to sum up books but well worth checking up.
On - Adam Roberts Often classed as Scifi, and it does have plenty of elements of that, in my view it far more of a traditional fantasy quest novel, and is one of the books that opened my eyes to fantasy, having previously been a die hard scifi partisan.All my recomendations are in my view easy to read (but not easy reading) and light introductions to the massive potential of the fantsy genre. Do not start with the epic sagas, in fact I've not read more than two ever that I can think of, and that's LOTR, and The Belgariad by David Eddings, and the latter I hated anyway.
My favourite. Mason and Dixon by Tom Pynchon. It follows the adventures of the two english men tasked with drawing up the Mason & Dison line, and it's far, far more than that - it's an historical novel with fantasy elements, and a fantasy novel with historical elements, it's really long as well, so maybe don't read it first.

The original post was on this thread.

Most of my recommendations will not be found in the fantasy and scifi section of a bookshop like Waterstones or Borders, and some are classed as "Literature" the non genre genre. This is understandable in some ways given the dire nature of much fantasy, especially of the "sword and sorcery" subgenre. Now if anyone asked me I wouldn't claim to be a fantasy fan as such, because I'm a fan of all types of book, from non fiction reportage or travel writing through crime to hard science fiction, but if someone is to ask me if I read fantasy, then yep - I'm going to answer in the affirmative. The problem is, as soon as someone writes a good, non series fantasy novel or short story, it immeadiately becomes classed as literary fiction. Now I can't blame the authors or publishers for wanting that, but it is a shame, that people associate fantasy fiction with the likes of Terry Goodkind, and not Thomas Pynchon or Audrey Niffenegger.

1000 words per day..?

2009-08-06T15:51:00.002+01:00

Can I manage 1000 words per day, well I have for the last three days so he is hoping.

I got another 1000 in today, and you know what? If you're stuck on a bit, just switch to another character or plot point, it definately helps, so from now on in this blog is going to be called 1000 wpd.

Research, how much research?

2009-08-06T11:53:00.002+01:00

So... I've just started a novel, and currently I'm thinking "this is the one", this is the one I'm going to finish, take it all the way through, and do 90,000 words or whatever they currently prefer.

It's going to feature, police/detective investigations, fantasy roleplay (you know Dungeons&Dragons type stuff), political corruption, and drug smuggling; and I'm just wondering how much research it's actually going to take... I mean I've read loads of crime fiction, and a fair bit of fantasy, and I have already researched into local politics, and drugs (not like that!) quite a bit. It's the police procedure stuff, I'm slightly concerned about more than anything - I've seen enough TV programmes, and read enough books, but are they accurate enough? Am I going to end up writing a third generation carbon copy of what really happens?

driving a wrecked train

2009-08-05T14:57:00.001+01:00

Now I'm cooking, 1000 words in thirty minutes... I knew that I could do it with a bit of force, that's all it takes and then let gravity do the rest.

dialogue

2009-08-05T12:17:00.003+01:00

Some people always find dialogue difficult, and some like me sometimes find it difficult, whenever I get stuck (like I am now, as you can guess) I find it helps to turn to other writers for inspiration. Even if you already know the rules, read 'em again - it does help.

Here's Robert J Sawyer on dialogue. I got the link from an old post on Mumpsimus' blog about writing dialogue, here.

genes, memes, and ?

2009-08-04T23:49:00.002+01:00

This article from New Scientist claims that we may be facing a third, human created "replicator", that is something beyond genes, and memes, that was created entirely by technology and is transmitted, replicated, and evolved entirely without organic input.

I've got to think about this, but at the moment it seems to me like pure Scifi wishful thinking, and that it's just another way of looking at some memes - the existence of which is not accepted by most biologists yet anyway.

If it is true though, what brave new world is this?

this is it...

2009-08-04T15:44:00.002+01:00

I'm actually, honestly to godly, starting a brand new story today... Well, not brand new it's called 'Fallen Fruit' and it's based on a rough draft I wrote a couple of years ago, but never took anywhere...

In the meantime, I've discovered http://www.sffchronicles.co.uk/ , can't believe I never found it before.

Off to Orkney!

2009-05-13T12:18:00.005+01:00

I'm unduly excited about going here, and then here! Via Here. Travelling by train, ferry and bus. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't choose to travel to the frozen north at this time of the year, but hey we've got a wedding to go to, who am I to say no?

*jumps up and down, like an child at christmas time*.

Alien Life Form votes for christmas

2009-04-13T01:09:00.005+01:00

I've no idea what to make of this picture...

Steal this chapter...

2009-04-10T22:07:00.002+01:00

Ben Goldacre Writer of the Guardian's Bad Science column, and the book of the same name, has added a free to copy internet only chapter here dealing with the very bad science of the so called "AIDS dissidents", who would be laughable crackpots it it wasn't for the destructive profiteering and outright muderous nature of their influence in South Africa, where HIV affects up to the 25% of the population...

New Short Story From Ken MacLeod!

2009-04-10T00:45:00.008+01:00

Oh yes, a new short story by everyone's favourite post trotskyist, libertarian Scottish scifi writer is a available here at Subterranean press magazine.

And it's really not bad either... We'll forget how unlikely it is a society with that many "people of God" per spaceship is to make it to another planet, anyone read 'Pavane' ?

But who cares? What matters really is Lovecraft and atheism, and a new catechism, all wrapped up in spaceships and Mars exploration.

Having said all that

2009-03-09T16:07:00.004Z

Charlie Stross posted this a few weeks ago, about George RR Martin, (go here for his post on the matter) the famous record producer and fantasy writer, and the problems he's been having with writing the latest instalment in one of those epic (too epic, for my taste) fantasy sagas, that go on and on and on.

I fully sympathise with the author in all this, but seriously surely most of these writers that launch such series are all biting off more than they can chew, to be fair on the few occaisions I've attempted to read such a sequence, I've given up in boredom - all the writers seem to feel the need to pad, often for pages and pages. Maybe George is actually making the effort to avoid that, and for that he should be praised.

(nice beard by the way George)

It's been so long...

2009-03-09T15:21:00.003Z

Since I last posted, it's getting ridiculous, I can't believe this is another one of those blogs that tails off after a few months. I had such high hopes of keeping this thing going, but unfortunately travel, work, and relationships got in the way. All good things, but it's meant this blog has had to suffer.

Still this isn't the end, not by a long chalk...

I actually inted to get back to writing one short flash fiction a day, and hopefully Writer's Dock will help with that, writing requires practice, practice, practice and in theory I should have enough time for a bit.

My aim for this blog is to post one "good" story (IE I'm happy with it) per week minimum, and at least a couple of brief comment articles a week as well - then maybe, just maybe I'll be able to get some regular readers again.

Foolishly on top of that promise, me and some friends are talking about launching a short fiction blog, and a mag to publish the best stories.

Homage to Patagonia, pt one.

2008-11-06T14:10:00.004Z

So I´ve been in Argentina for a month so far, most of that time has been spent in Patagonia, "land of the people with big feet", bar a three day sojurn to Uraguay.
The country is interesting and frustrating in equal measures, it´s either really hot or really cold, the food all comes with either ham, sugar, or both, and the people are mostly really nice, when you can understand what they´re saying - their version of spanish is fairly unique from what I can make out.

Patagonia, by turns fascinating and beautiful, and flat and boring (currently I´m in the beautiful bit), is certainly inspiring for any writer, though the cloud draped, lake surrounded mountains, and forested foothills of the Andes make me want to write bad sword and sorcery novels with barbarians and wizards and hobbits and stuff. Either that or Twin Peaks style spooky mysteries...

Even here though I haven´t managed to escape the US election tedium, there´s far too many amaricans around for that.

Transnistria, Narnia, and other fictional lands

2008-09-29T23:32:00.005+01:00

Strange Maps Blog has this article, complete with full on detailed map, about the breakaway nation of Transnistria in Moldova, a former Soviet Republic on the shores of the Black Sea.

I'm going to repost the map here, because things like this are interesting, and dare I say it cool.

Now of course, in reality such a nation is a nightmare of competing often ethnic aligned forces, but fairplay to 'em in my view, the smaller the state, the weaker the ruling class. Maybe...

See here, for more info.

Golem detectives...

2008-09-25T12:05:00.010+01:00

Ok, so golems, are one of my favourite mythological creatures, that is the ancient clay robots created to defend beleagured medieval Jewish communities, not the thing out of Lord of the Rings... Imagine my delight in seeing that always reliable scientist and Scifi author David Brin had written a novel 'Kil'n People', about a private detective in a near future where, pretty much everyone has access to golem making technology.

It's a fairly long book, at over 600 pages, and it's taken me more than a week to read - although travelling between Sweden, Manchester, Liverpool, and London while reading meant I was pretty much reduced to reading it while travelling.

It's typical Brin in many ways, original plot, likeable characters, and he doesn't let being a scientist stand in the way of a good story. My only complaints would be - the lack of references to the original golem stories, (but then if we want to read them, we can just search the net), and the frequent typos, although that might just be the cheap paperback edition I had.

I'm glad I read it anyway.

The present in the future

2008-09-23T14:33:00.001+01:00

The Cedar Lounge has this post about how science fiction can be used to reflect on current events.

A Ghost Story

2008-06-08T17:00:00.001+01:00

Yellowing cliff top grass, in the shade of the creaking salt split silver birches. The sea spray from far below reaches this high in the frequent winter storms. The branches of the birch trees stretch out over the edge grasping with brittle barky fingers, straining to get hold of the scattered screeching sea birds that wheel and spiral through the chill white sky. The gulls and guillemots have no need of these frail wooden skeletons, they nest in the secure rocky embrace of the pitted, dented, and pock marked cliff face.

I turn back from the open ocean, and look at her, she’s smiling slightly, nervously, she hates heights I know, and yet I still dragged her out here, to admire the view in one of my favourite places. That smile lights me up and I can’t help smiling back, it’s so good to see. My hand has been resting lightly in hers, and I remove it then grab her lower arm, pulling myself into her warm soft embrace. The pale oval of her face framed by short black hair. We kiss and I can taste the salt on her dry wind chapped lips. Even through the layers of clothing I imagine I can feel her heart pound, mixing with mine in a staccato beat.

‘Come on, let’s get back to the car,’ she says, drawing away from me, away from the drop.

We walk back to the road through the trees, a strange half dead wood, some trees still decorated with lush green foliage, others with stark naked boughs jutting harshly jagged tips almost seeming to pierce the air. She’s lost in her own thoughts, delicate hands playing with the end of her scarf, like she always does when preoccupied. I nearly step in a rotting badger corpse that lies across the narrow earthen path, it has collapsed in on itself decaying almost in front of my eyes, animated a time lapse film of the whole process of the natural recycling of the flesh.

We’re at the road now, she got there slightly before me, and I see her look up and down, and then back at me, her mouth a dark circle, her forehead furrowed, I know what she’s going to say.

‘The car’s gone; maybe we came out of the trees at the wrong place?’

‘No chance, look at how far we can see in either direction down the road,’ I gesture in an over the top way.

‘Some bastard has fucking nicked it, I can’t believe that round here, this isn’t the city for Christ sake.’

‘Oh well, not a lot we can do about it here, I bet there’s still no signal on our mobiles, we’ll have to hitch back to the village, it’s only ten miles or so.’

‘Yeah right, hitch, yeah only ten miles,’ I’m pissed off, but it feels empty, like I’m just faking the anger because I know it’s what I’m supposed to feel.

She’s already started walking, head down again, hands in pockets against the cold, I’m just conscious of my ears aching thanks to that wind on top of the cliff. It takes us three hours to get back. None of the few passing cars stop and after the first hour and a half we give up trying to get them to. Conversation is desultory, as we walk in single file and it’s difficult to hear each other anyway, I’m glad of the excuse. As I watch her, in front of me, that distinctive walk, her brown suede boots, god I love her so much it hurts, it actually causes a dull throbbing pain in my chest every time I think about her. But nothing I can say to her sounds anything but empty and meaningless, clichéd and trite. God only knows what she is feeling at the moment; I used to be able to read every thought on that expressive and mobile face. Now it’s less readable most of the time than the cliff we’ve just been standing on, like a waxen mask. That smile was the first in months, and was clearly only temporary.

We arrive back in the village and I draw level with her, looking down for a reassuring glimmer, but she just gives me a brief blank unseeing gaze, not even acknowledging my expression. Ducks waddle fatly across the road in front of us, moving from the pond in the middle of the green to the shelter of the yew trees bulging out from the graveyard. There’s a few children playing by the edge of the pond, I can see them as brightly coloured blobs through the tears that are stinging my eyes, I can hear their shrieks and shouts distorted by the wind and the quacking of the ducks.

I feel drained from the trek, but my feet aren’t aching, instead I actually feel like I want to keep on walking for ever. Unfortunately we’re back at the pub in which we’re staying, a thatched roof white walled building with cracked blackened oak beams, claimed by the brewery to date back to the seventeenth century. The foyer and its reception desk are deserted, I look through to the lounge and bar area, a few locals are sitting in gloomy corners, a weak fire splutters and crackles half heartedly in the hearth. Most of the light comes from dull grey shards of wan Sunday afternoon sunlight stabbing through the smoky fug of tobacco fumes and stale roast beef and beer stink. Eyes gleam under flat tweed caps not looking at us though, mostly staring into space.

Back in our room I collapse onto the freshly made clean scented bed, kicking my shoes off as I fall. She busies herself, searching the room for bits and bobs we might leave behind otherwise.

‘Where’s the suitcase?’ She sounds shrill, irritable and improvement on sounding flat and lifeless.

We search the room from top to bottom; even the tiny on suite, there’s no sign.

‘Don’t tell me you put it in the car?’ Accusing now.

‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t’ To be honest I’m not sure of anything at the moment.

‘Maybe room service have moved it; put it down in reception ready for us to check out?’

‘Cheeky bastards better not have, we’re paid up until five o’clock this afternoon. I’m going down to see.’

I lay back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, for some reason I don’t care, the luggage hardly seems important to me now. I remember the car, better ring the police, even if it’s only for insurance purposes, but mainly just so she doesn’t get even more pissed off with me. The phone is ringing at the other end, it seems to take forever. A hollow but human voice answers.

‘Hello, I’d like to report a stolen car.’

‘Hello, Hello, Can you hear me?’ A pause.

‘Yes I can hear you, can you hear me?’

The phone goes dead. I replace the handset and go back to lying on the bed.
Not long seems to pass before she is back.

‘No sign of our luggage or any staff, I bet you did leave it in the car.’ Accusing again.

‘Ok perhaps I did, I’m sorry I’ll make it up to you when we get home.’

Silence.

‘Have you rung the police about the car yet?’

‘Of course, I tried but there’s a fault on the line, I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me, I’ll ring again when we get back, the car’s insured anyway.’

‘Well I did see that eccentric old boy downstairs, John, he said we could get a train at 18.30.’

I wanted to say goodbye to him, he was the only person who’d actually really spoken to us since we arrived, there was something about him, he seemed to know more about what I was feeling than he wanted to let on, and he’s made a real effort to show us the most interesting places to see.

I leave her in the room and go down to the bar, it is empty now, except for John’s seat the one he always occupied in the corner by the dying fire. His grizzled tufts of salt and pepper hair, the long white stubble of his three day beard, and the old fashioned dogtooth tweed jacket the same as every day and of course the generous measure of sparkling amber whisky in the personalised glass in front of him. It is almost like he never moves.

The icy blue grey eyes glitter under tight knitted bushy brows.

‘Sorry to hear about your car and luggage, you can’t be too careful anywhere now.’

‘Hmm. Listen I’d just like to thank you for being so friendly over the last few days, Anytime you come into town, please pop in and see us.’

He looks at me, in that way he’d done before, a knowing way, he wants to say something but he will not

‘Goodbye, lad, it was interesting to meet you and your missus.’

I know I’ll never see him again.

Several hours later and we’re on the train, and I am staring out of the window, at shabby back gardens, dotted with death trap trampolines and dog shit among the long grass, scattered children’s toys and I picture our son, playing in the flowerbeds, clambering on the chunky primary coloured beginner climbing frame. Stunted trees, ramshackle allotments, weed covered embankments, industrial estates with unstable stacks of broken pallets and rusting yellow and brown forklift trucks. The dull dark grey sky deepening every ten minutes or so seems to be pressing down on the little train. She sits opposite me across the stained formica table, as usual lately lost in her own thoughts, face pale and drawn. The other passengers in the crowded carriage are avoiding our table, which I welcome.

Orange sodium flares light the way down our road as we approach the house, which is cold and quiet, windows gaping blackly, the front garden overgrown with weeds, an upturned broken peddle car still visible in the middle. Tidying and gardening have hardly seemed appropriate recently. The for sale sign is hanging at a slightly forlorn angle by the gate post, a sold sticker plastered over the top.

The key doesn’t work in the front door, but we go in anyway. Where else have we got to go?

Figure Painting

2008-06-06T17:03:00.005+01:00

Figure Painting

The delicate horse hair brush traces in blue, following the contours of his lower back and buttocks. Cyan swirls overlaid the bright yellow base. Giuseppe smiles to himself and feels his erection subsiding, painting his creations buttocks and genitals always has that effect on him. The artist stands up and straightens, stretching his aching back. Kneeling down for that length of time can’t be good for you.

Circling the creature of paint and air, he sees that it is good, a muscular and athletic body, smooth and colourful, yellows, blues, greens and a few splashes of orange bleeding into each other. Stepping over to the work bench Giuseppe rummages through the box of bits, white and gold goats eye marbles, it only takes a moment to push them into the empty sockets, where they stick to the still moist paint. A set of sparkling white false teeth are next, they slide wetly into the open mouth with ease.

He steps up and blows into the creation’s mouth, while holding the nostrils shut, then takes a couple of steps back, clapping his hands and shouting three strange nonsensical words. We see now that the painted man is standing in the middle of a crude pentagram, marked out on the floor with gaffer tape.

The figure blinks, twice. Eyes swivel taking in the white walled and messy artist studio, cloth covered half finished canvases, splattered multicoloured pallets, brushes in murky jam jars. The artist himself looking expectant and proud, a stained smock and dirty jeans, a tangled grey beard flecked with dried oils.

‘Master, how can I serve you?’ The servitor looks at the floor.

The artist’s eyes gleam with the possibilities, as he looks at the creature’s groin, the perfect penis, and thinks about the smooth firm bottom, clean and the paint as yet not dry. But no, time for that later. The blood is still rushing south, he can’t let that distract him from the matter at hand however.

Across town, in a fourth floor apartment looking out from cherry ice cream walls over the sparkling silver of the cool autumnal Mediterranean. Sarah nestles cosily in Gianni’s arms, her head resting against his powerful chest, she feels safe and warm, next to his musty sweater, it’s got that pastry smell that means it needs a wash but is comforting all the same. The sea view is framed by the verdant dark greens, and viridian and ivory streaks of various pot plants arranged around the balcony door.

‘Johnny, we need to leave, I know this is your hometown, but I left mine didn’t I?’ This last question asked with a petulant pout. ‘Your uncle is not going to give you want you want, and the police could be closing in now.’

Gianni looks at her, with his big dark eyes, that firm straight jaw line, with its twelve o’clock shadow set stubbornly.

‘We’ll leave in the morning, coach to Firenze, and then a plane to Dublin and we’ll re-enter the UK by ferry from there.’

Sighing with frustration, further argument was pointless now anyway. Still seeing London again, living on yet another set of credit cards for a week or two, or longer if she could convince him to rent a flat rather than staying in pricy hotels would be fun, especially looking up old friends.

‘You owe me big time Johnny putting me through this stress, you’d better help me relieve it.’

She smiles up at him, tugging on the cords from the sweater’s hood, pulling him down to her. He responds of course, they both need to release the tension of waiting for something they want, and something else, something they fear.

In the deepening late afternoon shadows of the city’s streets, a figure moves cautiously, hands shoved in pockets, his face in deeper shade thanks to the broad brimmed hat, and turned up collar of the long leather coat. He or it scans the street signs at the corners until he sees the one he wants. A small green and white caribineri fiat drives past slowly as he turns into the target street, the incongruously large brown uniformed men inside staring up at him curiously. They don’t stop however, coffee and pasta beckon.

The hot white spray coats Sarah’s chest, the water streaming down between her breasts as she takes a long hot shower, washing the smell of sex away spiralling down the plug hole in a soapy fragrant gush. The memory of his red wine scented breath, hard/soft body pressing against her, that muscular healthy frame, coated in a comfortable olive layer of soft flesh. Good living on top of hard work. And why not, don’t both of them deserve the good life?

A knock at the door, a solid confident rap of the knuckles. She freezes, could it be the police? Perhaps anticipating her panic, Gianni calls out.

‘Relax, it’ll be him.’

Fearing the worst Sarah dries herself off and gets dressed as quickly as possible. They’ve done this too many times before.

‘Oh…’

The lounge goes silent. Sarah dressed now, walks in, in that quick, careful manner of someone expecting bad news. Gianni is fine, he’s standing there staring at the visitor, a man in a long black leather coat, he’s removing his hat. Revealing a bald, head, a melange of colours, yellows, and blues, greens and oranges, with weird animalistic eyes. She feels her world caving in, old certainties crumble, the police she could handle to some extent, even the Mafia, a constant threat to petty criminals in Italy, but this? This freak with the painted head?

The stranger speaks. An unaccented perfect Italian. ‘Your uncle requests the pleasure of your company, tomorrow, at eight o’clock in the morning sharp. He says to bring a large vehicle, he says you’ll understand and agree.’

The strange man turns and leaves, Gianni says nothing, his eyes are glazed. Sarah is just too stunned to speak for a few moments and collapses onto the sofa.

‘What was that all about, who was he? Some performance artist pupil of your uncle’s?’

Gianni sits down opposite her, and starts to explain. About how Giuseppe is not his real uncle, about how the famous artist adopted him when he was eleven, about and this is unbelievable, utterly against Sarah’s understanding of the universe, and yet somehow she knows it’s true, his uncles abilities. Gianni is an accomplished liar and story teller, a con artist and identity thief, but she knows it’s the truth.

*********

The next morning as a golden dawn still hangs in the sky, a large box van is parked outside the sprawling artist’s villa and studio complex on the other side of town. Sarah supervises the workmen, all of them painted multi coloured men, their athletic bodies clad in tight overalls. Gianni is sat in the cab, he couldn’t bring himself to get out, to go near his uncles creations. Of the master himself there is no sign.

Once the van is loaded, the ‘porters’ return to the studio, shutting the door behind them. She jumps up into the back of the van and starts strapping the framed oil paintings in. Again and again she looks at them, at the amazing photographic yet romantic quality of the painting, the fleshy olive textures, and shining brown eyes, conveying a distant sadness in the subject, who is obviously the same person in each picture, taken from different angles, different ages from eleven years old to eighteen, nude in all of them, Gianni. His guardian’s muse, his inspiration, his immortal aging yet undying obsession.

I Dooon't Beeelieve it!

2008-04-13T11:39:00.002+01:00

Still can't get online regularly! God knows if anyone is still reading this.

I will be back and soon.

Until then if any of my 000's of readers live in North London, there is a new independent bookshop in Woodgreen called the 'Big Green Bookshop', I went in there yesterday to buy a copy of the excellent 'Yiddish Policeman's Union' by Micheal Chabon, and they seemed very polite and friendly, they offered me a coffee as well which is always nice.

http://woodgreenbookshop.blogspot.com/ check out their blog.

Bacteria, more powerful than you could possibly imagine.

2007-09-05T09:37:00.000+01:00

Looky here...

Wolbachia has on some occasions inserted almost its entire genome into species that it infects reported scientists at the J. Craig Venter Institute and the University of Rochester. This is the first example of large-scale horizontal gene transfer between single-celled and multicellular organisms. Although horizontal gene transmission is common among single-celled organisms, it is rare among multicellular organisms, and large scale transfer like that of an entire genome had previously not been suspected.

The scientists found that in addition to Wolbachia engaging in almost complete genome transfer into Drosophila ananassae, it also had made significant transfer in 3 other insects species and 4 species of nematodes. The researchers found candidate species by scanning genetic databases for sequences found in Wolbachia. The scientists also found that these added sections were conserved by reproduction; that is the added sections stayed in the genomes after multiple generations. Moreover, there is evidence that suggests that the segments of Wolbachia's genome increased the reproductive fitness of the insect species.

The transfers likely occurred during attempts at DNA repair in which the repair mechanisms incorporated Wolbachia DNA (available since the cells were infected with Wolbachia) into the genomes. These results could have major implications for understanding of evolution. The research also has implications for various forms of sequencing research, since when sequencing species, bacteria sequences are frequently ignored as they are generally assumed to be contaminants rather than good data.

Wolbachia, a genus of bacteria that normally infects anthropods, especially insects, is already known for its odd behavior that can affect species in strange ways. For example, Wolbachia has been shown to be correlated with fast evolution among species it infects and is suspected for being responsible for a variety of speciation events as a side affect of Wolbachia creating reproductive barriers. Wolbachia by some estimates infects more than half of all anthropods and is already thought to play a major role in the evolution and speciation of many invertebrates.

Since Wolbachia can generally only reproduce through females, it has adopted a number of strategies that treat males and females of species differently that can result in reproductive barriers. These strategies include killing of males, forced parthenogenesis, and preventing infected males from reproducing with uninfected females.

Like what!? If I'm reading this correctly they're saying that bacteria can invade and actually force the evolution of multi cellular life forms! If they can do it to insects what about mammals? Humans?

It reads like hokey b-movie scifi but if it's in wikinews it must be true...

The God Delusion

2007-07-21T17:06:00.000+01:00

Well now this is a brilliant book, I've just started reading it and what a blistering uncompromising attack on the stupidity of religious belief!

" arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction. Jealous and proud of it, a petty, unjust, unforgiving control freak, a vindictive bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser, a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully."

Is how Dawkins kick starts his attack with a description of the God of the Old Testament. To be honest my only criticism is that if anything it's too soft an interpretation.

I'll give a full review once I've finished reading it.

Damn that real life!

2007-07-05T08:26:00.000+01:00

I blame reality for stopping me from posting anything. Or indeed writing any new fiction other than the book I'm working on.

Not to mention those useless bastards at Orange screwing up our broadband connection and then refusing to do anything about it for over a month. So we've canceled our contract with them and will be changing to another provider. ASAP.

Strange maps and open source land.

2007-05-26T22:37:00.000+01:00

Apologies for a lax posting month (if anyone cares!) but I've been busy, with work and other essentials of modern life.

However the discovery of two sites has driven me to post again. First of all , Strange Maps a blog featuring whatever bizzare, fake, distorted or out of date maps the owner can find. If you want to see the exact outlines of the enclaves of West Germany in East Germany and the exclaves of Bangladesh in India, or the geographical map of social networking websites or the unadjusted map of the London Tube this is the site for you!

The official territory of Comancheria land of the Comanche people in nineteenth century North America, soon stolen from them of course.

Next and still on a land theme, we have Public Domain Land a real-estate project by San Francisco artist Amy Balkin: an attempt to create a permanent, international commons on American soil, free to everyone in the world to access, use and modify, in perpetuity. Land shared by anyone who chooses to participate. In order to take this proposition off the high prairie of pure speculation and confront the infrastructural issues it raises head on, a piece of land was obtained legally by the artist in 2003. The land was visited, surveyed and mapped and, is in holding for the legal process to transfer perpetual ownership to all. The idea was obviously inspired by the internet enabled free software and open source code movements.

It's an interesting project and one that will need to be watched, can we be trusted to have absolute control over a piece of land, however small or far away?

Both these ideas challenge accepted ideas of land, and place in my opinion. They encourage us to think about alternative ways of looking at territory and nation.

The Syncophant and the Errant Genes

2007-04-30T17:34:00.000+01:00

“Alright then, we’re here.”

Noel puts one hand on Jackie’s shoulder and points with the other one turning her slightly in the direction of a small shabby door. An A4 sheet of paper with blocky arial type is sellotaped above the knocker. ‘Show Me The Way To Go’ is its message.

“I told you I’d show you the way to go.”

Jackie looks around dubiously, there are ripped bin bags and crates of rotting lemons and limes stacked against the dirty blackened brick wall, half covered in elderly peeling flyposters, which in some cases are stacked on top of each other like paper sandwiches. Generations of gigs, events, political meetings and album releases.

“Interesting.” She says with a sarcastic sniff.

“Oh, stop whinging. Seriously you are going to love this.”

Noel raps the knocker three times. A heartbeat later the door opens outwards. And Jackie starts as a rhino’s head shoved out, and swung round taking them both in.

“Evening Noel, how’s it going mate?” He asks in a thick cockney accent.

Faint strains of nouvelle jazz force their way around the bulk of the rhino man’s body and out into the alley.

“Not bad Edwin, I’m just bringing my lady friend, Jackie here, to see the Errant Jeans first hand.”

“Hi! Pleased to meet you.” Edwin says, taking Jackie’s’ hand in his big rough grey paw.

“Likewise.” Smiled Jackie, nervous, not used to meeting errants in her usual rarefied haunts.

Edwin steps aside allowing the two normals into the narrow red painted corridor, Noel hands their coats in along with a wad of notes to a small birdlike woman perched on a high stool in a little cubby hole off to the side. The music is louder now, and accompanied by excited chatter, clinking glasses and scraping chairs against floorboards.

Noel and Jackie step into the smoky, dimly lit hubbub of the club proper, there must be hundreds of people there, normals and errants alike mixing happily, leaning against the bar, sitting round candle lit tables nursing bottles of red wine, or for the braver, absinthe. A few people are even dancing at this early hour, including Jackie realises with a jolt, a normal black guy with an afro, doing some sort of intimate slow dance with a blond haired pink faced pig girl. Jackie, suddenly out of her depth looks round for Noel; he is effortlessly making for the bar, shaking hands, clapping shoulders and kissing cheeks. She feels a sense of pride mixed with fear, he’s so at ease among these people, the crazies, freaks, workers, and errants. Her sister told her Noel was a dangerous radical, no she warned her. Jackie couldn’t wait to tell her about what an exciting night she felt sure was going to unfold.

They are watching the band on stage, a simple but dancy little bossa nova band, all normals, Brazilians judging by their sound and style. Noel had brought another couple to their table to Jackie’s slight disappointment. Noel is deep in serious furrow browed conversation with the woman, Jackie can hear the odd word or fragment, and it sounds like politics talk to her. Boring.

Pierre, the man turns to Jackie.

“So this is the first time you’ve been down here then?”

“Yes, Noel promised me the headliners tonight are something special.”

“Oh, yes, they’re special alright, the ‘Errant Jeans – Mutant Punks’ to give them their full name. I’ve seen them four times now and they just get better and better.”

“I must admit, I’ve been getting into errant jazz and mutant punk recently, the new Genetic Dub Foundation album is fantastic, the anger and energy leaves me feeling exhilarated.”

Pierre snorts. “Hah! The GDF are fakes, sure they’re errants alright, but they’re from rich families. They were specially bred so that they could capture the emerging normal market for errant music.”

Jackie is shocked.

“People would breed them on purpose that’s sick? And surely it’s illegal!”

“Oh yes, it’s both sick and illegal, but the authorities soon turn a blind eye where profit is involved as I’m sure you know.”

The conversation is getting worryingly close to upsetting Jackie’s world view. At that moment Noel turns back and rescues her with talk of music history and technique, here she is on firmer ground.

More wine, then absinthe is drunk, they dance, and talk, and dance some more, Jackie with Noel, and sometimes Pierre, she has a satisfying twinge of jealousy when Noel dances with Martina, Pierre’s ‘partner’.

Jackie is increasingly drunk, and just starting to come upon the absinthe when Noel kisses her, taking her by surprise full on the lips, she returns her aniseed flavoured tongue tasting the wine and weed in his mouth.

She is just pushing Noel’s hand away from the base of her skirt, too soon, too public. Pierre and Martina are grinning at them. When music stops, and the MC bounds on stage, a little normal man with a goatee, beret and tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Every inch the stereotype.

“Ladles and Jelly spoons.”

The audience roar, now the cellar is packed with several hundred patrons, all looking expectant. Jackie is fuzzy; the absinthe has really taken hold now. Noel has his arm over her shoulder.

“Please put your arm like snakes together!”

Another roar, Jackie trips out slightly, did he really say that or is it the absinthe and weed distorting things?

“For the Errant Jeans!”

The loudest roar yet. The compare vanishes from the stage, the lights go out except a single spotlight on the tatty curtain, which swishes open to reveal, a huge elephant headed man, he must be five feet wide and seven feet tall. Squatting on a little three legged stool behind what next to him looks like a child’s drum kit. He is holding a stick in meaty grey hand and a third in his trunk. Arrayed behind him partially out of sight, are a badger on double base, a meerkat on trumpet, a normal on guitar, and an orang-utan woman with a flowery dress loosely cradling her dangling breasts and stretching across her fat belly, is holding a microphone insouciantly to her side.

The band launch into their first song, ‘Stepping Out’ a funky little number full of syncopated rhythms and optimistic lyrics. Any political content is consciously missed by the crowd who enthusiastically throng onto the dance floor, but it sinks deep into the unconscious.

It’s the drumming that does it of course; having three sticks really liberates the elephantine musician. They skip lightly, lighter than you’d think through a dozen songs.

Jackie’s feet and legs are aching by the end of the set, and she allows herself to be half carried half dragged by Noel to a waiting minicab, and off to his apartment. The music, the drugs and the prospect of sex leaving her mind whirling with possibilities. She won’t be able to approach her old life, with its old certainties and values in the same way as before.

Originally published on the Writer's dock site. My next post will be the new story I've just written! I decided to leave yesterday's story as I'm going to submit it to some publications first.

Tomorrow...

2007-04-29T23:49:00.000+01:00

I promise some new stories, maybe two as I've written one this weekend and I've got another idea just begging to be written.

Honestly!

Sticking with Science and the Future

2007-04-29T23:43:00.000+01:00

And why wouldn't I?

The Tales of Future's Past website, and the Rocket Punk Manifesto blog have some great retro future pictures and articles as well as stuff of more contemporaneous nature.

The Future Past website says this;

"It wasn't that long ago that we had a future. I mean, we have one now; the world isn't going to crash into the Sun or anything like that. What I mean is that we had a future that we could clearly imagine. The future wasn't tomorrow, next week, next year, or next century. It was a place with a form, a structure, a style. True, we didn't know exactly what the future would be like, but we knew that it had to be one of a few alternatives; some good, some very bad. The future was a world with a distinct architecture."

I can't help agreeing with that and musing on whether something in scifi and futurism hasn't been lost. Especially when you compare the adventurous science fiction of the fifties pulps set in the near future, or the paranoid but mind expanding scribblings of Phil Dick, or the glorious space opera of Starwars and Iain M Bank's culture novels with the recent Mundane SF Manifesto which makes a virtue of restricting stories to earth bound non FTL, non alternate worlds, non alien, non singularity so called 'Science Fiction'. In other words taking all the good stuff out!

The Execution Channel

2007-04-24T14:39:00.000+01:00

Ken MacLeod's new book 'The Execution Channel' is receiving rave reviews from all quarters. It is set in an alternate near future that sounds scarily plausible, 'the war on terror' is being won by the terrorists, race riots rock Britain, the conspiracy loons are on the rise in an evermore unequal America, and Stalinism is resurgent in Russia. Did he say alternate future?

Sounds like typical MacLeod fare to me and that's a good thing.

What the Dickens?!

2007-04-16T22:48:00.000+01:00

According to the BBC some idiots are trying to open a 'Dicken's World' Theme park in Kent.

"Housed in a modern, aluminium-clad hangar on the Chatham Maritime estate in Kent, its creators promise a flavour of "dark, smoky, moody London, full of smells and mist".

Workmen are hard at it, creating the rickety backstreets and miasmatic waterways of urban, Victorian England. The overall effect is rather like Disney painted brown and plunged into twilight.

Most of us come from Dullborough who come from a country town

Charles Dickens
On his childhood haunts

Its recreation of the world of Dickens is decked out in hand-painted, brick-effect plaster fascia and promises to smell just as his world would. It doesn't yet. Solvent aromas fill the nostrils as the building work continues, ahead of the delayed opening at the end of May"

I hope it's not just me who sees the idea as insane surely. I've got nothing against the man or his books though they're not my cup of tea, but can anyone see kids clamouring to go or to read his books after the go?

Here's the link to the official website if anyone is tempted.

In the gutter, looking at the stars...

2007-04-16T22:26:00.000+01:00

Thanks to the curious green monkey for drawing our attention to this cool little site, a different astronomy picture every day. This picture is apparently the Redsquare Nebula as seen from Sydney.

That's another for my bookmarks.

What dreams may come.

2007-04-16T21:29:00.000+01:00

According to this report in the New Scientist, television can really have a serious effect on our psyche as revealed through our dreams.

"Watching disturbing news footage on television may exacerbate post-traumatic stress and nightmares, according to a study which reviewed dream journals kept by students in the weeks before and after the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 in the US.

The research revealed that people were most likely to have dreams with imagery directly related to the attacks – such as smoke and explosions – if they spent many hours watching television reports of the attacks. This type of dream content indicated a difficulty coping with the events, the authors of the study claim."

Well I've just discovered that sleeping near a mold patch can give you weird dreams. Sleeping on one side of the bed your dreams are normal (well as normal as they can be) and sleeping on the side nearest the mould the dreams were really trippy and almost filmic. Clean the mold away and the weird dreams stop. I wasn't the only person to notice this either.

Back to the Futurism

2007-04-10T11:18:00.000+01:00

At the weekend the Guardian newspaper revealed the Ministry of Defence's vision of the next thirty odd years here.

It could have been written by Ken Macleod or someone.

"The middle classes could become a revolutionary class, taking the role envisaged for the proletariat by Marx," says the report. The thesis is based on a growing gap between the middle classes and the super-rich on one hand and an urban under-class threatening social order: "The world's middle classes might unite, using access to knowledge, resources and skills to shape transnational processes in their own class interest". Marxism could also be revived, it says, because of global inequality. An increased trend towards moral relativism and pragmatic values will encourage people to seek the "sanctuary provided by more rigid belief systems, including religious orthodoxy and doctrinaire political ideologies, such as popularism and Marxism"

Scenes of London, and the US

2007-04-03T14:56:00.000+01:00

Another one for the blogroll I think

London Daily Photo

And here we have Shorpy.com a collection of fantastic old sepia tinged pics from the US.

Scabs breaking the New York Garbage strike of 1911 for $5 a day. Which must have been a fair whack in those days.

When the future seemed brighter

2007-04-02T14:33:00.000+01:00

Check out the Paleo-future blog a look at retro images of what seemed to be a possible future of household robots, anti gravity cars and moonbases.

I remember spending hours as a kid poring over pictures like this and imagining what it would be like to live in an environment like it.

2007-04-01T09:35:00.000+01:00

Hmm, yes Ok... Political correctness gone mad?

Bill of Rights for abused robots
Experts draw up an ethical charter to prevent humans exploiting machines
By Jonathan Owen and Richard Osley
Published: 01 April 2007

A robot rights movement is taking shape and preparing the world's first ethical guidelines for human/robot relationships.

The "Robot Ethics Charter", which will be unveiled later this year, will insist that humans should not exploit robots and should use them responsibly. It is expected to be a version of the classic three laws of robotics developed by the science fiction author Isaac Asimov. These are that robots must not harm people, and that they must obey orders and protect their own existence unless either conflicts with the first law.

"As robots will have their own internal states such as motivation and emotion, we should not abuse them," argues Professor Jong-Hwan Kim, one of South Korea's top robotics experts. "We will have to treat them in the same way that we take care of pets." A spokesman for the Korean Ministry of Commerce, Industry and Energy said: "The move anticipates that day when robots, particularly intelligent service robots, will become part of daily life."

With artificial intelligence becoming ever more advanced, there is growing concern about how interaction between robots and humans can be regulated. The issue will be addressed at a robotics conference in Rome next week, where scientists will call on the European Commission to set up a robot ethics committee. Critics have dismissed such moves as "technological correctness gone mad".

High on the Rome agenda will be the issue of sexual relations between humans and machines. Dr David Levy, author of a paper on robot prostitution being presented at the conference, claims that sexbots, like Jude Law's Gigolo Joe character in the Spielberg film A.I., will be commonplace in just 40 years. "I think robots will be developed that have the emotional capability to encourage humans to fall in love with them," he said.

High street retailers are already considering the possibilities. Gordon Lee, from the Ann Summers chain, said: "It's not far away from happening but there definitely need to be ethics involved. We'd always want to make sure there would be foreplay."

But it is the ethics around military robots that is causing most concern among scientists. They fear robots in the wrong hands could become killing machines. Dr Chris Langley, from the Scientists for Global Responsibility group, said: "There are real ethical concerns about entirely autonomous vehicles that could be used in war, making decisions and identifying targets. We ought to be taking this seriously."

Not a bad April Fool I suppose...

The Pond in the Park

2007-03-29T12:44:00.000+01:00

I did say I would try and write a minimum of 500 words a day from now on, well this is 660. It's a first draft of course so appologies for any spelling and grammer issues.

The Pond in the Park.

The woman was in her mid to late forties, blonde, stylish obviously well off and still attractive she reached up to put the key in the lock of the door in the smart Georgian townhouse just on the edge of Mayfair. Jimmy Bocks admired her stocking clad calves and the shape of her bottom as the knee length fitted skirt rose up slightly. The admiration only took a second, but by the time he’d finished she was sliding down against the door leaving a crimson trail on the white wood.

A minute later and Jimmy was already five streets away, nearly among the Saturday morning crowds in Oxford Street, the still warm silenced Mauser pressing against his kidney in the pocket of his long grey coat. It was a waste of course but Jimmy didn’t do regret, he didn’t do sadness either.

That night Jimmy spent some of the 10k he’d earned in the morning and picked up from the left luggage locker at King’s Cross, he drank wine and whisky, and enjoyed the company of two young women; Masha, a red headed Pole, and a blonde English girl who called herself Britney of all names. It was while Jimmy was snorting a line of quality coke, real smooth stuff, that his phone rang. He looked at the name; it was Him.

“Alright boss, what’s up?”

“Check the drop tomorrow, I know you don’t like doing two jobs so close together, but I’ll double the reward this time.”

Jimmy had to think for a few seconds, the sudden job offer combined with the coke cut through the wine fog in his mind.

“No worries, speak to you later,” he shut the cheap disposable phone off and returned his attention to the drugs and the women.

At noon the next day Jimmy was securely in his modest hotel room in Bayswater with the contents of the morning’s locker check spread across the bed in front of him. A new cheap phone, a map, a couple of photos and a single page of typed A4. The photos showed an unshaven well built man in an expensive Savile Row suit The map showed an address in exclusive Virginia Water outside London. This was a big one and worth more than twenty thousand, twice as much.

Jimmy smoked cigarettes and drank coffee while he waited for the call. It came at around three pm.

“I want double what you’re offering,” no explanation, no bargains, the customer either says yes or no and that’s the end of it.

“Ok.” The phone goes dead.

Jimmy spent the next three days building on the research he’d been supplied with. The target Viktor Thurmer a Hungarian billionaire was reasonably well protected, two bodyguards and a driver all armed, he wears a vest at all times and the mansion is an impregnable fortress. There was only one time he was vulnerable and it was going to be complicated and messy.

Viktor picked up Sophie his three year old daughter and held her out over the pond in the park so she could sprinkle the bread out to the ducks and swans further away. They enjoyed this rare time together, since Viktor had split from Sophie’s mother they only got one weekend a fortnight to see each other. That’s why he asked Ferenc to stay with the car, so he could be alone with her, just for twenty minutes.

Sophie pointed out towards the middle of the pond.

“Daddy look,” she exclaimed.

Viktor’s eyes widened in horror as a black weed covered apparition rose out of the water. Before he could react a blood halo formed around his daughter’s golden angel hair as the first bullet struck her forehead, rapidly followed by a second which smacked between Viktor’s eyes knocking him back off his feet.

By the time Ferenc stepped over the rise between the pond and the parking space Jimmy Bochs was long gone.

Damn you blogger

2007-03-28T16:32:00.000+01:00

The formattings gone crazy, and as for editing or placing pictures arrgh.

The Ayes Have It.

2007-03-28T16:10:00.000+01:00

Thought I'd stick this one up now, I've been reading a lot of political blogs and books recently which inspired me to revisit this story that I wrote last year.

Revolution of the Mind.

Murry flings the stack of yellowing unsold papers to one side. No, it isn’t there either, damn it. He wipes his dripping brow and sighs. The hottest day of the year and here he is searching the office top and bottom for a pamphlet on the Soviet invasion of Poland that was published in 1974.

Murry decides to make himself a nice cup of tea, and then have a biscuit and a sit down, that’s when he solved most problems, it was while enjoying a cuppa and a garibaldi (suitably revolutionary biscuits) in 1982 that he developed the theory that Robin Hood had in fact been a proto – Maoist. He sits down in front of the PC with his mug of tea and sinks deep into idle thought.

Only for a few moments, then the door bangs open bringing with it a fresh breeze and two bustling young comrades, Rashik Ahmed, the enthusiastic leader of the league’s student wing, and his girlfriend Jill Pertwee a member of the political committee.

“Hey chairman, how’s it going?” Says Rash with his trademark cheeky grin. Jill just smiles a silent hello.

“Not that well comrade, I keep getting distracted in this damn heat, how I’m supposed to write two thousand words on Trotskyism in Poland before Friday I don’t know.” Murry answers with a shake of his head.

Rash and Jill are used to the cantankerous nature of the older man.

“Anyway mate, we’re here to pick up the latest issue of ‘Cream of the Young Worker’, ready for the demo on Saturday.”

Murry waves his hand vaguely at the corner behind the open door. “Over there, and don’t forget to take extra copies of the pamphlet on a two state solution for the Moldovan crisis as well.”

“Of course not comrade.”

Rashik and his girlfriend grab the bundles of papers and pamphlets and make their good byes.

Murry briefly reflects on the two younger comrades, Jill is definitely a serious activist who would probably end becoming a middle ranking teacher’s union leader while remaining a senior activist in the league. Rash on the other hand for all his charisma and charm would undoubtedly become bored of playing the revolutionary and would end up becoming a consultant at a top hospital and spending wads of cash on drugs and partying. Murry had seen plenty of his type come and go.

A few desultory hours are spent pretending to try and write the Poland article, while fielding a few phone calls from various branch organisers confirming details for Saturday’s demo. The phone rings, now this one is a surprise.

“Revolutionary League Central Office, who’s calling?”

“Murry, is that you? Hello proff, it’s Steve.”

Murry is slightly taken aback, but recovers in time.

“Steve Berry? National Organiser of the Democratic Workers’ Party?”

“Of course who else old friend?”

Who else indeed? Steve Berry had been Murry’s most gifted protégé a potential future leader of the RL, before they fell out over the question of Lenin’s death and who was to blame. Steve led the renegade faction which became the DWP the largest and most sectarian and unpopular of all the country’s myriad Trotskyist groupings, claiming over 11,000 members, twenty two times the size of the RL.

“What can I do for you Steve? Do you want a membership form?” This was a standard joke between them on the rare occasions they spoke to each other.

“It’s more what I can do for you comrade, I think we should meet up for a quiet chat during the demo, how about the Red Lion on South Audely Street, one o’clock.”

Murry pondered the invitation, this was highly unusual and in the small world of left politics it probably meant only one thing, he had a merger proposal. Among revolutionary socialist groups the one idea discussed more than potential splits among their rivals, was potential mergers with those same rivals.

“OK Steve, it would be good to have a proper chat after so long, I’ll see you there. The anarchists should be attacking the US embassy about then so I doubt we’ll be disturbed.”

“It’s a date, mate.” And with that he rang off.

Murry spends the next few hours in long telephone conversations with his most trusted lieutenants those who had been with him since the beginning of the league in 1968. The consensus is that he should indeed meet with Berry, though he wouldn’t be able to speak for the organisation, they would need a full political committee meeting for that.

(2)

It is midday Saturday and 40,000 people have gathered in central London to protest the UK and US involvement in the Bulgaro-Moldovan war, as well as the assorted Trotskyism, Stalinist, anarchist, and pacifist groups, there are trade union branches, Labour party groups and of course Bulgarian and Moldovan ex – pat societies, and a fair few normal people as well.

After inspecting the RL contingent, making sure they are in a prominent place near the front of the march, with plenty of branded placards to hand to random passers by, along with the flags for both the regular League and its youth wing and a long banner decorated with pictures of Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, and Connolly, Murry makes his way slowly with the aid of a stick and two burly trade unionists who function as his body guards at times like this, to the Red Lion.

Sitting at the outside table, mercifully in the shade, Murry slowly nurses a sparkling water with ice and a slice, the two attendants are sat with pints at the next table looking discreet, when Steve turns up, a tall self assured university lecturer, with a broad grin and plenty of sex appeal, he was the best recruiter the league ever had, especially of impressionable young men and women. He is flanked by six serious faced teenagers clutching copies of the ‘Democratic Worker’ and wearing the distinctive clenched fist badges of the DWP.

Greetings dealt with the two leaders sit facing each other across the table, the six youths are sat at yet another table, with glasses of tap water in front of them.

“Let’s get straight to business shall we?” Asks Steve. “We’ve both got platform speeches to make at the end after all.”

“Please, yes the sooner the better.”

A long pause.

“Right then. I want... We want…” Steve corrected himself. “We the DWP central committee want the RL to join us, we want you, your members your office, everything to be subsumed into the Revolutionary Socialist Front, and to prepare for revolution now.”

Murry reels he had heard whispers about the RSF, everyone on the left had, that it was sucking up resources, and members and weaponry but most people dismissed it as the rantings of fantasists. No one would have thought a group as large as the DWP would be behind it.
Steve is studying Murry’s greying face with detached amusement.

In the distance the sound of sirens, of shouts and screams and half bricks being thrown, the anarchists at the embassy no doubt. The smash of glass and rush of flames, a Molotov went off in the distance.

“You’re a lunatic and a fantasist Steve, I don’t know what’s happened to you, and I don’t want to know, I’ve heard enough.”

“No you haven’t you’ll stay right there comrade.”

Steve looks straight into Murry’s eyes, his green irises seem to glow and it feels like he is boring into the old man’s soul. Murry can't move, he wants to but his legs are not following orders, half his brain is not.

“You see comrade, the revolution is beginning, and it’s a revolution of the mind, my mind. I can make anyone I can look at do as I say. That’s not anarchists you can hear, that’s the RSF led by experienced and utterly loyal cadres of the DWP. As we speak more of our fighters, helped by inside agents are seizing control of the BBC.”

Murry feels a confusing maelstrom of emotions, a revolution something he had always dreamed about was happening, but he is sick to his stomach as he realises it would lead to a dictatorship led by a mad man, a mad man able to make anyone follow his bidding.

Department of Horror

2007-03-28T14:37:00.000+01:00

Right the sorry lack of writing recently has got to stop - one story of at least 500 words every day! Honest.

Department of Horror

Frank looked up. “Sorry, what was that?”

The young smooth faced black bloke with a cheap hundred quid suit that was shinier than his meticulously polished head cleared his throat.

“I said I’m from the HR Department.”

Frank felt the sweat on his back go cold and clammy, his throat dried and his tongue seemed to swell making it harder to speak. He looked again at his visitor, the man’s solemn expression and straight mouth contrasting with the enthusiastic glint in his eyes.

“Oh right, what can I do for you then mate? Frank said.

Careful keep any quiver out of the voice, don’t show fear maybe you can brazen it out. Yeah and bears are catholic.

“Have you spoken to Jason from accounts yet Mr Lazenby?”

This was it, they knew. The thing is skimming from your employers is a natural enough activity for your average white collar worker in The City, but when you work for this outfit it tends to carry an even higher risk to reward ratio than normal. He had only paused for a second but it stretched out behind him in a long trail of unspoken guilt, and fear.

“Er, yes, yes I did as a matter of fact, he said there was an irregularity with the figures for May. Any idea what it is yet?”

The man allowed himself a brief smile, it didn’t reach his eyes though.

“Yes Mr Lazenby they’ve found the source of the confusion.” He clasped his hands loosely in front of himself, looking almost meek for a second.

Frank knew not to be fooled, he could see the outline of firm musculature under the cheap suit. He swallowed. Hard.

“Ok, what can I do for you then?”

The man motioned towards the door which he’d only come through five minutes before.

“You can come with me.”

His voice was flat, expressionless, deep, and wide, like the pacific. Frank briefly pictured the large wall filling window behind him, he was forty floors up and anyway it was probably reinforced glass. There was nothing else for it.

Frank stood up, smoothed the creases out of his expensive yellow silk shirt and stepped round from behind the desk. The man gestured for Frank to walk through in front of him.

“Come along Mr Lazenby.”

Frank turned to take one last look at his expansive corner office, it had been good while it lasted. His gaze took in his corpse slumped over the desk, a strand of red drool connecting his slack bottom lip with the beige blotter, and he started with surprise.

A voice spoke quietly in his ear.

“The death is always painless, it’s what happens next that counts, Mr Lazenby.”

Frank turned back towards the corridor in response to an icy blast against his neck as the elevator arrived with a scream like a dying baby and the doors hissed open releasing a billow of red and orange smoke.

Death threats against a blogger?

2007-03-28T02:09:00.000+01:00

Charming behaviour... documented here. Being someone who doesnt pay much attention to the "blogozone" or whatever the ponces are calling it this week this story had completely passed me by, now thanks to the lazy journo I have to brave google to find out why these freaks and losers were making death threats against her. Other than the obvious mental afflictions they no doubt suffer from, I can't imagine what she could have said to upset them so.

Ok, so following some quick googling I had the distinctly dubious pleasure of reading some of the crap that at been directed at her - here. What a shower of sad little no-marks, to be honest I've seen enough, whatever she said to upset them can't have deserved that repulsive language.

Christ it's not even as if she was talking about anything that controversial, it was a tech blog, not politics or religion or gender studies.

Unwirer

2007-03-27T14:59:00.000+01:00

This is Unwirer which is billed as an experiment in collaborative short story telling by noted Scifi authors Charlie Stross and Corey Doctorow. It seems like fairly typical Strossian speculative fiction to me and is none the worse for that.

It dates back to 2003 by the way so I didn't want to class this as "news".

Blimps to swim through air like fish...

2007-03-24T14:21:00.000Z

According to New Scientist

Blimps steered by artificial muscles may one day swim through the air like fish, suggest recent flight tests. The blimps would be much quieter than those steered by traditional blimp propellers, making them ideal for observing wildlife.

Researchers believe artificial muscles – plastics that stretch when a high electrical voltage is applied – could be a way to mimic nature's efficiency at accomplishing tasks. Using the technology, future robots may be able to "run on Mars like a cheetah, climb a mountain or a cliff like a gecko, or fly like a bird", says Yoseph Bar-Cohen, a physicist at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California, US.

Now, a team from the Swiss Federal Laboratories for Materials Testing and Research in Dübendorf have developed a 6-metre-long blimp steered by artificial muscles.

This week, the team directed the blimp's rudder to steer the airship left, right, up or down at the International Society for Optical Engineering's Electroactive-Polymers Actuators and Devices conference in San Diego, California, US. The blimp is currently able to fly for only 20 minutes on its battery; More here...

Well that's the sort of story that's a gift to scifi writers and fans surely? Espcially those like Kim Stanley Robinson who already forsore this type of development.

Muzzle Flash Issue 2

2007-03-20T14:55:00.000Z

Issue Two of everyone's favourite pulp noir flash zine is out here .

I love the sound of breaking glass

2007-03-15T16:13:00.000Z

The problems of mindless violence...

I love the sound of breaking glass

I love the sound of a breaking pint glass as it crumples into some fat sweaty fuck’s face mixing Fosters dregs and spit with his bubbling and welling blood. So yeah I did it, I shoved the glass in his face, but as enjoyable as it was I instantly felt regret mingling with the pleasure. It gave the moment a sweet and sour quality which I could savour later as I relived it. Now though I had to run.

I burst out the door into the fresh early morning air trailing invisible streams of tobacco and fear, sweat, loneliness and the other elements of a back street drinking club. Shouts of anger as well as a wheedling cry of pain rushed into the vacuum of shocked silence and these were joined by booted feet pounding on the tarmac, I didn’t look back, just put my head down and threw myself forward. Dodged past night buses and the illegal minicabs that prowl the EC1 streets on every Saturday night/Sunday morning looking for potential rape victims.

My heart pounded, adrenalin pumped through my body as I raced down an alleyway and into a ‘mews’ yeah like some lord of the manor ever kept hunting hawks round here, nah it’s all converted warehouses, sold off council flats, yuppies and city scum weekday flats mingling with europunk squats and Asian shops. It’s strange the clarity your brain achieves when you’re running for your life or at least from a serious kicking. It’s why I have to do things like this.

I used to make excuses for stupid violence, first it was the football, fuck I don’t even care about the game but meeting up with a bunch of lads to bash the fuck out of a bunch of West Brom’ supporters was a right laugh, the blood, the bruises, the beer. They called us mindless thugs on the news but they knew fuck all, Christ our top boy was a fucking teacher who leant me Sun Tzu’s ‘Art of War’ once.

Then I met Morwenna, called herself an anarchist, she’d been to private school and felt guilty about the suffering of animals and brown people in the ‘developing world’ a load of bollocks I thought but still I loved her and to impress her got involved in fucking up fox hunts, which was fun especially when you got to knock some toff off his horse or smack a copper, and then it was attacking far right racist skinheads, I didn’t really give a fuck we had some people like that in the football crew they were alright but it was just another excuse for a ruck. I think Morwenna is a Green party councillor in the Midlands now, I haven’t seen her for years.

When I moved to London, got involved in taxing drug dealers, that was a laugh, and a good cause, did the doors on some dodgy pubs, did a bit of bailiff stuff on the side, but I didn’t like that I do have some fucking principles, and robbing some single mum’s TV is not my idea of fun.

Now though, I’ve just graduated to random violence in pubs and clubs, it’s like fishing really you throw some bait in and see what rises to the surface. All too often round here the useless gutless middle class fuckers just stare at you waiting for the next blow to land.

Not these bastards though, ex private schoolboys no doubt, the Eton wall game and rugby and army officer cadets tends to make for a surprisingly tough though chinless type, and now two – no, three of them were chasing me through Shoreditch, they were younger and fitter than me, probably got gym memberships with their massive bonuses. Shit!

I’d run into a dead end and they had caught up with me, I spun round and drove my fist into the first ones gut, he doubled up and folded onto the floor with a whimper. Not that tough you posh cunt. The next one got my foot in his neck, and fell back clutching at his throat. The gym can’t beat the street when it comes to getting fighting fit. The last one just stood there, I wondered why for a moment then noticed the dull black metal of a gun in his hand. Ah. Guns, did no one tell them the rules, we don’t do guns. I put my hands up then like some pathetic sub post office manager. Tory boy showed me something else a brown leather wallet with an enamel badge, something about the Queen. SOCA. He grinned at me, seeing the recognition dawn.

“You just fucked up an oppo big time matey, I hope you make this more difficult for yourself than it already has been.”

Paper Wings

2007-02-18T02:58:00.000Z

This is another story I wrote a while back in all it's un-edited glory. Sci-Fi for a change, I'm actually a big fan of the genre though you wouldn't know it to read most of my stuff.

Paper Wings and Crisscross Winds

The ruddy, red, desert of rust stretches out before me. Flat days shimmer ahead into a grey horizon. I tense myself, straining arms and legs to lean the sail-board into the east wind. The single upright parchment sail catches the breeze and bulges out against me, propelling me towards my target.

Rapidly now as I pick up speed the upward slope becoming a downward one, over the rise emerges my destination, still miles of distant desolation to cross. It’s all downhill now; I wipe the dust away from my goggles and straighten the bandana shielding my nose and mouth.

One thousand feet above the white blob of a town, a dun coloured zeppelin floats, amber and yellow lights twinkling. The balloon is attached to the town by a tangled web of fine wires, that as well as serving to hold the blimp in place act as a net to catch the desert air squid, which are then harvested by trained monkeys that swing through the wires with baskets on their backs like they were born to it.

As the town approaches a dot appears in the dusty, dull sky it seems to be hanging beneath the zeppelin for a few seconds, before swooping towards me rapidly. Growing larger I can see it’s as I expected; a glider rider, a young girl or boy harnessed into a rickety wooden contraption with fragile paper wings.

She is getting closer, coming up fast; I can see she’s a girl now, her long black hair streaming out from under her flying cap. I can also see the crossbow attached to the front of her airframe. Jesus, I knew they’d been having trouble since my last visit, but they know me well enough, the spotter on the airship would have surely recognised me? For an awful minute I worry that the town has been seized. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see five mounted ostrich riders appear from the dunes to the east, they’re close enough for me to see the long black barrels of their rifles.

“OK, trader get ready for some action, you steer straight into the main gate and I’ll cover you.”

I look gratefully at the glider rider who is now swooping and banking round with practised ease so that she can fly alongside me. I pick up speed, urging my sailboard onwards. Glancing to the side, the ostrich cavalry have come to a halt, they’re just standing in a desultory group. They’ve clearly decided not to risk it this time, still it’s been a shock last time they wouldn’t dare attack someone even five miles from the town, let alone within sight of its walls.

The main square of the town, just inside the heavy wooden gates that are being shut behind me. It’s lined with olive and klacket trees, and is mercifully shaded from sand, sun, and the crisscross winds of the desert. I pull my bandana loose so it hangs around my throat and peel off my goggles and flying hat, despite the protection my face is streaked with grime and my black hair spiked with sweat and sand.

From the small gaggle of suspicious looking townsmen, not exactly the welcoming committee they usually wheeled out for us trader-scouts, a friendly face emerged and came over with his hand out.

“Ahmed. Great to see you my friend”, I shook his hand and clapped his shoulder warmly.

“Trader-Scout, you must be parched”, he said chucking me a klacket.

I caught the bloody red fruit gratefully and bit into it, feeling the cool sweet juice course down my throat.

“Lets get you to the inn and washed up, and then we’ll discuss business in the bar.”

After a refreshing cold water shower and changing into some local silk robes I felt human again and was ready to talk trade, not to mention catching up on news.

We sat in a pleasantly cool and dark alcove in the town’s visitor’s bar, stone cups of the local wine in front of us. I noticed that Ahmed had to sign for the wine, and it wasn’t even self service. Still the town was one of the newer and more outlying members of the Sea of Sand Federation, the concept of exchange based purely on needs and desires hadn’t quite caught on here yet.

“Talk to me Ahmed, what’s being going on here since my last visit?”

He shakes his head mournfully.

“In the last few months, we’ve been attacked twice by large gangs of noncooperators. That’s who nearly came after you, before reconsidering. We have lost over a dozen militia men and women to them. They have had heavier casualties but there seems to be an endless supply. It’s getting increasingly difficult for the scarab herders, and the ice mining stopped four weeks ago. It can’t go on, they could destroy the town.”

This was worrying; other towns had been experiencing increased activity, even terrorism from the objectivist commandoes, according to the news wires. But an entire town, even an outlying one being attacked en masse, this was a new development.
Still hopefully I would be able to help.

“My friend, I think we have just the answer to your problems back with the caravanserai. A few months ago one of our scientific research teams discovered a rough, tough egg in a nest, in a cave near the Bakkalak foothills. It was warm.”

“You mean a dragon’s egg right? What use is that to us? We can’t control one of those monsters”, he looked contemptuous.

“Aha, well that’s where you’re wrong. You see we are not just a regular trading and research caravan, we’re also a mobile university specialising in neuroscience don’t forget.”

“Yes, yes, carry on.”

He’s interested now alright. I smile.

“I can’t pretend to understand how it works, but some of our clever lads have developed a headset that allows the wearer to become one with whatever creature is implanted with a chip on the same wavelength. Just think, you could have your own real live fire breathing dragon that would do your every bidding.”

“Trader!” He gets to his feet.

“I must take this to the assembly as soon right away. Go to your room and sleep, sleep to forget your journey. Your caravan will be here in just a few hours, and we need to meet before then.”

One Good Reason

2007-02-17T21:38:00.000Z

A little something that I wrote in an idle fifteen minutes a few months back.

One Good Reason

Give me one good reason, not to leave you she said. I couldn’t even think of a crap reason. I thought the sky was going to fall in, but I soon realised it wouldn’t. In fact I wasn’t that bothered by her absence from my life, other things soon rushed in to fill the vacuum; work, evening classes, political meetings. Not romance though, nah I don’t think I’m cut out to share my life with others. I’m too selfish, too absorbed in my work.

Ah yeah, work. Not my job, I had to leave that, that was harder in some ways than when she left me, alright it wasn’t much, manager of a small supermarket, but I liked the staff, decent people, loyal, hardworking, a good laugh, a good cross section from both communities. But the cause makes you make sacrifices, or at least it makes it easier to make sacrifices.

And now I’m here, a poky little sparsely furnished council flat, sub let from a civilian sympathiser some second generation plastic I’ve never met. This is much lonelier work, sure and there’s the other three members of the active service unit, but we don’t see each other much, the others are based in London, and the two lads are lilywhites, we don’t want them spoiled too soon. So Bernadette is the only other one I see regularly, she’s our commander, and she brings my cash and pays the rent once a month, and sometimes comes with Donal, from Manchester who takes my products back with him for god knows what, god knows where…Well of course I know, but not the specifics, I don’t read the papers or listen to the radio. I fill my spare time with music; Christy Moore and The Dubliners, the fields of Athenry always brings a tear to my eye. I read as well of course, Bernadette’s a big reader and she always brings me books.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t avoid the papers out of guilt, and I sleep soundly in my bed at night, I’ve never doubted the legitimacy of our struggle, I don’t hate them, there’s no question there are innocent civilians but I just don’t think about them, they don’t impinge on my consciousness, I reckon I’ve disconnected it effectively enough. I even know that the routine flare ups on the streets are as much a product of antique perceptions of our differences of interest as much as genuine grievance. But that doesn’t change the fact. The war for freedom isn’t over yet, and it won’t be until they get their troops out.

A clothing related misadventure...

2007-02-15T09:45:00.000Z

Kilt

Dougie slumped down on the train. As he dozed, after another hard days work, he noticed the woman opposite, a posh looking type, disgust in her eyes. HA! Typical toff offended by the sight of a burly Scotsman with tousled hair. A breeze tickled his balls pleasingly. Douggie looked down and realised his mistake, his kilt had ridden right up.

Silhouette and Skin

2007-02-15T09:43:00.000Z

Silhouette and Skin.

A tiger’s silhouette is framed in the moonlight; it sits regal and erect. A pith helmet rises quietly from the undergrowth. The hunter in the helmet raises his rifle to his shoulder. The muzzle blazes with fire. A bullet whistles through the air. The tiger falls with a thud. That skin will look good on my floor thinks the hunter.

Writing Contests

2007-02-14T00:45:00.000Z

Out of the gutter magazine and Muzzleflash have a joint writer's contest here entrants have to submit stories based on some pretty sick pictures, fairplay if you're into that sort of thing, I know I am.

Got bird flu?

2007-02-13T07:37:00.000Z

Indian spinsters

2007-01-30T22:26:00.000Z

Writing Passions

For some reason I can't leave comments on this blog, but I just wanted to comment on this piece...

God it's left me feeling depressed, so read it - Misery loves company!

Still 'The Indian Spinsters' would be a good name for a band of skinny white boys from the American midwest I reckon.

Tiny Tartan Terrors

2007-01-29T21:47:00.000Z

This bit of foolishness was partly inspired by Burn's week and partly by a weird dream I had the other day, I can only apologise if it doesn't work...

Tiny Tartan Terrors

Moise stepped back as the long grass in front of him rustled menacingly. It would have been an innocent, even pleasant sound if he hadn’t been aware of what lurked in this outwardly picturesque valley in central Scotland. He was shivering now, not used to the chill northern European air. Callum his local guide looked at him through furrowed brows.

“You alright feller?”

“Yes my friend, it is wise though to be aware of these people’s great skill.”

“Aye y’ken that,” the grizzled local agreed.

A faint giggling sound wafted towards them over the heather scented breeze, Moise spun round to face the direction of the breeze, only to find his left leg flying up in front of him against his will and his world turning upside down as he plummeted to the soft ground. The next thing the ungainly figure on the ground knew was Callum’s concerned face looking down at him.

“It be a great skill indeed they be havin’”, he said as he helped Moise to his feet.

Moise brushed his cheap polyester suit down and managed to regain some dignity, it had been a shock despite their reputation. He hadn’t been tripped since Akuma Akinwole caught him by surprise in ’96. The tall proud Somali turned to face out into the valley.

“Mighty people of the Glen,” He called across the meadow. “I, Moise Bomvana am the twelve times world tripping up champion. I have come here on behalf of the sport’s world governing body to offer you the chance to participate in the next world championships in Ethiopia.” He paused, that should be enough, Callum nodded in unspoken agreement.

For a moment nothing happened except the gentle swaying of branches in the wind. Then somebody pushed through the grass a little mess of bright red hair appeared about a foot from the ground, until it broke through the undergrowth to face them, a tiny tartan terror, it was the chief of Clan Macready, himself, all twelve inches of him a fierce faced red bearded little warrior clad in a tartan kilt and rabbit head sporran. The Macready started to speak in a squeaky yet powerful and dignified voice.

“We Macreadies are rightfully feared throughout the lowlands and highlands of this nation as the masters of tripping warfare. Our services are retained by kings and presidents alike. What can you offer us if we participate in your contest?”

He jumped up on a tree stump so that he didn’t have to strain his neck so much and looked imperiously at Moise his arms folded across his little yet muscular chest.

“If you win the contest you will have proven your talent to the forces of might across the world, you will be able to provide your services to the highest bidder and travel the globe, you will also be able to be content in knowing that you are the best, and that should be reward enough.”

Moise was sweating now despite the cold, he could almost sense dozens of pairs of eyes watching him and hear the muttering of their conference.. Hours, days, seemed to pass though in reality it was probably only minutes. Then the chieftain raised his right hand.

“Enough! Moise Bomvana we except this challenge, we will select our finest warriors to take part in this challenge that may prove worthy to our might.” Moise breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Two days later at Glasgow International Airport he eased his large suitcase onto the conveyor belt, and tensed as he saw one of his precious cargo squirming. Fortunately the attractive young woman at the desk hadn’t noticed. Soon the tiny tartan terrors would be unleashed on his father’s enemies and they wouldn’t know what at hit them. He smiled to himself.

Painful and Annoying

2007-01-26T01:08:00.000Z

No this isn't about writer's block. It's another 60 word short, written while under the influence...

Painful and Annoying.

Julie sighed and scratched his name off the list. Imagine having to sit through another of his stories, they were painful and annoying. The man was a loser, there was no way he would make a suitable father for her child. No matter how long it took she would have to find another. Sometimes the biological has to be ignored.

Happy Burn's Night

2007-01-25T19:11:00.001Z

Thought I'd better chuck that in, just in case any Scots are reading this.

Address to a Haggis.

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Ice Tea

2007-01-25T19:02:00.000Z

This is a sixty word short I wrote ages ago, I'm playing around with it at the moment to see if I can go further with it, as I like the concept.

Ice Tea

Lawrence yawned and reached for the half finished cup of locally grown char. It wasn’t like mother made, it would however suffice. Six thousand miles from home, he didn’t have much choice.

He reflected on the irony of it, he’d always been a mummy’s boy, the least adventurous of his siblings. Yet here he was, directing the plantation of Antarctica.

Must... Write... Something...

2007-01-25T16:39:00.000Z

That fiendish Writer's Block, it will not win this time! Seriously I feel like some golden age super hero trying to battle the 'Destroyer of Ideas!'

The weird thing is I've been able to write pretty good factual articles recently, stuff on debt, dealing with bailiffs, etc but when it comes to fiction the well has dried up since the weekend...

Aliens need more time says Bjork

2007-01-21T01:47:00.000Z

According to this report in New Scientist the universe is so big that aliens won't find us even if they do exist. It seems that it would take 10 billion years to explore just 4% of the known universe.

Come on scientists! Leave something for us Scifi fans to hold on to.

RIP RAW

2007-01-20T11:32:00.000Z

I wasn't sure whether to mention this or not, I'm not a big fan of dwelling on the deaths of people I didn't even know. But Robert Anton Wilson was a big influence on some aspects of my outlook on life and on me wanting to be a writer so I reckon I should at least link to this obit in the Independent.

"In later years, Wilson founded and/or joined a slough of fake societies, made a number of records expounding sense and nonsense equally, wrote voluminously in many journals. He was madcap, but never told a frivolous untruth; he was a kind of benign Loki figure for thousands of readers, many of whom helped support him in his last months, when medical expenses had become overwhelming."

I think that quote sums the great man up best.

Robert Anton Wilson, writer: born New York 18 January 1932; married 1958 Arlen Riley (died 1999; one son, two daughters, and one daughter deceased); died Capitola, California 11 January 2007.

Like I need another new addiction

2007-01-20T11:08:00.000Z

Librarything looks potentially dangerous, another excuse to procrastinate and muck around on the internet instead of actually creating. I don't know if this is a plug for the service or a warning. Like anything of this nature though, I'm not sure I can be bothered to be really anal and actually make sure I have the right edition listed by entering in the exact ISBNs, blow that in most cases the nearest version will do.

If you only see one film this year...

2007-01-20T09:58:00.000Z

Make it Pan's Labyrinth for your own sake.

Set in the dark days following Franco's victory in the Spanish Civil War it follows the adventures of a little girl obsessed with fairy tales as she discovers an entrance to the underworld, while getting caught up in the guerilla struggle against fascism. It's directed by Guillermo Del Toro the respected horror film director (Hellboy, Blade II, etc) and the special effects more than match his previous works.

Checking out the competition

2007-01-20T09:50:00.000Z

Here at the current Skint Writer comp they've got some of the entries up... And very good they are too.

Northern Ireland explained

2007-01-11T12:43:00.000Z

Thanks Captain Planet

I think this matches Peter Taylor's in depth trilogy for depth of analysis of the issues in the six counties...

A contest worth entering

2007-01-08T11:59:00.000Z

Over at Muzzleflash the winner gets published in 'Out of the Gutters' Magazine, and goodies are promised for the runners up.

Is there room I wonder?

2007-01-08T00:42:00.000Z

For a new flash fiction based blogzine, me and a mate reckon there is... I'm not sure yet though, post a comment here if you'd be interested in contributing in any way.

First story of the new year...

2007-01-07T17:25:00.000Z

This was actually written last year but I'm working on the second chapter now so I thought posting this up unedited would get my juices flowing...

The Thirteenth Brother

Moll Reilly had twelve sons and no daughters, four of them died before their fifth birthdays, which was quite common in those days, but still they were sad events. At the age of 39 she died in childbirth with her thirteenth son, he was unwanted, a mistake and his father blamed him for his mothers death. Still little Caomhain as he was called some might say cruelly, given that his name means spare or reserve in Gaelic was not cast out by his family, they grudgingly except him, and in material ways he was no worse treated than his surviving brothers. It was clear though that his father did not love him, and did what he could to avoid the boy.

When he was thirteen Caomhain was walking back from a day labouring in the Englishman’s fields for which he was paid a penny a day, it was late in the afternoon twilight when on the otherwise deserted road he came across a curious little man, who had a big ginger beard flecked with grey, and was clad in good quality green tweed with a silver silk shirt. The man hailed him by name and introduced himself as Sweeny Beg and explained that he was Caomhain’s half-cousin, he handed the piqued young lad a letter that he said would explain it all. Now although the English had outlawed the education of catholic boys, our hero had against his father’s wishes and unlike his brothers received some educational instruction from a wandering hedge school.

The honeyed words in faded ink purported to be a love letter, from Sheara Beg, King of the Na Síogaí, the fairy folk to Moll Reilly, late mother of Caomhain and his brothers, it expressed the King’s desire to father a son by Ma’ Reilly, and that when the son reached a certain age, he would be called upon by his people to do them a service. Now this tall tale didn’t surprise our hero as much as you might think, it often been remarked in his village that there was something of the Síog about young Caomh, certainly according to his brothers, the lad had been born with thick black curly hair, and a full mouth of strong cream coloured teeth. Often thought to be signs of fey blood.

The brave lad asked Sweeny what was required of him, for he correctly assumed that this was their way of requesting his assistance, now Caomhain was well educated in the ways of his kin, and was well aware of the risks of dealing with them without keeping your wits about you.

Sweeny with a wily grin and a glint in his gimlet eye explained that a landlord by the name of William Boyle was planning to chop down a sacred grove, a copse of silver birches on his land that was a place of contemplation for the Na Síogaí so that he could install a threshing machine, which as Sweeny pointed out would also adversely affect the local labourers, including two of his older brothers who regularly worked for the Boyle on a casual basis.

Caomhain agreed to carry out the task of preventing the Englishman from achieving his goal, and asked how he might accomplish it. Sweeny said that the boy would think of something when he got there, and that he should set off immediately, and with that the funny fellow skipped into the hedgerow where he vanished with a click of his heels and a scattering of rabbits and small birds.

Two hours later, Caomh’ reached the house and land of the Boyle and could see the copse which was indeed glowing silver in the clear moonlit sky, it did look beautiful and mysterious that was for sure.

Still our intrepid young man was at a loss about what to do to save it. He had just sat disconsolately on the grass to have a good old think when the sweetest sound he had ever heard reached him, it was a woman or young girl singing, he could not understand all the words they certainly were not English or the Gaelic. The mellifluous tones were coming from the sacred grove, and almost against his conscious will Caomh’ was drawn to the trees.

Once within the grove he found himself bathed in the silver light of the moon and trees and the golden light radiating from gorgeous form in front of him, a young woman in a glowing semi transparent gown and matching cloak was in front of him, she stopped singing and spoke.

“Dia dhuit trathnona, conas ta tu Caomhain?” She asked, her voice just as silky as when singing.

“G..g..good evening ma’am, I am very well thank you.” Replied the lad nervously, trying not to stare at the curves and shadows tantalisingly appearing beneath the gown.

“So what brings young Caomh’ to this fair place so far from the bosom of his family?”

“My lady, Sweeny Beg, my half cousin approached me on behalf of my father King Sheara of your folk and asked me to save this sacred place.”

At this the lady frowned, her eyes glittered dangerously for a moment before she recovered her temper.

“And what did they say was threatening this protected grove?”

“Why, milady they said that the Englishman who owns this land wished to build a threshing machine on this location.” He gulped, suddenly doubting what he was saying.

“Those two rogues, I will have to have words with the naughty mischief makers when I return to our realm.” She snarled this, lips curling with anger.

“Sweeny will end up a goose like his namesake the old king of men if he is not careful.”

She then proceeded to tell a now frightened and confused Caomhain the truth about how yes he was a son of the Na Síogaí, and of the Begg, but Boyle was not a threat, he was no joyless puritan or Presbyterian but a friend of the Fey Kin, in fact her husband. He had however beaten Sheara at a bet several years before in which the prize had been her hand in marriage, and the touchy King had been embarrassed about it ever since and vowed revenge.
Caomhain was not entirely convinced, that is the problem with dealing with the other realm, the fairer they same seem the fouler they may be, there was not much he could do about it though.

“Caomhain, do not worry, it is not your fault that your father’s seirbhíseach tricked you in this way. Listen to me lad,” she held his firm chin in her cool golden grip.

He looked into her magical golden face, with it’s burning now black eyes.

“It is your thirteenth year, you will soon become a man, and it is time you learnt about your other heritage.”

She gestured at a crack that rapidly widened in the air behind her, revealing a strange orange twilight, distant green hills and flowery meadows.

“Go through, meet your father and reprimand him for using you like this, and then study his skills at his feet.”

Compelled by a mysterious force, as if in a daze, Caomhain walked through the crack, which closed with a sound like a slamming door behind him.

The lady smiled to herself, and then with a flash of blinding light, Sweeny was standing there, a sly grin in his ginger beard. He rubbed his hands together and gambolled like a young lamb towards the Boyle’s house.

And another one published...

2006-12-27T14:37:00.000Z

I've just found one of my stories published in Abstract Minds that's the second this week...

Before I go...

2006-12-23T10:11:00.000Z

I've had a vicious little bastard of a story accepted by DZ Allen's Muzzleflash this is my first submission to anyone ever so I'm pretty pleased, look for it under the name "My Knees Were Made for Kneelin'". And while you're at it read the other stories on there, especially if you like nasty, brutish, and short things.

Merry F*ckin' Christmas

2006-12-23T10:02:00.000Z

Merry Christmas one and all, I doubt I'll be posting again until the 27th of December... Unless Christmas at my parents' is really boring ;-).

In the meantime...

2006-12-22T11:46:00.000Z

While recovering from the loss of Flashing in the Gutters, I recomend people go here and read White Rooms parts one through eight. I just read it right through in one sitting, that is what I think they call intelligent adventure fiction.

No more flashing in the gutters?

2006-12-22T11:18:00.000Z

Flashing in the Gutters gone... That's a real shame, just as I was getting into it, I was going to submit a story today as well! Oh well, good luck to tribe fairplay to him for doing it in the first place.

More on the editor's blog here

A really short one

2006-12-21T15:17:00.000Z

Here's a 60 word short I just found in my shorts folder, I wrote it for a challenge on a writer's website a few months back

Conffetti

Confetti from yesterday’s wedding still scattered and swirled around the steps. The gaunt top hatted man in black eyed it sardonically. Nothing in life is certain except marriage, death, and taxes he thought to himself. Ironic considering this was the funeral of an Inland Revenue employee. With a sigh, he walked into the church, get it over, get a pint.

Something a bit darker

2006-12-20T23:12:00.000Z

Hardboiled and noir fiction is something I've always liked reading but never really written before, this probably my second attempt at proper fictional violence, I enjoyed writing it which is a good sign I think.

My baby has only got eyes for you.

I collected the post from the mat and went and sat on the couch, early morning TV in front of me, some flood in Italy or somewhere, the sound turned down low, a soothing murmur. I threw the bills and credit card statements to one side and focussed on the interesting looking padded envelope, I scrunched it a bit, hmm bubble wrap. Turning it round I could see there was no return address and it had a London post mark.

I ripped it open and tipped the contents onto the coffee table, two gooey round things plopped onto the two month old copy of National Geographic, one rolled slightly as it hit and came to rest staring at me, human eyes. Green. Sarah had green eyes. You know when people talk about their blood running cold? Well I’d never been able to imagine that, but that’s what mine did then. My heart was pounding and my mouth went dry as I cautiously peered into the envelope, a folded piece of white note paper was stuck to the bubble wrap by dried, off white optical fluid. I pulled the note out carefully.

my babby only has eyes for u, well hear they are, there yours now

The note wasn’t signed, he didn’t have to, it was obviously from Jody, Sarah’s husband. I knew he was a sick psycho bastard, but this… Fuck, I pictured her, Sarah my lovely Sarah writhing and screaming in agony as Jody or more likely his enforcer Bill Wright scooped her beautiful green eyes out, now I could see her still alive, eye sockets gory red pits, blood like tears streaming down her white cheeks. I sat in shock for god knows how long staring at the meaningless flickering images on the plasma screen. I’d sat in once while the two cunts tortured some scumbag loser dealer who ripped them off, they didn’t take pleasure in the pain they dished out, removing his teeth and fingernails, pushing holes in his arms with six inch bolts, they were just intent in their work working men doing a job like any other. Somehow it was worse than if they had enjoyed it.

My thoughts went back to Sarah with a bang. We’d been friends for five years, it was me who’d introduced her to Jody – by accident. We’d been fucking for the last two years, and in love for the last six months. It wasn’t the fucking that had been the problem I knew that, Jody was weird like that old fashioned about so many things, he hated queers and immigrants, and New Labour, even women priests of all the fucking things considering the last time he ever set foot in a church. When it came to sex and love he was pretty much a libertine. He’d told me that it was alright for me to fuck Sarah, after all he wasn’t exactly a saint in that area, as long as it didn’t go any further than that. Well it had, and he must have spotted something, a lingering glance, a glow in Sarah’s cheeks or even in mine.

I pushed my rage to the back of my head for a moment, I had to rescue Sarah, get her away from the mad bastard, and the only way we’d be safe after that would be to kill Jody, and anyway I had to punish him, letting him live was out of the question. And killing Jody meant I’d have to kill Wrighty, Bill Wright was his loyal enforcer, second in command and attack dog.

While I was formulating a plan in my mind I got my gun, a 9mm Cougar 8000, checked it was loaded. It would do. By the time I had finished deciding the best way to do it I was in my car pulling out of the drive and heading for Green Lanes, and Wrighty.

Eleven in the morning on a Monday, I knew where he would be, counting the takings in the little office at the back of his 24 hour pool hall. Half an hour after leaving home I walked through the door, one look at my expression and the slack titted docile cow on the counter knew better than to ask to see my membership card, but she would have buzzed her boss as soon as I passed.

Bill opened the door to the office and leaned out;

“What’s up mate, unusual to see you around this early?”

The puzzled look on his grizzled acne scarred face changed to fear as I swung the gun up into view, he didn’t have time to react as the bullet smashed wetly through the bone just below the right eye, crimson fountained out of the back of his head spattering the door behind him and he collapsed lifelessly to the stained threadbare carpet. I didn’t say anything, turned and headed for the door, pausing only to make it clear to the halls only patrons a couple of gaping shocked Turkish lads that I had seen them and their faces, satisfying myself that they wouldn’t say anything to anyone, the woman at the counter had vanished already.

Twenty five minutes later and I pulled up at the end of Jody’s road, a quiet expensive cul-de-sac in Muswell Hill. I approached his house, a large mock Tudor eighties yuppie job walking confidently up the drive. His enclosed porch concealed the front door from the road and any nosey neighbours so I didn’t bother ringing the bell, just took the rounders bat I had tucked out of sight under my jacket, and smashed the diamond pane stained glass window and let myself in. I could hear Elvis playing in the distance, he was in his study working like nothing had changed the sick cunt. I searched the house as quickly and silently as I could, there was no sign of Sarah. ‘A Little Less Conversation’ the recent remix was playing from the study now. I pushed the door open and Jody who had been bent over his computer keyboard laboriously finger typing, iron grey head bobbing up and down in time to the clacking of the keys turned towards the doorway, his eyes widened, he didn’t normally show his emotions but he was now.

“This is for Sarah you dirty fucking cunt.” The Cougar flared twice in quick succession and two bullets thunked into his stomach.

Normally I make it quick, I’m known for that, but I was boiling with anger now, wondering where she was laying blind in fear and hurt somewhere while her blood leaked out I was going to make him feel just like her.

I felt searing pain as hot lead punched into my shoulder, fuck, he had a gun in his waist band, I threw myself backwards and brought my gun back up blasting in his general direction as another bullet burned into my thigh.

“Wait! Stop!” Jody hissed through a mouthful of blood, I must have caught him in the face.

**************

It was still only half past twelve when I pulled up outside Sarah’s little flat in Crouch End. My leg was numb, except around the bullet hole which was raging at me, demanding morphine and whisky and needle and thread and not in that order, while my shoulder had subsided slightly, as long as I didn’t move it too much, yeah that was a laugh driving through north London with lead in your shoulder.

There was no one around which was just as well given the state I was in. I let myself into her flat, I could hear sobbing coming from the living room, and walked straight through, it was smashed up, books, pot plants, and shelves everywhere. Sarah was sprawled face down on the couch, one hand tucked under the cushion and a blood stained bandage wrapped round her head covering her eyes sockets.

She slowly turned round to point her face in my direction. Through racking sobs,

“Pete is that you? Jody, the bastard he…” A pause. “He found out about us, I’m sorry…” Strained as if talking through a wall of pain.

I didn’t answer just shot her arm where it disappeared under the cushion, flesh tore and bone splintered, she screamed.

“You fucked up mental fucking bitch, where did you get those fucking eyes? You set me up to kill that fucker, then you were going to shoot me once you knew I’d done the job. Then call the cops and say you’d shot me in self defence, you’d have got out after six months and inherited everything of Jody’s. You counted on me to be a softy and kill him quick, well I didn’t you stupid cunt, do you think I would have killed him without trying to find out where you were?”

She was screaming, clutching at her shattered wrist, sitting up now, I leant forward and yanked the bandage off, big green eyes looked at me, full of hate.

“You know I killed Jody anyway, even though I believed him? I had too, there’s no way he’d have let me live after falling for his woman and then shooting him in his own house, even if you were to blame. So I suppose you are rich now.”

She started to say something, but the bullet ripping through her cheek shut her up, the blood filling her throat turning the words into unintelligible gargling. I took the envelope out of my pocket and dropped the eyeballs into her ruined mouth.

Sirens approached in the distance, and I limped to the door.

Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds

2006-12-20T10:02:00.000Z

According to the New Scientist

Wow. I have got to write a story with that for a title.

That's poetry

2006-12-20T09:57:00.000Z

Check out 'Inspired by Home' by afro-centric muslimah here...
It sums up the failure of African liberation movements to actually liberate all Africans. And yet the form of the poem comparing life to a carousel helps to show that there is no need for despair, and I would add just action.

Samarkand Candy Lion, and the Head Made of Sticks

2006-12-20T08:43:00.000Z

This is something I wrote for a flash challange a few months ago, I've cleaned it up a bit but I'm quite happy with it as it is now.

Samarkand Candy Lion & The Head Made of Sticks.

Fanny huffed and puffed as bracing herself with one foot on Jerry’s back she pulled the ribbon tighter round the bundle of sticks that she had embedded into his rapidly cooling half melted neck and shoulders. Quickly so as not to release the pressure on the ribbon she tied it into a big; but tight bow. Standing back and dusting her hands off on her brown stained apron, Fanny admired her handiwork.

“There we go, not too bad if I do say so myself.”

Jerry slowly sat up he cautiously started prodding his new, stick bundle head with clumsy clawed chocolate paws, and his equally chocolate tail lashed nervously behind him.

“Careful, you know what a butterpaws you are,” warned Fanny.

Jerry blinked at her, trying out his new eyes, pingpong balls with black dots scribbled on them and sellotaped roughly in the middle of what should be his face. His mouth a jagged hole that Fanny had sawed partially into the bundle earlier, he gently licked his sawn off twiggy lips with a green leaf tongue. Jerry opened and closed his new mouth a few times experimentally with a rasping rustling noise of a copse of trees on a stormy night.

Fanny grabbed a large portrait mirror and proudly showed the results to Jerry. He looked up and down, at his chocolate body and roughly tied sticks head.

“I look really awful.” Speaking was still an effort in this new head.

“Well that’s what you get for going out on a massive bender into the desert on a bank holiday weekend, and staying out in the hot sun all day. When you know full well the candy store won’t be open for another two days, and we have a gig tonight!”

The tirade rose in pitch and increased in speed.

“Just what were you thinking? No, I don’t want to know, I can guess! You were lucky I had enough candy left for the rest of your stupid hollow body.”

He opened his mouth…

“No! I haven’t finished yet, the price of replacing most of your body can come out of your share, I can tell you! Chocolate doesn’t come cheap, not with the palace buying up most of it for their soldiers!”

“OK OK! I’m sorry alright? It doesn’t come easy making your living as a performing freak.”

Fanny can’t stay cross with Jerry for long, especially when he pouts like that even if his head looks like something out of a rural hammer horror.

“Hey baby, I’m sorry I know it’s not easy for you, come here.” She holds her hands out for a warm brown hug.

Jerry gets up and embraces her gently in his powerful forelegs, Fanny feels something brushing against the front of her apron, she looks down with an expectant smile.

“You’ve found it then,” she says with a wicked expression.

“Is it me or is it bigger this time?”

“I may have got a bit carried away.” A glint in her eyes.

That evening and the two performers are waiting to go on stage at the Samarkand Rialto, the city’s second biggest cabaret venue. The crowd are chanting for more.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Princes and Presidents, I would like to give you the Samarkand Candy Lion and his lovely pianist Fanny, please make them feel welcome!” The time honoured patter of MCs everywhere.

The pair walk onstage hand in hand to a massive cheer, this is a home crowd after all. After their bows, Fanny sits at the old fashioned upright Joanna and immediately launches into a Dixie style boogie woogie melody.

Jerry faces the audience; the theatre is packed to the rafters, adults, children and grannies eyes wide, faces expectant. The soft caramel heart pounds in his hollow chocolate chest.

Jerry jumps up clicks his heels together and starts dancing, he tries out his new riverdance style that he has been working on, and the crowd go wild for it.
As he throws his legs akimbo in time to the piano, he snaps off a bit of his right hand and thrusts into his twiglet mouth. The crowd go even wilder, and Fanny looks round to give him an encouraging smile. Of course tonight he won’t be able to eat his own head but they have a five day residency at the rialto, more than enough full performances to push themselves into the top bracket of family cabaret.

(This was written several months before 'The Magician of Samarkand" was shown on the BBC as well)

This couldn't happen here could it?

2006-12-19T07:50:00.000Z

It already did.

We Scratched Our Names.

As the heavens open up above, and dump what seems like an ocean on Ryan’s Field, we run for cover into the old wooden shelter. It looks like a bus stop, but no busses could come this way along the narrow foot paths of the park. Breathless laughter, hair soaked, pressed down on our heads, hers is hanging over her face and I part it carefully. The shed is empty and I peer out through the open doorway and up at the lead balloon skies, the water is falling in sheets at a slight angle, the breeze comes from behind us, so no rain gets in through the door.

Droplets down my neck and more laughter I spin round, she’s wringing out the impractical velvet jacket I told her not to wear, I grab it and threaten to hurl it onto the roof, I don’t though and she knows I wouldn’t. Somebody has left a day old paper on the dirty graffiti covered bench and I pick it up before sitting down, she turns away from the watching the rain and comes and sits next to me, her warm damp body pressing into mine as I put an arm around her shoulder. We read the paper together waiting for the rain to finish, it’s depressing – peace talks fail, more sell outs by the men and women who claim to lead us, represent the voices of the oppressed, while the others demand more and more and refuse to give an inch even while taking a mile. They expect us to recognise the police and the laws that make us second class citizens in our own land. I throw the paper down in disgust. We kiss, as I reach into my pocket for my penknife. I scratch my name in the wood of the bench, and she scratches hers, then I draw a heart around them.

The rain lifts and a few blue patches appear, we step out into the light, letting the gentle cool breeze dry our clothes slowly as we walk through the park. Other couples appear from under trees and other shelters, and we share knowing glances.

A week later and they come, walking through drizzle on rain slicked cobbles, more join them from the tiny terraces on either side, mothers and daughters, sons, and fathers some holding homemade placards or carefully stitched banners. Dignified and quiet though there is some muted chanting from the student contingent. Police line up ahead in a single row, I can see soldiers behind them, armoured cars parked down side streets, I can see it all from my vantage point in this abandoned terrace house, I’m watching events from the bedroom window, peering through smoke damaged net curtains. I see her in the crowd, she’s with her younger brother, and they both have placards daubed with slogans.

I look back at the row of police, their green grey uniforms wet from standing in the misty rain for hours, moustaches bristle, expressions bland with studied patience, but I know they hate us, we’re barely people to them, they never set foot in our communities without weapons and steel landrovers.

Three minutes to go.

I look over at her again, she’s smiling as she joins in a folk song that has broken out among the crowd, I’d rather have her in my arms than the cold metal of this armalite, nested against my shoulder. Three minutes to go. Then our brigade leader comes in soundlessly from the landing.

“It’s off lads, we’re being pulled out.”

I look up at him in dismay, his expression is sympathetic.

“Today is not the day, orders from above.”

We follow him out, leaving over the back wall, rifles left behind for later collection. Two minutes later we’re halfway down the alley when we hear the machine guns open fire.

Some excellent advice

2006-12-19T07:47:00.000Z

from Kirsty Brooks, the Australian crime/comedy/romance writer. She's right you know.

Trusted Neighbours

2006-12-18T19:53:00.000Z

I just read this by Bernard MacLaverty in the Barcelona Review's latest issue, a great piece of writing about trusting your neighbours in a mixed area of Belfast during the height of the troubles.

It rhymes

2006-12-18T14:28:00.000Z

I wrote this in about twenty minutes a week or two ago, I've only just started experimenting with poetry and to be honest I know very little about it. Except I know the critics think rhyming is bad.

I can't get my head around the idea of writing drafts of poems, I know people spend weeks on them, but I just think "bang 'em out" don't stop to think.

Watching

The river is wide and grey and cold and old
Fat black barges laden with precious coal
Pilots with flat caps and pipes
Grubby shirts blue and white stripes
Mounds of weed covered slag dirty rubble
Engine vibrations making you see double
Blue skies like a dome above it all
Locking in the chill the dusty squall
A twisted breeze grabbing hair and paper
You try and light the stove it puts out the taper
Bargees shove hands deep in pockets
Amongst matches and crumpled dockets
Nicotine stained teeth clenched all day
Marrow bone and flesh drenched by spray
A mug of hot sweet black tea
For ten minutes or so it warms me

The Borrowing the Car Trick

2006-12-18T13:08:00.000Z

This is actually an extract from the novel I'm currently working on, my first!

The Borrowing the Car Trick

I had been in New York City for two weeks staying with my friend Carlo and his roommate Anna, money was running short for all of us. I had no job having left a lucrative business behind in Michigan, Carlo was odd jobbing around this part of the Bronx, window cleaning, doing repairs for the old folks and the Catholic Church down the road. Anna a recent arrival from Puerto Rico was luckier, they don’t need green cards to work so she had a proper job at a department store in Manhattan, but even that was only part time. I didn’t even have enough cash for a ticket back to Blighty so I would have had to beg my parents for the money to return and I wasn’t ready for that yet.

We were sat round the kitchen table in their tiny one bedroom apartment one stop short of Pelham Bay in the Bronx. It was my turn to clear away the breakfast things. Carlo was poring over the classifieds in the local paper.

“What’s the use, you’ve not got a green card, and no one will give you a job. Maybe you should marry me,” Anna said with a grin.

“Never!” Carlo laughed. “Well not yet anyway, no I’ve got an idea, I read about something that happened in Toronto a few years ago, maybe we can do it here as well.”

I sat down next to Anna with a cup of coffee at the ready and we leaned in conspiratorially, which you needed to do the walls in the building were so thin. Somewhere upstairs a man coughed and a toilet flushed.

When he had finished, Anna and me looked at each other speculatively. I was up for it, it sounded pretty exciting to be honest, amoral maybe but fuck it, I was hungry and I wasn’t ready to give up on the New World just yet. Anna had already regaled us with stories over tequila one night about her youthful exploits in Ponce her home city, so she could hardly chicken out, according to her it was just another day in the life of a PR street kid.

“OK let’s do it.” I tried to sound determined and hard when I said it but my voice croaked a bit. Anna just laughed and nodded her head.

We had decided that we would drive out of the city and go somewhere we would never be known. At random we chose Poughkeepsie; I’ve always liked the name and wanted to visit just for that.

It was a drive of several hours through the rain and along several turnpike highways, which slowed us down, Anna’s battered VW rabbit didn’t have one of those scanners in the front so we had to stop at every tollbooth.

Once we reached what turned out to be a typical boring upstate city we prowled around the outskirts looking for a suitably secluded unmanned parking lot. It didn’t take long. We pulled up in the lot of a sprawling enclosed shopping mall that was according to the sign the largest in the tri-state area, the third claiming that title we’d passed since leaving the NY.
Once out of the car we separated and moved swiftly among the other vehicles, looking while pretending not to look. It was me who found what we were looking for, a large expensive but not too expensive looking Volvo, a few years old, with a child seat in the back, the shelf under the glove box was bulging and untidy, even the closed compartment looked crammed, and there was a bag in the footwell of the passenger seat. Best of all there was a Mets sticker on the rear bumper. I discretely signalled the others as previously agreed, by blowing my nose loudly. Anna and Carlo agreed with my assessment, so me and Carlo went to stand watch while Anna proved herself. A moment later and an urgent hiss told us she was ready.

Before driving up we drew lots to see who would take the unenviable task of driving the car home, and Anna lost, however seeing her bite her bottom lip and pout slightly, I agreed to ride shot gun, explaining that we would need to look through the stuff in the car to check everything we wanted was present. The others had agreed. So we set off me and Anna in the Volvo leading, Carlo following in the Rabbit as we headed home. To distract myself from shitting it every time a cop car drove past I spent the journey searching the car, it was perfect, everything we wanted, insurance documents with the owner’s name and address, and a photo of two smiling kids behind the driver’s side sunshade, even a credit card statement under a box of spare coins in the glove box, these items I wrapped in a plain brown paper bag we had brought along for the purpose. The car didn’t have a scanner which meant it wouldn’t be easy for the law to trace its route through the toll points.

The CDs I found in the door pouch were all Michael Bolton and Mariah Carey so we listened to the radio and talked instead.

“Paddy, why don’t you stay here?” She asked in her seductive husky accented voice.

“I’d love to, but earning a decent living here is a lot harder than back home, or even Michigan.”

“Hah, I know guys who could pay you a grand a week to drive to Seattle and back, imagine that you’d get to see the country and get paid loads for it.”

I could imagine what I’d have to stuff in the trunk to earn that sort of money, I’d seen Police Camera Action too man times, rural cops in the US are far too keen to stop out of state cars to make it a worthwhile risk.

“Why don’t you do it if it’s that easy, instead of sweating your arse off in a crappy discount department store?”

“Are you kidding? I can work legally I don’t need to, sure I am starving now, but in a years time I’ll have enough experience to work in a decent store like Macy’s then I can work up through the ranks.” She paused. “It’s the American way!”

“Yeah right, the American way.” I laughed and after a minute she joined in.

Once back within what felt like the safe environs of New York City we pulled off the Long Island Expressway into the car park of a bowling alley as agreed. A moment later Carlo pulled in after us, and I jumped out and handed him the package of stuff I had found. He took it from me with a terse word of thanks before heading out of the lot with a squeal of tyres on the wet tarmac. He had a lot to do, and it would have been surprising if he wasn’t tense.
We took the Volvo to its prearranged safe house for the night, a small repair shop owned by Anna’s cousin Ferdy; he knew why we wanted it and had angry hushed words with her in Spanish while I parked up in the far corner of the dark little workshop.

“What was that about?”

“The usual,” she said with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “My big cousin just looking out for me, making sure we do everything proper and safe, I suppose he’s got a point he did put the money up for the tickets after all.”

I knew we had a contact for the second part of the plan, I hadn’t realised it was Ferdy.

We got back to the apartment after swinging by the Korean bodega to pick up some of the cheap brown liquid the yanks laughably call whisky and some skins. It was only when we got in and both flopped down into the little broken down sofa that I realised I had been shaking non stop since getting in the car, my mouth was bone dry and my breath must have stunk, I could smell Anna’s from our proximity and realised she had been shaking as well.

A few whiskies and a joint later we were watching cartoons on TV and talking bollocks, anything except for what we had done and what we still had to do. As I always do once relaxed and with a woman who isn’t related to me I started flirting a bit, she wasn’t especially attractive, quite boyish, short hair and a fairly flat chest dressed in jeans and a baseball shirt, but I liked her a lot, and she was smart, and funny, and sassy which may be a clichéd word especially to describe an Hispanic girl in the Bronx but it’s the best description I can think of for her. It didn’t take long as is often the case in these situations for us to be kissing and me to have my hand up her top when we heard Carlo’s key in the lock, so I pulled away quickly and we both stood up and were looking a bit guilty when he came in. Not that they had a relationship, they shared a bed because there was only one in the apartment and it was cheaper that way, Carlo had even admitted to me that they hadn’t had sex. Still I felt guilty for some reason, probably looking back on it I was misplacing the guilt from the theft which I hadn’t felt at the time at all.

“Right, we got the keys cut and Ferdy’s buddy came through with the tickets.” He was looking at us curiously and I felt my cheeks burn even while I could taste her saliva in my mouth.

“The tickets are already in the Volvo along with a bottle of Champaign and some flowers and the apology note, I got Ruben to write it out, saying we needed it for a medical emergency.”

We celebrated the plan’s smooth continuation with pizza and more whisky and smokes that night.

It was agreed that to minimise the risk the next day Carlo would drive the Volvo alone to its owners house while Anna and me would follow at a discreet distance until the last minute, as soon as he left the car in the road outside the house, we would speed up and grab him and the driver would put their foot down until we were back home, no stopping for anything.

It went according to plan and we were back before dark. Ferdy rang to make sure everything had gone alright. Anna had to go to work shelf stacking that night, so me and Carlo went and hung out with Ferdy and Ruben at their place playing Nintendo and smoking some new strain of weed they had got from PR washed down with tequila of course.

The days progressed pretty much the same until the next Saturday, Ferdy actually loaned me and Carlo a few bucks to tide us over until the next Mets home game came around.

Ruben and Ferdy picked the three of us up from the apartment at around 9 AM in a fairly smart looking truck they had ‘borrowed’ that wouldn’t be missed until Monday when it would be back safely. We made it into Poughkeepsie in good time and then made our way cautiously to the house. It was empty, whole family at the game hopefully, enjoying the free tickets they had got as thanks for the impromptu loan of their car.

As the most inexperienced ones I was stationed on one street corner, Anna on the other, both with cell phones, both hiding in the bushes. You just do not have scruffy looking people with dark complexions hanging around looking suspicious in white American suburbs, the cops will turn up, Hispanic blokes with a white bloke in charge loading up a small removal truck is a different story.

After what seemed like an interminable wait the truck was loaded with every single thing of value from the house and we got back on board, crammed in the cab to return to the city. Ferdy dropped us off outside his repair shop and instructed us to wait until him and Ruben got back.
We had finished his secret stash of tequila and MJ before he returned with bundles of rolled twenties for us, with the money he had loaned us already deducted of course.

It was enough for me to stay for another couple of weeks and see some of the sights,

Easy Money!

Muzzle flash...

2006-12-18T12:57:00.000Z

I've just found this blog/zine 'Muzzleflash' via Short, short fiction. I think it's new, anyway some great crime fiction there, well worth a read.

Heel on the Shovel

2006-12-18T12:36:00.000Z

This was originally written for the daily flash on Writer's Dock, I've re-drafted it since then.

Heel On The Shovel.

Jed wipes the sweat from his brow, wipes it from his stinging eyes his hand leaving a black smudge in its wake. A swollen yellow sun hangs immediately oven like overhead taunting him with blazing rays. His heel drives the shovel into the parched topsoil and he flings another load of dirt onto the growing pile over his shoulder. The wiry framed labourer, naked except baggy stained dungarees and big black boots straightens up and reaches for his bottle of now hot stale water.
He looks around, eyes narrow against the noonday glare.

A cloud of dust, and a loud arrogantly buzzing engine noise are approaching from the north, from the town, along the straight black single lane highway. A convertible sedan, soft top up to provide shade to the cars single occupant comes to a halt at the side of the road. Jed recognises that car, with its distinctive number plate. The driver side door opens to reveal the bulky well fed figure of Mr Hank. Henry J Miller; the town boss, Mayor and County Commissioner. The modern day American equivalent of a local warlord or lord of the manor.

The profusely sweating fat man, his white linen suit and broad brimmed fedora, stained with sweat patches, yellow urine like traces at his armpits and crotch, even on the crown of his hat strolls with artificial casualness up to Jed.

Jed could see the calculating contemptuous look on the larger man’s face.

“What you doin’ diggin’ out here boy? I don’t recall seein’ that this is your land, this here is redskin land. It aint for either of us.”

He has pulled a large gingham handkerchief from his pocket as he says this, and is now using it to soak the sweat from round his grubby off white collar. Jed says nothing, he looks sullenly at his boots, and runs a hand through his uncut prematurely greying hair.

“Come to think of it boy, you don’t even own your own house, do you? Hell those rags you’re wearin’ probably came from the porch of the mission.” He laughs richly at his own joke.

Jed still says nothing.

“Cat got your tongue, come on tell me what you’re doin’ ?”

Hank takes a large step forward as he speaks swinging as he comes, a meaty ham of a fist thuds into Jed’s empty stomach, and the scrawny man drops to the ground, clutching at his guts and coughing saliva.

“Now come on, you goin’ to tell me, or am I going to get rough?” He says this in a falsely kind voice, with just a little bit of wheedle.

Jed looks up at him as he crouches next to the hole, his hand is resting on the shaft of the fallen shovel, there is hate glittering in those sockets. He reaches into his pocket, still not saying anything and draws out a small bundle wrapped in a dirty paper napkin. Releasing his hand from the shovel he gently unfolds the package, to reveal its contents. Hank leans forward and bends closer with his hands on his knees. It is a dead rat nestled pathetically in the other man’s hands. Hank sneers in contempt.

“You burying your pet, out here on Indian land.” He exclaims loudly.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve seen it all now. You think I’m as stupid as you?” Shouting now, with a screech in his voice.

Jed flinches back, and starts wrapping the pathetic parcel back up, shielding it protectively.

“You don’t need no six foot hole for a fucking rat. Just you wait there boy, I’m going to make you talk.”

With that Hank turns back towards the car and strides away, muttering under his breath about his bullwhip.

Then the long handled shovel cracks down against his big round skull with a wet crunch. Hank drops onto his knees a look of shock on his chubby ruddy face, a second crunch and he falls face first into the filth. A pool of piss forms between his splayed legs, the mayor is still breathing in wheezing irregular breaths. Jed grinning now his raggedy boothill silhouette of a mouth a rictus of pleasure steps over the prone man. He puts his heel on the shovel and drives it into the other man’s neck, wine dark blood spills out and is gratefully sucked into the dry soil.

Two hours later and Jed is walking back into town, the shovel slung jauntily over his shoulder, a tuneless whistle escaping from between those broken and yellowed teeth. There’s two hundred and twenty bucks in his pocket now, replacing the rat which was hurled carelessly into the pit after the mayor. That’s more money than Jed has ever seen in his life. He is going to get wasted and fucked, a bottle of bourbon from the bar, to wash down a whole roast chicken, then he’d go and get himself a white woman at Ma’ Macready’s. Normally even the nigger whores wouldn’t give him the time of day. Still he’d get a wash and shave first and buy a new shirt . Tonight Jed would play act at being a travelling salesman out on the town.

Tomorrow would be another day and who knew what that might bring.

So... the first post, always a bit tricky on a new blog I would have thought

2006-12-18T12:23:00.000Z

Any way I plan to post up my stories, articles and poems (oh yes, I'm a sensitive new man type honest) and random thoughts on here.

I think I'll kick it off with a short story, one that has already been published in a rough draft elsewhere online.