tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6815305810694266712023-11-16T15:24:41.508+00:00under the gravel skiesAn almost complete history of the universe by me, Colin Kerris - cosmic bohemian, channeller of mysteries and terrifying government experiment gone wrong. Enjoy yourselves.
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-58872182183191080642016-01-30T19:00:00.002+00:002016-01-31T20:42:58.514+00:00Crunching the Super-Narrative – the Strange Case of James Casbolt, aka Michael Prince (of Lies) - Part 2 of 2<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG70CYaQOnctpPZssVsgbSvHMf6QDjmdOGmhcvCjY7Y80T03gU4t5xgdX82SjR9B5h-qUBLMZVfCO0ogEBPDdRRe5jQNqNy198jtJiPSNW-3cZquKptCGDwJdw7NrNvGFjV4hdRBZD9As/s1600/supriemrocekfeller020309.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG70CYaQOnctpPZssVsgbSvHMf6QDjmdOGmhcvCjY7Y80T03gU4t5xgdX82SjR9B5h-qUBLMZVfCO0ogEBPDdRRe5jQNqNy198jtJiPSNW-3cZquKptCGDwJdw7NrNvGFjV4hdRBZD9As/s400/supriemrocekfeller020309.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tonight, the part of James Casbolt’s clone will be played by
a young Tim Robbins.</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MICHAEL. PRINCE. IT’S A WHOLE NEW TAKE ON ‘BAD.’ [PART 2 OF
2]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the best of my knowledge – and in the gap of 5-or-so
years between his first two interviews with Miles Johnston – James
Casbolt, who at some point along the way
had started to do some more radio interviews and was becoming known by his
other name Michael Prince, became ‘discredited’ in certain online conspiracy
circles. Given that he had never provided any genuine concrete proof or
evidence of anything in the first place, one can only wonder exactly how such a
thing could happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in early 2007 (I am basing my dates here according to
comments on an old Above Top Secret forum discussing this matter) Casbolt
posted a number of images on his now-defunct website, which he offered as
evidence of his claims with regards to alien contact and cover-ups. Some of
these images started to circulate around the usual fringe ends of the internet.
I don’t personally recall seeing all of these images, but according to Miles
Johnston and other online commenters
(who are often the anonymous experts on these occasions), most of them
were very quickly debunked as either pre-existing UFO pics – some of these, I
believe being from the super-credible Meier/Adamski canon – or screen grabs
from episodes of The X-Files and other sci-fi shows. According to a commenter
on the ATS forum, Casbolt’s supposedly real photos of the interior of Dulce
Base – which had apparently been passed on to him by high-up secret government
sources – were swiftly identified as being from a perfectly innocuous
underground subway in Stockholm, Sweden. Casbolt had either been very gullible
in trusting his sources – as he later claims in the video interviews – or
extremely disingenuous in posting the
pictures in the first instance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another image attributed to Casbolt – of an allegedly Annunaki
being named ‘Lord Enlil’ – was soon identified as being a slightly altered
image of Zbigniew Brzezinski, the former United States National Security
Advisor to Jimmy Carter. What was so terrifyingly alien about the image?
Brzezinski’s eyes had been digitally slanted and shrunk down, to make them look
weird and creepy. One has to wonder how this image fooled the keen assassin’s
eye of Casbolt himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X8-w2BbSEd3ov6abxMrboqnl0-BbJ46LnHNLPwgZkJ-3nkqXL45YtRyJzBuhIYJvHTtEqV1est5VpYKlqBempRCOARlsL1R9wAZOgi5XEJYWuyfkvK5PaUmCvG1gI1Hg2S8UmNSs6fk/s1600/marduk.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X8-w2BbSEd3ov6abxMrboqnl0-BbJ46LnHNLPwgZkJ-3nkqXL45YtRyJzBuhIYJvHTtEqV1est5VpYKlqBempRCOARlsL1R9wAZOgi5XEJYWuyfkvK5PaUmCvG1gI1Hg2S8UmNSs6fk/s320/marduk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><i>“First The Project For The New American Century gets out and
now this.”</i></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A far more interesting – though similarly debunked – image
shows a profile shot of a peculiarly-hued woman who has either green or bright
white skin color depending on the image you happen to have stumbled across. For
some reason (no, I know the reason – it’s a reason called ‘the internet’) the
image seems frequently to be tagged as being that of an Annunaki-reptilian
hybrid – despite the text box attached to the image describing the species as a
‘Nordic’ or ‘Tall White’ – in other words, the typical humanoid-looking and
vaguely Scandinavian-in-appearance contactee-loving space people of yore.
Looking beyond the flattened catlike nose, Hitler hairdo and eerily menacing
glare of this alien woman, one is struck by a strange impression: she looks
like one of those blank-eyed, bony-featured supermodels you can see images of
online, wearing peculiar outfits seemingly not designed for humans. Indeed, an
ATS forum on this image quickly ID’d this extraterrestrial visitor as a likely
Photoshopping of a Polish model named Anja Rubik. There’s every possibility a
great many catwalk models are actually Nordic Tall Whites… but I suspect that’s
a heated discussion to be left for another day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vwE6EUuaj-pze36NnEKs1TpgPGMAAEyz5xA-1fb39_TfwUJ2WlEyoB0P24OEY476SusDsJBK_o_f3ztoCt9jAQwLODO2c9QRSHwZYvLWOolXS9uYg7uPGQQNrCLW1OYMYlX43Va6i3I/s1600/bed5d0f1a5cf.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vwE6EUuaj-pze36NnEKs1TpgPGMAAEyz5xA-1fb39_TfwUJ2WlEyoB0P24OEY476SusDsJBK_o_f3ztoCt9jAQwLODO2c9QRSHwZYvLWOolXS9uYg7uPGQQNrCLW1OYMYlX43Va6i3I/s320/bed5d0f1a5cf.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When super models go vegan.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both of these images came with textual references to an
organization going by the acronym SAALM. This, we are led to believe, stands
for ‘Supreme Annunaki Alliance of Lord Marduk.’ despite some nonsensical detail
about it online – which Casbolt was also unsurprisingly associated with –
needless to say, no such organization exists. (Unless it actually does. In
which case, I will obviously wind up looking like a right proper fool one day.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. At some point after his general debunking at the cynical
hands of the internet – or at least in the eyes of anyone who was paying his
story any cursory attention – Casbolt appeared to disappear from the conspiracy
sphere of the online world. As someone who had found his wild tales mildly
diverting, I assumed he was done with whatever wool he was pulling and had
retired from his parapolitical prankery for good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, in 2011, Casbolt made his return. His story
remained largely intact, but had now taken on a number of new dimensions. Let’s
look at some more aspects of how this epic has developed, as laid out by
Casbolt in his Bases 9 interview – which was released in mid-2011 – and the far
lengthier and more in-depth Bases 23, conducted between England and America via
Skype, which hit the intrawebs a few weeks ago. The 2011 interview sees some of
Casbolt’s more racially-fixated ideas begin to leak out which would be fully
laid out in the recent session: as he refers to ‘The Odinist Fellowship,’ whose
plan for the human race is to perpetuate endless warfare via Nazi brainwashing
and assassination. More on this in a moment. But first, another brain-boggling
claim from the Casbolt interviews….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1Ee58uSwktFXr2hmC8BztZoO1Jvfj2xkwXHzTC6PTR3swrfc2HaeLUNkaohzOduI8ZaaET-WwW8mrfBkK9OUsFdBbNUr0O99ipMDoUaAQzCaxYou2FSt6qzLs83o8RW5yFuqX3VEX-0/s1600/suprieminisrael040809.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1Ee58uSwktFXr2hmC8BztZoO1Jvfj2xkwXHzTC6PTR3swrfc2HaeLUNkaohzOduI8ZaaET-WwW8mrfBkK9OUsFdBbNUr0O99ipMDoUaAQzCaxYou2FSt6qzLs83o8RW5yFuqX3VEX-0/s400/suprieminisrael040809.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s Lawrence of Arabia–I mean Supriem Rockefeller.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently, there’s another guy out there who looks exactly
like James Casbolt. Or, more precisely, someone who is an actual clone of him.
This Casbolt doppelganger is Supriem Rockefeller – the alleged son of banker
David Rockefeller. A man who, like Casbolt, has supposedly made some elaborate
claims about being the antichrist who is set to soon usher in the End Times.
Some cursory internet investigation suggests that this younger
Rockefeller-cum-Lucifer Casbolt refers to is not related to that well-known
family in any way and is actually a conman and smalltime crook from Louisiana
called Kris Raynes. A number of photographs online that are purportedly of
‘Supriem’ appear to show one of either two things: that Raynes/Rockefeller
bears a quite uncanny resemblance to Casbolt/Prince – or that these pictures of
Raynes/Rockefeller are simply staged photos of Casbolt/Prince purporting to be
Supriem – a further two aliases for Casbolt to add to his list.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is one a creation of the other? And if so, which of these
four identities is real, and which are fake? Believe it or not, two book-length
texts exist online about this Supriem character alone – neither of which appear
to make any reference to his resemblance to Casbolt or their corresponding talk
of occult bloodlines and antichrist claims. This whole twist in Casbolt’s tale
seems designed to create further cognitive dissonance – and throw up more
unanswerable questions in the mind of anyone (such as myself) foolish enough to
attempt to delve into it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I really can‘t go into everything that’s in these videos.
You could always watch them yourself. Bases 23 itself comprises four parts, and
is nearly four hours in length. Watching the most recent 4-hour session, it
appears Casbolt’s relocation to the United States and time in the army has
brought about some changes for him. Once slight in figure, he has bulked up considerably
and now has the look of a bodybuilder, or nightclub bouncer. He also has a
frequent and pronounced smirk as he speaks, which marks a noticeable change
from his previous interviews, where he was almost completely emotionless in his
delivery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Six minutes into this interview you find out he’s actually
the chosen vessel for Lucifer. Or at least, some people think he is, if they’re
not thinking it’s Supriem Rockefeller. Jesus, Lucifer, and Thor are all one and
the same person – the Illuminati messiah – and Casbolt is one of the elite 42
individuals selected by the evil powers-that-be to become the antichrist spoken
of in ancient religious texts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fourth Reich Nazis are attacking the ‘racial melting pot’ of
the United States, and there is a forthcoming nuclear strike planned for the
American Midwest. Casbolt has chased an alien wolf in Malaysia, rogue
werewolves in South America and hunted an ‘octoform’ in England. He has an
ET-tech gun which he calls ’Drago’ and uses this to assassinate cyborgs. It
fires bullets which ‘are blessed by something to do with the Vatican.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While training with the US Army (of which he claims to have
been a member throughout 2012, although there appears to be no actual evidence
of this) he used the Spear of Destiny to levitate. He also clarifies that the
Forth Reich are ancient Reptilian cyborgs with cloned human skin. Oh – and
there are several time-traveling cyborg clones of him. And he has a photograph
taken recently of his military buddies standing with a man who might be Albert
Einstein. There’s psychics opening jump gates to travel through time and space.
He has cybernetic enhancements which relate to his Odinist bloodline, which are
made out of a cold fusion alloy mined on Iapetus, one of Saturn’s moons.
Casbolt was sent there to find this alloy, which is where he came into direct
conflict with giant diamond spiders, which are what you might expect them to be
from that description. Cybernetic reptilian limbs are sent through time by
Knights Templar in 1812, to be grafted onto human super soldiers in either the
present day, or the future of 2212. All of this adds up to the overall Nazi
plot to depopulate the Earth, ship all the non-Aryan people off-world to some
other place, and create a paradise planet where everyone walks around naked
having orgies all the time. Yep, that’s actually what’s going to happen. Hitler
surely would have approved. Oh – but then, he will probably drop by to see this
glorious new Reich for himself once it‘s been fully implemented. Seeing as how
he’s still alive and living somewhere near Aldebaran in the Taurus
constellation. (That is probably one of the least mad factoids Casbolt comes
out with.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Casbolt’s bloodline is massively important to this whole
saga. He explains that he can trace his ancestry back to the Spartans, the earliest Freemasons, the
tribes of Dan, the Merovingians and Atlantis. The Illuminati, as Casbolt
delineates it, is comprised of two warring bloodlines: the Jewish Zionists
descended from King David and Jesus, and the Fourth Reich Aryans who are white
Aryans descended from Odin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As to what side of the fence he’s on with regards to the two
sides of ‘the war’… well, that seems a mite tricky to pin down. In his first
interview from 2006, he alludes to Jewish ancestry and wears the Star of David.
Only now, explicitly discussing the agenda of the Fourth Reich Aryan Odinist
Nazis (to give them their full title) Casbolt seems now to be aligned with
whoever these modern far-right occultists are. Here’s a brief quote from him –
or, at least, someone alleging to be him – from his participation on a forum
discussing his claims on David Icke’s website: “But the Jew always thrives off
the back of another person’s work like a parasite.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yup. This poster professing to be Casbolt was recently
suspended from the forum due to his persistent and offensive racist diatribes.
I guess you know you’re making a mark on the conspiracy scene if even David
Icke’s people think you’re a bit extreme.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Casbolt goes on to better explain the Jewish Zionist agenda
on film – and I quote him now, from Bases 23, part one: “The Jew wanted to give the Black in America
prestige, like in the areas of sports and entertainment and that was
purposefully socially engineered so the Black could get prestige and interbreed
with White women and the plan was to submerge White blood by mixing the races.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He then goes on to refer to ‘Vril power in the blood’ and
claims the Jewish plot to bring about apocalyptic race war is laid out in the
protocols of the elders of Zion – not stopping for a second to acknowledge the
fact that this notorious anti-Semitic document was proven to be a racist hoax
which was picked up on and used as propaganda by the Nazi party during World
War II.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot of Casbolt’s ideas at this point seem to be very
heavily derived from the writings of Helena Blavatsky, particularly with
regards to her ideas about ‘root races.’ A word of warning – theosophy is
probably not the best place to go if you want to learn about racial politics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month or so ago, I was alerted to the fact that Casbolt
had an account on Facebook. Taking a look at his wall and postings, there
didn’t seem to be anything unusual to note – there was very little reference
made to his video claims and most of the posting seemed more to do with his
recently completed tour of duty in the US army. Checking back a few days later
though, I noticed post after post presumably written by Casbolt himself (or,
perhaps, one of his mind-controlled ‘alter’ personalities) containing screeds
of absolutely blatant, inflammatory, extremist-Neo-Nazi-type commentary. For
all Casbolt usually seems to remain more or less impartial with regards to his
take on ‘the race issue,’ there was
little ambiguity to be worked through in these Facebook comments. Perhaps
fortuitously to my cause – and as I was already compiling notes for this
article – I cropped some of his declarations for posterity. According to these
statements on his Facebook wall, any person who wasn’t White should bow down
and serve him. Women were inferior to men and should only exist ‘to pleasure
their husbands in the bedroom.’ He also went on to call all Black people
‘jungle bunnies’ and ‘a genetic accident due to interbreeding with monkeys.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days after these postings, Casbolt’s Facebook account
had been shut down. I have no knowledge of why.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The issue of culturally available scripts needs to be
addressed again. Casbolt’s whole story reads like a cobbled-together collage of
any number of fictional sci-fi narratives. If some talented writers were to
reassemble the super soldier material and the drama of the Illuminati bloodline
war, then they’d be on to a smash hit in whatever medium the narrative was
disseminated. But then – isn’t that exactly what’s happening here?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given his professed Norse heritage, mightn’t Loki the
trickster-god perhaps be working through Casbolt, helping to accelerate the
novelty? Are we witnessing the birthing of a new mythology here? One that will
swallow up occult Nazism, global lizard takeover, grey alien abduction and
every other twist and turn of conspiracy lore?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or has Casbolt been fed contradicting timelines and
philosophies, with no one taking the time to explain to him that they when
crashed together, these narratives wouldn’t all pan out and gel coherently
together, like real stuff in real life? Is he a patsy, now compromised by the
conspiracy, another Bill Cooper, Paul Bennewitz, or Bob Lazar figure? Are
anonymous parties taking advantage of Casbolt’s possible mental illness, and
providing him with ‘exclusive’ information that props up, justifies, and
reinforces his warped worldview? Maybe he was loony before he started releasing
his ‘life story’ – but now he’s even loonier in a different fashion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Casbolt appears now to draw every little snippet of his
script from UFO and alien conspiracy hyperbole, far-right extremist rhetoric,
religious, mystical and occult lore, pop culture undercurrents and multifarious
fringe ideologies all stemming from the last few hundred years of human history
and just ties it all up… and puts a big bow on top.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. Where’s the root truth? Maybe some of what Casbolt,
Stanga, and others say is true, I hear you wonder. But how can we separate fact
from fiction, truth from lies? I think that’s the key problem. You can’t.
There’s simply too much of this to parse. Any actual potential nuggets of truth
get lost in the layers of mental illness, thinly-veiled bigotry, made-up stuff
and sucked-up cultural disinfo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed, the immense epic Casbolt presents sees him
suggesting at one point in the most recent interview that the Marvel superhero
movies of the last few years were in fact based on the government programs that
were designed years before to turn him into a cyborg super spy. Alas, Casbolt
may perhaps be genuinely unaware of the fact that the super-powered likes of
the X-Men and their ilk have been around in comics since the 60’s. Similarly,
when Miles Johnston raises the perhaps obvious synchronicity of the number 42
figuring in the elite’s plans being a number that is used for great comic
effect in Douglas Adams’s Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy – Casbolt claims to
have never heard of the joke that ‘42’ is the answer to life, the universe and
everything. Which came first, the chicken or… the story about the chicken?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But – to Devil’s Advocate this up again – assuming every
word is true – what can any of us do about it all? Casbolt offers no solutions
to this saga of terror, other than warning that we’ve got roughly 20 years left
till the full plan comes to fruition. Prince of Clowns or Prince of Lies,
Prince Casbolt shrugs his way out of it, consistently using phrases like ‘I
think,’ ‘I believe so,’ and ‘I believe’ (although given that there’s less
discussion of bases here, he seems no longer to be so ‘basically’ minded) – as if even he’s not really sure of how all
the puzzle pieces in this lumbering timeline of Draconian deeds and ubermensch
Sturm un Drang fit together. We merely follow him, plunging ever further into
this primal, Jungian Shadow-side of the alien phenomenon, awaiting apocalypse
or worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can take into account certain factors relating to the
solidification of this super-narrative. It seems likely that it has in some way
been squashed into a more coherent shape in recent years by the ever-advancing
algorithms of the internet and the proliferation of such extensive testimony of
unverified – and unverifiable – eyewitnesses to high strangeness – both
credible and incredible. Eventually, the online linking and clicking of the
worried and dispossessed draw the conflicting and contradictory threads and
tangents of the stories closer together; until the point when they begin to
knit, intersect and become almost indistinguishable from one another, like a
beautiful but mad patchwork quilt threaded together from a million different
types of material.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this is where we stand now with the problem of ufology:
right in the middle of a world where Nordic space sisters, baby-eating
Reptiloids, time-traveling space Nazis, cyborg super soldiers, cloned Grey
MILABs, 9/11, JFK and religious
cover-ups are all part of the same epic, Ragnarokian, comic book End Times
crossover.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We must protect ourselves from the assimilating evil of the
super-narrative. It would be wise to find our own answers and try to keep them
simple and true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if you ever find yourself battling giant spiders on one
of Saturn’s moons, don’t worry. That is just a dream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
__________<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Colin Reid is a writer with a long-held interest in
paranormal, fringe and ufological topics. He does various things in the world
and he might have a novel coming out this year. He will also soon be
video-blogging his own actual thoughts out into the wider world of the
internet. He can be contacted via Facebook where he uses his mind-controlled
alter-personality name of Colin Spiderboris Reid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Credit is due to Project Psycube and the members of the
Altered-Soldier Facebook group for invaluable research assistance and support
during the writing of this article.)<o:p></o:p></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-27112209340104566872016-01-30T18:29:00.002+00:002016-01-31T20:43:21.218+00:00Crunching the Super-Narrative – the Strange Case of James Casbolt, aka Michael Prince (of Lies) - Part 1 of 2(new intro)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbRrnq6UWT_ALzF88WUkJr7W1ilfvT2UusvEEljTZZQg3hafq-ODxr6oflMKQuHmkI_ZkizqHdes1GD_kyAOyL1gdLFiVex6xjMAi0B-9V9afBnoE88MachJEjjlJ6iC5wCucQFHiA8w/s1600/bases-4-part-1-james-casbolt-matt-todd-075.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbRrnq6UWT_ALzF88WUkJr7W1ilfvT2UusvEEljTZZQg3hafq-ODxr6oflMKQuHmkI_ZkizqHdes1GD_kyAOyL1gdLFiVex6xjMAi0B-9V9afBnoE88MachJEjjlJ6iC5wCucQFHiA8w/s320/bases-4-part-1-james-casbolt-matt-todd-075.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Combining bits of every conspiracy theory ever told into one
“true story” of which you are the star? BAD IDEA.<br />
<br />
THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS MICHAEL PRINCE SINGS A FAMILIAR SONG. OR TWO. OR EIGHTEEN. [PART 1 OF 2]<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me tell you a story. A really big, complicated story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s this guy called James Casbolt. Originally from
London but now living in San Antonio, Texas, Casbolt – who nowadays prefers to
be known by his birth name, Michael Prince – is a seemingly mild-mannered,
softly-spoken fellow who first emerged onto the online conspiracy scene back in
2005, when he began posting chapters of what later became his ‘autobiography’
on his now-defunct website and in a variety of other places. This text, either
titled ‘Michael Casbolt MI6 Buried Alive’
or, to give it its catchier moniker, ‘Agent Buried Alive’ was a short
but lurid volume which is still available online in certain corners of the
internet, or as a free downloadable PDF book. In his 2006 account, Casbolt
details the circumstances of his younger years spent as a mind-controlled and
brainwashed agent of various sinister worldwide intelligence agencies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The central thread of Casbolt’s claim is that he was trained
and eventually used by these aforementioned agencies as a genetically,
cybernetically, and psychically enhanced sleeper assassin – essentially, some
real-life fusion of Wolverine and James Bond – who was tasked with taking out
security threats to his masters’ enemies and killing drug dealers and
terrorists while he was at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJltLt0LNK2eOjn4Jfv7lTIYBSzsqmk_al94xDWzhmJF4Q574MEPKwLdpGeyajfGZRedbrJawwSncizuk8A2TuIcihhGVcOcr4YoVGlW3eEEeqzshOO-SZI1wzJcybk4PinE65eZBJ3k/s1600/s53.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJltLt0LNK2eOjn4Jfv7lTIYBSzsqmk_al94xDWzhmJF4Q574MEPKwLdpGeyajfGZRedbrJawwSncizuk8A2TuIcihhGVcOcr4YoVGlW3eEEeqzshOO-SZI1wzJcybk4PinE65eZBJ3k/s400/s53.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can trust me: I
kinda look like that dude from ‘Lost.'”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I had read Casbolt’s accounts in detail myself a
good few years ago, upon revisiting ‘Agent Buried Alive’ – in light of watching
a recent series of video interviews with Casbolt – I was initially surprised to
realize that I had failed to notice this was the same guy who had come out with
the same dense, multilayered conspiracy narrative I had read about several
years before. For me, the original roots of these narratives had blurred in my
remembering of them to form part of a vast, over-arcing super-narrative the
ufological world seems to have gotten itself into of late.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it seems this blurring of narratives isn’t just going on
in the my head as a follower of these stories. It seems the oracles have gotten
their facts mixed up in the fiction too. Before you judge me for making what
sounds like a potentially brain-bending story even more brain-bending than
it needs to be… well, ultimately we have
James Casbolt to blame for that. As you’ll come to understand, fact-checking
any element of the Casbolt/Prince accounts – or indeed keeping track of his
distinctly loopy timeline – is a tricky and slippery business to pursue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then: let’s skip straight to the facts of this tricky
and slippery business. James Casbolt has been conducting this series of
extensive video interviews with Miles Johnston who is a UK-based investigator
into a variety of fringe topics and one of the founders of the organization
AMMACH (an acronym for ‘Anomalous Mind Management and Contactee Helpline’). One
of Casbolt’s most remarkable claims sees him casually confessing on camera
that, while he was under the control of his personality-altering mental
programming, he believes he killed roughly 200 people. If we can set aside the
deeply problematic issue of this man calmly admitting to murder for a second…
we’ll discover that his Bondian hijinks are only the tip of the iceberg.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of his all-important familial and racial lineage,
Casbolt was selected prior to his birth to become part of the semi-mythical
‘Project Mannequin’ under the directions of factions of MI6 and the CIA. This
project, supposedly run by the NSA, is to quote Casbolt, a “mind control and
genetic manipulation program,” which is centered around the AL/499 facility, an
alleged secret underground base located somewhere roughly beneath the village
of Peasemore in Berkshire, England. According to Casbolt (and some other
corroborating accounts which we’ll come to in due course) the Peasemore base is
a dark haven of MK-ULTRA brainwashing where “programmable generated life forms”
– essentially, the Greys – are created in genetic labs. This base is also where
abducted children and adults are tortured, programmed, conditioned, and killed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Essentially then, Peasemore base is the British equivalent
of the notorious Dulce base in New Mexico – and shares many of the same horror
show accounts of child sacrifice, alien experiments, and attendant Reptilian
overlords. That is… if we are to believe these accounts, or indeed, if we are
to believe that such bases even exist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And here begins the epic crossover. Casbolt’s accounts of
occult Nazi-derived, CIA-patented mind-control programs specifically echo the
accounts of Fritz Springmeier, Arizona Wilder and Cathy O’Brien among others.
Stories of fringe figures who have alleged dark deeds done to them by
Illuminati agents in order to slowly bring about the evil agenda of the New
World Order.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This isn’t just a story about an underground base, though.
The dizzying width and breadth of Casbolt’s first written account takes in
references to all of the following: the Illuminati and childhood sexual abuse;
teenage drug trafficking; the Kabbala, occult freemasonry, and the Nephilim;
hypnotic triggers, mind-wipes and his ability to see radio waves; getting
buried in a coffin filled with snakes as an 8-year old, later teenage violence,
juvenile delinquency and his time in a young offenders’ institution… all of
this leading up to Casbolt carrying out his first assassination, at a mere 16
years of age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But beyond this confounding grab bag of paranoiac scenarios,
what immediately becomes suspicious about Casbolt’s account? Possibly it’s the
fact that his story has changed and mutated from that of an account told by an
innocent brainwashed victim of these nefarious mind control programs, as laid
out in his 2006 book (which he concludes by speaking of his benevolent
relationship with the ‘good’ Pleadian aliens), to that of an elistist
controller of information and a disseminator of confused but clearly racist
propaganda, where Casbolt shows his true colors by repeatedly using a number of
public forums to blame “The Jew” and all nonwhite people for most of humanity’s
ills.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miles Johnston, Casbolt’s interviewer during the so-called
‘Bases’ videos – who presents his interviewees’ often shockingly dark and/or
insane-sounding tales not as pure fact but more as fragmented pieces of a wider
puzzle – has suggested in at least one other online presentation that he
believes Casbolt may have plagiarized his tales of the Peasemore base directly
from Johnston’s own first Bases interview, originally recorded way back in 1995
and re-released online in 2010. In the first Bases interview, Barry King – who
claims to have worked as a security officer at the base for several years
during the 70s and early 80s – recounts information almost identical to
Casbolt’s initial testimony. King and Casbolt both seem to concur that
Peasemore – and similar other installations – are controlled by a hidden Nazi
presence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
National Socialism figures heavily into and forms one of the
central threads of Casbolt’s endlessly baffling saga. And a saga it is – going
all the way back to King David, Norse Gods, and Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Already I can sense you prickling with suspicion and
intrigue at all this thrilling and disturbing information. I’m sure you’re
thinking, Hang on… What do you mean… and similar frantic, unfinished questions…
Well, hang on a little longer – the rabbit hole has hardly even been fully dived
down yet. Plus we haven’t even got to the bit where Casbolt fights giant
spiders on one of Saturn’s moons. Or the part with the time-travelling cyborg
Nazi Reptilians. Or the werewolves. Believe me, it gets very complicated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Casbolt’s first video interview was recorded on the fly at a
UFO conference held at a college in Truro, Cornwall in 2005. In the interview –
which appears to have been largely unplanned and is recorded in a hallway with
some amount of background chatter going on nearby – Casbolt further elaborates
on his accounts – calmly explaining the grim bleakness of his dark life in a
measured and fairly emotionless tone. Here, we might observe Casbolt’s demeanor
a little, as it will turn out to contain several clues. He wears a Star of David
around his neck. With one hand he incessantly clutches a bottle of water; with
the other, he gestures as he speaks – seemingly performing subliminal Nazi
salutes. Miles Johnston made this observation with regards to the salutes
elsewhere online – and unbelievably, both of these seemingly random and perhaps
preposterous elements do factor into the wider story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That reminds me: before we non sequitur our way to the
diamond spiders from Saturn (David Bowie would be proud), here’s a potentially
interesting linguistic thread to derail the saga….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon slogging through the hellish punishment of this and
later video interviews with Casbolt, I began to notice that he makes repeated
use of a particular lexical filler. Put simply, this is a word, sound, or
generic phrase most of us will use in conversation as a
mechanically-rattled-off placeholder, which unconsciously slips out when we’re
temporarily lost for words. We frequently use such an expression as an emphatic utterance to reemphasize our
point of view. It is spat out to try and keep the audience hooked onto our
voice so those we are communicating with don’t lose connection to our
communication, as we battle like animals to re-stake our claim to agency onto
the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The word Casbolt frequently repeats is ‘Basically.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, indeed, you might feel inclined to inquire at this
point… ‘basically…’ what’s so significant about that generally meaningless
spoken word used here by Casbolt? What on Earth could the word ‘BASE-ically’
have to do with secret underground… BASEs?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay. So Casbolt repeats the word ‘base’ all the time. Even
when he’s not actually talking about bases… in a series of video interviews
called… Bases.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, now. That’s really not that interesting, right? Surely
we’re clutching at straws here, by hinting at some NLP-style subliminal
programming? Am I just guilty of noticing some accidental pareidolia here? The
recognition of seeming patterns and hitherto-unexplored possible connections
between things that might not actually exist? Is this synchronicity, or mere
pattern recognition? More on this in a moment.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjocn5ucZnZxZBnSS5YFHCmFxHXUQEK2FDNyL5k-usHlJFoEWCaYVnPKNyJOgqVsRBDpnGTpqVOqknGYtEaNtRVjBAmiyc-tyag1sOA8fx33fLPd0m9KhBx4IY3cQ26Mvymr_YUV77OrI/s1600/ss.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjocn5ucZnZxZBnSS5YFHCmFxHXUQEK2FDNyL5k-usHlJFoEWCaYVnPKNyJOgqVsRBDpnGTpqVOqknGYtEaNtRVjBAmiyc-tyag1sOA8fx33fLPd0m9KhBx4IY3cQ26Mvymr_YUV77OrI/s320/ss.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
"it's not mental illness if they believe it"<br />
<br />
Stepping sideways for a moment away from Casbolt and his self-reflecting meta-saga – which has barely got going at this point yet has far-reaching consequences – let’s take a look at another interviewee of the Bases series of videos who first appeared online at the beginning of 2012. Sarah Stanga is a youngish British citizen who, like Casbolt, makes wild claims of being taken to secret underground bases at various locations around the world as a child and tortured as part of Illuminati mind-control programs to create potential super soldiers. Her accounts also bring in a heavy dose of Satanic and ritual black magic, as well as the use of ancient alien stargates to summon dark, demonic beings into this human realm.<br />
Retelling both Stanga’s and Casbolt’s accounts at length – as well as attempting to take into account all of the other base visitors who have gone on record in recent years – would take all year and far too much of your no-doubt valuable time. Suffice it to say that both of their accounts – and those of several other AMMACH interviewees, not all of whom are based in the UK – cross over and share a notable number of synchronous details.<br />
In her AMMACH interview Bases 10 – The Sarah Stanga Blogs, Stanga tells her extraordinary story of how her life was all-but destroyed by gangstalking and gaslighting – these being specific terms for organized stalking and coordinated harassment – carried out by Illuminati witches, negative astral entities, Draco reptilians, and a seemingly endless parade of elements related to alien interference, Monarch mind control and Satanic ritual abuse. Watching Stanga’s interview and any portion of her blogs, one can’t help but be struck by a number of things. Firstly – and by her own admission – Stanga clearly has certain mental health issues and has in the past had issues with drug and alcohol abuse. Indeed, unlike the reserved yet coolly confident Casbolt. everything about Stanga’s mannerisms, speech patterns, and body language scream out the pain of someone who is still desperately mentally unwell – or at the very least, still deeply troubled by a number of psychological problems. As Stanga records her thoughts in the blogs, she frequently mentions or alludes to unseen entities around her in the room, which we are told are attempting to psychically attack her.<br />
Oh – and the other tellingly weird thing about Stanga, which brings us back around to Casbolt, who she name-checks as a victim of the same clandestine military programs she suffered under?<br />
Drumroll please…<br />
She says ‘basically.’ A hell of a lot.<br />
So much so that, after a fashion, it starts to sound like a sort of Tourette’s on her part. And yes – she does talk about bases. But not as much as she repeats that word. Basically.<br />
So what’s my ‘basic’ point here? Are these ‘baseless’ allegations? Watching a number of the interviews carried out by the AMMACH folks in the last few years (and yes, there is a great number of them, done at great length – but don’t worry, dear reader, I watched them so you don’t have to…) several things become apparent which I feel I should draw attention to.<br />
More than a few of the interviewees constantly repeat the word ‘basically’ (though none with as much frequency as Stanga). This may mean absolutely nothing, but I find it strangely suggestive of some weird trickster element sneaking into the mix: the playful messing of some buried intelligence, attempting to rise to the surface to pass comment on the bleak supernatural weirdnesses these troubled characters allude to.<br />
Disregard these ‘baseless’ observations for a moment. Let’s vector in on the personally subjective psychology of these individuals. And for the time being, I’m going to go absolutely crazy and extend this once-in-a-lifetime offer to ALL UFO/alien/spirit/channeled intelligence contactees and experiencers. That’s it… dontcha feel special right now? I’ve singled you all out!<br />
IF we assume SOME of these people are not ALL completely crazy (an issue I’ll touch on properly in a second) then what does this odd subliminal affirmation of the ‘basic’ ‘existence’ of bases mean? Have some of these individuals truly been through psyops-related experiments into perception management? Is this why they appear – to those who choose to notice anyway – to have been seemingly conditioned to constantly reaffirm their personal truth to themselves and others… ‘Basically?’ Might Casbolt and Stanga be confused, troubled individuals who have genuinely seen strange goings-on in relation to classified military experiments, but have then had their memories altered, causing them to recount partially or entirely untrue fairy tales, built out of the fantastically assembled fragments of culturally available scripts?<br />
Here, we can easily flash back to any number of classic contact cases to examine the context of those who have possibly been compromised by the powers-that-be….<br />
See: Whitley Strieber – with his history of military connections… his professional life as a horror fantasist; and then, his communion with the alien unknown.<br />
See, also: Barney and Betty Hill. As with Casbolt, there is a buried secret military Nazi-psyops undercurrent to their seemingly random, yet weirdly famous encounter.<br />
See, also: The Rendle-SHAM Forest incident of December 1980. (nb. – accidental capitalization may be intentional.) Observe. Time-travel? Psyops? MIB interrogation? Creepy US government goings-on on foreign soil? Check, check and check again.<br />
But these are just some ‘Devil’s Advocate’ examples. I’ve designed them to support a vague and largely implacable consistency in contact accounts – that of unforgivable interference in the ‘pure’ ‘alien’ encounter by government agencies – these agencies being agencies unknown and not fully understood by the good ordinary peoples of the world.<br />
Let’s swing back to that guy Casbolt for a second….<br />
Here’s a further theory as we continue to plummet into the rabbit hole. This might seem evident when taking into account Casbolt’s strangely calm and subdued manner when recounting such disturbing and plain bizarre tales. Might he, in actuality, be a hired gun of some implacable higher intelligence agency? An actor of sorts, tasked with disseminating targeted disinformation, designed to discredit or smear those investigating parties who attempt to report or retell his accounts?<br />
Some of the individuals involved might very possibly be schizotypal or suffering from other medically diagnosable personality or mood disorders. So many of Sarah Stanga’s symptoms, for example her hearing voices taunting her and seeing menacing, dark shadow figures all around – along with her perceiving everyone as watching her, or literally, ‘ganging up’ to plot against her – certainly suggest mild to high levels of mania coupled with a degree of delusional or paranoid thinking – maybe even a drug-induced psychotic break.<br />
Of course one of the oldest skeptical arguments against extreme claims of alien and/or government conspiracy is the simple summing-up that anyone making such claims is automatically a confused, psychotic nut job… and should of course be immediately discounted.<br />
But then in attempting to counter the skeptical argument – which I‘d suggest isn’t entirely warranted in looking at some of these ‘paranoid’ cases – I feel it might be pertinent to consider the words of that other troubled fellow, Kurt Cobain, who once so sagely snarled, “Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you.”<br />
We all know governments lie and make shit up. Was MK-ULTRA a real thing? Was there a Project Paperclip? Are there secret underground military installations the public knows very little about the exact location and purpose of, the world over? Have individuals who are seemingly perfectly sane in every other way had encounters with apparently nonhuman entities and suffered confused mental states and altered perceptions as a consequence of such perceived encounters?<br />
I’ll assume we concur in the answer to all of the questions posed above. But before you run away screaming, trying to escape the encroaching associated madness before it consumes you… no: I’m not about to conclude that just because all this corresponding talk of alien lairs and satanic shenanigans seems to add up and hang together as a coherent narrative, then that makes it all true. Personally, I find both Casbolt and Stanga’s accounts highly suspect for a number of reasons.<br />
What this in fact does lead up is the key problem of this developing super-narrative: a huge, ever-pulsating and semi-fictionalized amalgamation of nigh-on every conspiracy theory known to humankind (and beyond) that nowadays works like a gigantic snowball rolling down a very big hill, picking up all the little pieces of worrisome weirdness that fall into its inexorable path. This is the super-narrative that has been emerging in these accounts of Casbolt, Stanga and so many UFO conspiracy ‘whistleblowers’ who have emerged in recent years.<br />
To be continued…<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-64363842951485900382016-01-23T23:56:00.001+00:002016-01-23T23:56:34.274+00:00A Clean Break<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
we</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">re
all at the party and everyone</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s having a right laugh. Gus has drank all of the beer,
which is no surprise. So Tahir breaks out the whisky. I don</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t even drink
whisky. So of course, like a normal person, I decide to have a little bit of
whisky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s about now
that I start to wonder what I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m doing in the ambulance. They</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">re taking me
somewhere, right? Are we going back to Stirling? We must be - surely. That</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s what I told
them. We can</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t
still be in Edinburgh. That would be ridiculous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s all these
posters on the walls saying stuff about your health and how you should look out
for it. Diagrams and cross-sections of bodies. Parties are bad for you. It</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s strangely
upsetting. The main one I notice seems all alive, like some three-dimensional
hologram. A baby in the womb. I think it was kind of cartoony - like, this baby</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s happy about
the fact it hasn’t been born yet. In my confused state, I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m saying all
these things to whoever</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s
wheeling me along the corridor: stuff about how sad it is for the baby that it
has to be born at all. I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m
just talking at this stage. My mind feels divorced from my body. Like someone
else is talking through me, trying to rationalize what</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s going on. I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m probably in
shock. Is that what happens when you</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">re in shock? I thought maybe you went all quiet.
Well, anyway. I was doing the opposite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
weird thing about hospitals, I find, is how dark they are. I think it</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s to do with
the strip-lighting? They</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve
got, like, millions of lights but there</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s these strange shadows everywhere. In all the
corners. Maybe that</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s
just at night though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
they keep telling me to relax: everything</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s fine. They sound like police. I just keep
apologizing. I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m
sorry for wasting everyone</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s time, they must have tons more important stuff to do
tonight, sorry for being an idiot. I was just leaving the party - and next
thing you know, I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m
at the bottom of the stairwell! So I must</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve fallen and tried to get back up again - and
the leg wasn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t
working so I fell down again! I must</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve been trying to find my way out of the
stairwell and someone found me. So I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m saying sorry for all that. Sorry for the baby.
I must</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve
sounded like a complete fucking lunatic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
nurse is x-raying my ankle. Actually, she does both </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">cos I don</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t think I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve managed to
make it clear which one of them I think I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ve broken. They do that weird thing where they
half step out of the room holding onto the button, so they don</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t get killed
by radiation. The baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So,
yeah, it was a crazy night all right. Luckily it was a clean break. They put
the plaster on: a little work of art. But you know all about that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After
all the drinking. After the crash. The baby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-36208720478647773782016-01-23T23:55:00.001+00:002016-01-23T23:55:46.480+00:00Swim<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We
went as far as the car would take us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">By
the time we had walked up to the cliff top it was approaching dusk. It’s a nice
spot for picnics, I’m told. You can see all the way to Europe. When we used to
go there as a child, I would always go down to the beach and swim. One time, I
recall my parents being in an awful panic because they thought they’d lost me.
I’d been out of their line of sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
cliff top was bare and featureless. Beyond it, just the vast black shape of the
sea. One of them was there, as expected, to meet us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It
looked like a woman at first. As we stepped closer, we observed that it seemed
to be clad in tattered, dirty-looking garments that hung closely about its
person, like drapes. Its face was covered almost entirely with some sort of
shawl. Its features weren’t visible. They prefer to hide. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Perhaps
it was male. Perhaps intersex. You can never quite tell. It made motions with
its hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Oh
yes - before I forget. I’d like to take a moment to thank <b>[REDACTED]</b> for
letting us speak this evening. I must say, I’m very pleased with the turnout.
I’m glad so many of you could find it in your no-doubt busy schedule to come
out tonight. It’s pleasing to see so many well-respected individuals and
researchers in the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But
now. I want to tell you what it told me. I have here the piece of paper. A
message. This was left in my sister’s house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One
day they came to her door. The children. Asking to be let in. She was kind, my
sister - and did. They ran into her house. Ran to where the water was - then
disappeared. Their eyes were a deep watery black. Now they were inside. My
sister found the note in the bathroom. There was nothing on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That
evening on the hill, a deal was brokered. Like so many deals. If you swim, your
water is theirs. Your blood is theirs. And we heard the voices from below,
calling us. Calling for our kin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That
skeptic professor speaking earlier tonight, you may recall? He mentioned
Capgras delusion - a condition where sufferers believe friends and relatives
have been replaced by strange impostors? He classified it as a mental
aberration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well.
I was never replaced. It is not replacement. More… repurposing. It doesn’t
matter if you die. If bones are broken, they can be reshaped. During the fall. Once they take your corpse
beneath, the reshaping begins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">138
people in this room tonight. You have all swam in those waters. For your
complicity, you will each lose kin. Where your loved ones are, we are now too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tonight,
you can all go home. You are safe; all spared. But when the call comes, the
call to drive to the sea, you will go. For we must all return. To swim.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-72606185100021951782016-01-22T23:54:00.002+00:002016-01-22T23:55:35.895+00:00Rich<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">I’m
rich. Rich, you see. It’s quite funny, really.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That’s
the card. The magic card. I was just leaving my flat. It was about ten in the
morning and I was going to pick up the medication for Patti. And there it was
lying just outside my door at the edge of the pavement. Someone could easily
not have seen it and just kicked it into the gutter. It could have wound up
going down the nearest drain. Been lost.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s
been a hard year, you see. I was unemployed for quite a long time. That sort of
thing of thing can really bring you down when you’re applying for jobs - going
to those long stressful interviews when they’re all quizzing you about how you
respond in various situations. And you think you’ve done really well and then
you never even get the job. A nightmare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There
was the holiday I was wanting to go on. Was going to take Patti if she was well
enough. Haven’t had a break in ages. Then of course there was Jared’s wedding I
was supposed to be paying for. That was all arranged.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
I picked it up. Just out of concern you know. Mainly because I assumed someone
had dropped it and lost it. And it was my name written on the card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But
it wasn’t any card I had lost. Not my bank. It looked like a proper bank card.
My friend Janet’s with that bank, I’ve seen her card, I mean, it looks
identical - with the little hologram and everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
I thought I’d just test it. Make sure I wasn’t forgetting. So I took it to the
cash point in the high street, the one I usually go to. Put in my usual
four-digit PIN code.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s
quite simple really. You go to any cash point or into any bank. Insert your
card into the machine. Most of them have a 200 pound limit. Some are 300,
though. Nice little windfall, I found myself saying to Patti. We’ll certainly
be able to afford the break now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
really I’ve been able to live quite comfortably for the last few months. There
was no limit on it. No limit at all. It always just said ten grand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It
was that just that one time I went to a clothes shop. Cos I’ve really been
meaning to get some new gear for a while now. For the trip. And the wedding, of
course. And the medicine isn’t cheap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So
I was at the checkout and the girl was adding everything up. As I recall it
about 180 quid. Not that much really. So I hand the cash over - cos I only pay
in cash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then
she said… this isn’t real money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I looked at the notes. Dated,
stamped… dirty and crumpled - some torn, taped back up in the middle. Official
signatures. Proper money! This country! Legal tender!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.1pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
didn’t know it wasn’t real money all along. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-642800216257296392016-01-21T10:10:00.000+00:002016-01-21T10:56:04.397+00:0018th Birthday Diary<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Got
my 6<sup>th</sup> year dissertation handed in, on my birthday of all days. The
only person who said happy birthday to me was the new English teacher, Miss
(Deleted). She’s really young and also seriously sexy. We don</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t get her for
English but Stevie said he had her once and she was talking about how much she
was into the Smiths! Also - she wears these really low-cut tops. There was one
day last year I was off -Christopher Guthrie said he dropped his pencil on
purpose and she bent down to pick it up for him and she wasn’t wearing a bra
and he SAW EVERYTHING. I cannot believe I was off that day. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Christopher
is a bit of a weirdo though. He used to sit in History class scratching out
‘Satan stars’ on the desktop - even though what he was actually drawing was the
Jewish star of David. And that certainly doesn’t have anything to do with the
occult. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Went
to the common room where I chatted for a bit with Simon. I don’t know how he
managed to get off with Naomi who is actually sort of okay. Nothing he says is
ever actually all that funny, although he does have alright taste in music.
Today we were swapping Kula Shaker singles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I’ve
decided Cara is weird. We usually walk home together now, cos she lives just
down the street from me. I don</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t know why but she laughs hysterically at everything I
say. Sure, I am really funny (unlike Simon). But no one’s that funny. She
reminds me a bit of Stacey with the scar on her cheek who disappeared and no
one knows where she is now. She also used to laugh hysterically. Especially
that one time she tricked me into going carol-singing.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Gavin is also weird. We were walking home again and he came up to me and whispered: </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">“</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Do you think
you’re something special? Well, let me tell you this - you</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">re not. You
are nothing! you are</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> a
piece of SHIT!” Then he ran off at great speed. He says he has to get home so
he can watch the snooker. I’ve never been interested in snooker.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Printed
out the 12 poems I wrote yesterday. Plus, the novel</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s really
coming along. Hopefully by the time I</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">m about 21, I</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ll be a famous published writer and making a
living out of it, so I won</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t have to keep applying for terrible jobs. And there</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s university
to look forwards to.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s looking
like Labour might get into power in May. Tony Blair is definitely going to be a
good prime minister. He</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
actually kind of young, compared to most politicians. Plus, apparently if he
gets elected, I might have a better chance of getting a job. Result!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I
think my brother is still a witch. Gavin said he saw him up the woods drinking
beer and wearing a dog collar. Even worse than that - he</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;">s still
listening to Bjork. I HATE Bjork.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-23043848076576270422016-01-21T09:35:00.001+00:002016-01-21T10:53:33.879+00:00Aesthar: Dream of Mad Gods (Part 2 of 2)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">There</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">s only one
thing for it.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
Aesthar concluded as the cascading bug-bombs she had just unleashed brilliantly
desecrated the glowing infrastructure that stood as the last defence of the
higher city</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">s
upper echelons. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">I</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">m going to
have to blow up the Scottish Parliament.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">’</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Wait.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> McPuck
hesitated in her ear. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Has
anybody voted on this? Aesthar, this is not in the mission log! Repeat -’<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">This is not
in the mission log,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Aesthar repeated. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I
know.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Tearing down through the troposphere, Aesthar set her coordinates for the
crazy-pavement citadel far below that called itself Parliament. Like good
astral bodyguards, her trusty memshards spun around her, negging and scattering
only the most critical of wildlife. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">If I can get inside I can find the Problem. We
know it</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
located in the central hub of the building. Radical explosives might be the
only option.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">She
drop-kicked a caterzilla that had swung too close by. The creature</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s head
exploded, leaving its many-segmented body to writhe wildly around her. Like a
shoal of piranhas, the memshards swirled back into her vicinity and rapidly
consumed the unfortunate entity</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s remains, filtering its essence safely back into the
unrealms. The </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">shards
didn</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t
always have their eye on the ball; too easily distracted by the swirling lights
below. Aesthar was going to have to try to keep them on a tighter leash.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">If</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
you can get inside.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Now McPuck was exasperated. This would reflect badly on him if the mission went
kaput. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">How
exactly do you intend to get in? The memshards dissipate at ground level. You</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ll be on your
own! How on Earth do you intend to breach the building</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s defences?
The Problem is heavily guarded!</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">We</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">re not on
Earth anymore,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Aesthar countered; regrettably aware that they were, after a fashion. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Toto,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> she added,
knowing that McPuck would almost certainly not get the reference.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Fucking
Wizard of Oz, very fucking clever!</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> You don</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t get one over on me, Mistress Smarty-Pants.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
line had failed to go over his head. Aesthar was momentarily disappointed by
her wit.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">An
itinerant jellycloud filled her field of vision. After having to make a
last-minute, split-second landing calculation, Aesthar was forced to punch the
beast in the head - or at least, in what she thought probably had to be the
head. Jellyclouds had no fixed form that could be easily defined - generally
they were placid and docile but if unexpectedly cornered, they were quick to
encircle their opponent in a rubbery grasp that often led to eventual digestion
in wherever the creature</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
digestive areas were. If it was necessary to
pacify them, by and large it was best to go for the beak. If you could find
which area of a jellycloud contained that.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
jellycloud made a foosh of disagreement and liquefied away. Pointing herself in
the opposite direction from a nearby kindle of cat-things, Aesthar readjusted
her decline and sped on to her destination.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Upside-down
buildings hurtled past her as she descended. Sometimes it felt as if it was the
whole universe that was moving while she was fixed unmoving to the firmament -
immobile. A fleck on a windowpane. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Aesthar
remembered the chair: the dark room. The last time she had been fixed. The
inquisitor leaning over her with the electrodes in hand. What did she know
about the bombings? What did she know about the protest?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">She
had forgotten most of what followed after. That had been another life; a life
tied up, shut down and ordered around. There would be no more of that now. Now,
there was only her rules; her mission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now
she was on street level. cityghosts dashed about, secretive and transitory.
None of them appeared to be paying her much attention.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
Memshards were gone. McPuck continued to rant in her earpiece. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">In
front of her stood the Parliament; a confluence of weird grey edges and strange
windows that seemed to stretch all around her for ever. The building made for
an impressive sight up close. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s not like it
is in the real world.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Aesthar announced to McPuck, when he had finally ran out of ranting steam. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">You can
hardly even see the top. You got my visual? This is the front bit, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I can</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> dammit</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">…’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> McPuck
tutted and hammered some keys. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s in defence mode. Constantly rearranging itself and
recalibrating. I can</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t
tell.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Aesthar
watched as several high-up windows of the edifice rotated, jutted out,
transformed and became turrets, which gave birth to more of the familiar
gunshapes. Other protrusions that looked like further armaments were emerging
from the rocky heights of the building and inclining themselves to point down
at street-level. Aesthar didn</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t think any of the gunshapes were specifically
singling her out for attention. She was not paranoid - at least, not so far
today.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">McPuck
was still battering away on the keys: trying to blue-sky a solution to this new
smaller problem of access. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">You</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">re right, though. About the appearance. That</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s security
architecture. The version build is like nothing I</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ve ever seen before… There</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s no way I can
break through it on my end. I</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">m going to assume at this point that you have a
strategy? ie, one that doesn</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t involve a clusterfuck of conflict, friendly fire,
and you getting permanently disincorporated on this level?</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Pfft. Of
course. Don</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t
worry about me, I</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ll
be fine.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
Aesthar set her appearance parameters to Tourist. Immediately she was swathed
in a combination of sunglasses, ginger hair, plastic rain-mac and inappropriate
tartan. Approaching one of the entrances and joining one of the queues would now
be extremely easy.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">She
breezed past the SecuriTigers. They prowled mechanically but didn</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t register
her approach and passing. Other approaching entities swirled towards an
emergent entrance node. She noted one of the tigers decoding a nosy spiritoid -
the results were not glamorous. It reminded Aesthar of the electrodes.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Ahead
of her was a vast arch emerging from a node, that resembled a doorway of some
import. Above a neon sign confidently strobed the legend, </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ACCESS TO
DREAM OF MAD GODS.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Okay, so I have
to admit, that was not something I would have done,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> McPuck
growled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Two govstolen metalloids were monitoring the archway node. Aesthar</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s mind
crawled with ideas. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">You
remember that sim I was running the other day?</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">She
heard the sound of McPuck upending a beverage of some sort, possibly all over
some important piece of communications equipment. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">What? NO,
Aesthar! You cannot run the sim! It hasn’t been tested!</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘C’mon. N</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ow</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s as good a
time as any.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘But… </span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">It might</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> it might
start a WAR!</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
McPuck hissed. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
metalloids of the node were scanning the code of every visiting spiritoid;
checking for inflammatory ideas or insurrectionist thinking. Aesthar advanced
closer to the entrance.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Remember your
training, Aesthar, dammit! There are no such things as wars! THERE IS NO SUCH
THING AS A WAR!</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Aesthar
reached the front of the queue. The metalloids rotated to face her. Their
protuberances were all a-quiver, ready to scan. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">WELCOME TO
PARLIAMENT.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
the metalloids both droned in unison. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">PLEASE HAVE YOUR REASONS FOR ATTENDANCE FOREMOST
IN YOUR BRAINSPHERE. SCAN WILL BEGIN. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR CONTINUED
ADHERENCE TO OUR NON-TERRORISM-BASED POLICY OF ATTENDANCE.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Ignoring
McPuck</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
frantic screaming in her ear about beta version testing, Aesthar activated the
first of her three planned simulations. Almost immediately, the external
structure of the parliament building began to shift and break up into confusing
shapes that began to float away into the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Hello.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> Aesthar
politely said to the metalloids: who by now had a look of extreme confusion
drifting across their normally-inexpressive grilles. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I appear to
be lost. Can you direct me to the Problem please?’<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">ALARUM. A
POLITICAL FLASHPOINT EVENT HAS BEEN TRACED TO YOU. PLEASE EXPLAIN FLOATING-AWAY
OF PARLIAMENT BUILDING BEFORE WE DISINHERIT YOU.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Oh,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> Aesthar
said, as surprising numbers of tartan-clad spiritoids began to appear and
jostle up alongside her - quickly beginning to overload the metalloids</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
motion-detection sensors. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">That</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s just a little program I like to call Reverse
Tetriscide? It completely unlocks and reverses access to politically-sensitive
astral edifices. Appears to be working perfectly, don</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t you think?</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">EXPLAIN,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> the
metalloids stated, sounding faintly distressed. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">EXPLAIN UNEXPECTED PROFLIGACY OF
SPIRITOIDS OR BE DISINHERITED.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">That would be
something else I like to call The August Offensive,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> Aesthar
grinned at the baffled robots. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">I sourced it from this town</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s real-world
equivalent? It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
designed to simulate the potential overpopulation and overloading of any given
built-up astral environment - It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s based on an arts festival, but you wouldn</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">t know what
one of them was. Soon an infinitely-increasing number of foreign spiritoids
will overrun the area, destroy your parliament and release the Problem. It was
the Problem I came for, if you want to note that on your records? There</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s not really
anything you can do about it. Sorry.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">YOU WILL BE</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> PREVENTED.
FROM DOING THIS,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
one of the metalloids declared, before being knocked down and trampled
underfoot by a number of paper-distributing and singing spiritoids.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Aesthar
felt the world begin to tremble. She produced some pieces of holocard from her
hypothetical pocket and offered them to further newly-arrived and panicking
metalloids, who were already getting dragged away by ghostly revellers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Would you
like a flyer for my show? She asked: more to irritate McPuck than for any other
reason. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">‘</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s called, </span><i><span style="line-height: 200%;">“</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">Blow up the
outside world.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">”</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">
It</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s
just starting now! You</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">d
better prepare yourself. The reviews say it</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;">s an explosive experience.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">’</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-70282040554795906482016-01-20T23:48:00.001+00:002016-01-21T10:55:30.601+00:00School Dinners<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Och
its offay frightenin. ah cannae believe how big they forks are, aw stabbin doon
at us. the forks an the knives an the spoons aw cutting an choppin oor bodies
up intae bits. Ah hear it yisee, cos we’ve aw got the throughspeak. It’s whit
we are here, in the hall.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Ah
wis hearin fae the spicy pakora oan the aer side. cheers whenivir wan ae thum
smashes a plate. Chipped broon wooden trays were sayin tae plates, “dinnae
leave me” an feelin the scrape, the give, the centre fallin oot. Then air, then
smash, then aw ay thum shoutin, an laughin at wan ay oor lot dyin. Bits skiddin
an disappearin under the dark places. the lunchboxes bein clicked open, shut.
Polite hubbub ay noise. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Thur
voices are offay weird. They dinnae speak like us: jist wan tae wan. Getting
allowed in wan at a time by yon “prefects.” hierarchies already in place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Wan
ay them goat stung by a wasp: wis aw screamin an cryin. Noo they ken jist a wee
bit ay how it feels. Wasp wis laughin, telt us aw aboot it.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Custard
is screamin. solidifying under the lights denied its natural consistency.
vomitous melt, sufferin. Spooned intae the bowls which dinnae like it either.
Then awaw tae the other place. Wi thum.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Ye
sense the the fear ae thum also the nervousness aboot goin intae the hall when
the hall is nearly empty and the food is nearly all dead. Nae sounds apart fae
bubblin an gurgling. Meat lettin oot juices. Last gasps ay intelligence. Some
ae the meats remember their last times as they die. Huvvin the legs, like thum.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Tryin
tae avoid each other. the wans they dinnae like, the wans they dinnae trust.
Some ay them will kill each other. Chlorine in the baths, that comes tae us. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Teachers
the “high-up heid yins” aw cordoned oaf at thur ain tables. Click-clack ay the
cutlery. Swallow-slurp. Noise noise. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Aw
the trapped smell, smell ay evvrythin. Smell ay us livin an dying. Smell ae
plastic and nae air. Wannae ken whit that is: smell ay fear. Oor journey intae
afterlife. Food intae trash. Or whitivver comes next.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Steam
behind the hot plate, curtain ae oor origin. The milkshakes shakin in thur
cups. Squeaky noise ay thur feets oan the floor. Caramel shortbread says thir’s
no much left. cracked chocolate an bleeding caramel, stuck tae thur mouths,
goin doon intae the belly where we aw begin tae begin again.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Tuna
sangwitches in wan ay the “computer rooms.” The report wis not good. The enemy
wis playin a game where wee animals chucked themselves oaf a cliff. Death aw
the way. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Some
ay them go roond the corner shop where they say, dae ye want red sauce or broon
sauce. Both ur the same.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">If
ye were born tae die… then ye dinnae huv tae be afraid ay dyin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">But
we ur. we ur.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-33970412415495012182016-01-19T23:45:00.002+00:002016-01-21T11:02:35.014+00:00‘A Great Sense Of Emotionality’<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<b style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">full transcript of talk by ufologist H. WYLSON HURLE at Falkirk
Transformation Symposium, Aug 23rd, 2013</span></b></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Are
we recording? Is… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(extended pause - staff adjust the
microphone)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Is
that it? Are we good to go? Right! Okay. Well. Hello there all of you. Good to
see everyone’s made it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now.
For those of you in the audience who aren’t quite up to speed, my name is H.
Wylson Hurle. I am forty-eight years old. I have been researching the
paranormal for well over seventy-two years now. Which is even more unbelievable
if you take into consideration the fact that my true light body was first
incarnated in the year 2136. Certain people have told me this and I promise I
will tell you why later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now.
We are going to get on to the lockstep humanoids. Now this is one of the
stranger developments of recent years. They’re walking after you. When you’re
on the street. Stalking you from afar, in two by two. Have you caught the
reptilian slant in their eyes? The blankness! The… insouciance. I think that’s
the word. They look like people – like us! But they’re not from here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">What
we’re talking about this evening is – the copies. They’re clones, you see. The
ones who are copied, are. They’re copies of the copies – of the original
copies, who are genetic crossbreeds from the secret underground base beneath
Berkshire. It’s true! I know all about this. I was a security guard down there
for years. Nineteen and a half to be precise. The pay was pretty good, all
things considering. I mean, it wasn’t hard work exactly – it was quite a secret
base. Nobody was looking. And it was underground, so nobody ever really managed
to find it. I was basically just hanging around. The worst bit was having to
deal with all the extraterrestrials there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">I
mean, forgive me for being blunt here but… see them giant praying mantis ones? What
a bunch of absolute fucking cunts, by the way. I mean. Picture it. You’d just be
down there, in the secret base, trying to go about your business doing secret
things. And the bastards’d be up there. Just hanging off the roof like fucking moths. Freaks you out, by the
way. Like they’re having a laugh with us humans. Tell you what, the giant
praying mantis types… don’t want to be rude, but oh, terrible
conversationalists, they were. All they ever did was chirrup. Gossips, the lot
of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Aye,
well anyways, they let me go from the base for medical reasons cos I was having
problems down below, if you know what I mean. It’s funny, really - because even
though I was actually having problems down below… on a larger scale… I was
really having ‘problems down BELOW!’</span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(Pause. Silence from audience)</i></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Ha.
Just my little joke. It’s true though.</span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">But…
yes. Returning us to the key thrust of this lecture, then… right. So There’s
these programmable generated life forms. Which are grown underground. Trained
in MK-ULTRA mind control tactics. Capable of killing a human with just their
brains from six miles away. Sounds unbelievable, I know. But you’ve been
shopping in Sainsbury’s, right? You’ve seen the cashiers. Oh yes! They might
look cold, robotic and emotionless, but some of them are sadistic too.
Sometimes they will just murder cows and horses for sport, go up to them in a
field and just stand around, pouring in their corrosive mind beams until the
poor defenceless animal just explodes in a meat market of decapitated limbs and
gore. It really is pretty seriously awful, the things they do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">And
then the lockstep humanoids will march into the effluent outcome of their
carnage and crouch down in pairs to blood themselves, rubbing the splattery
gore into their chiselled, perfect features. I’ve been told by a very reputable
source that this is actually how they hunt on their worlds. They’re doing it
here now, because of course, this ties into the wider plan, the big main story
that’s going on here with the jelly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Yes
ladies and gentlemen, the jelly! Well, wait, I’ll get to that. Cos this is very
important information we need to get out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(Hurle responds to question from
audience)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Where
do I get my information? Ah well, you see. The question! This is the question
they always ask. Well, madam. I get my information mainly from psychics. But
I’m not a psychic myself. I’m a HGV driver by trade now, and it’s a provable
fact that we are exactly the sort of people the controllers target for
victimization, gangstalking and gaslighting. Those outside of the normal
acceptable areas of life. Because that’s all part of the disinformation.
They’re trying to make us all look like a bunch of paranoid loonies! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Not
the illuminati people though. They don’t get any of this bother. Let me tell
you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">And I can see you’re
all looking a bit frightened now. Oh yes. Illuminati! Don’t pretend that word
doesn’t put the willies up you. Well it’s my life I’m putting on the line here!
My safety I’m compromising! The illuminati have been putting the willies on me
for many, many years now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><i>(inaudible question from audience)</i></span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">No,
The lockstep humanoids don’t do much of the gangstalking themselves. Usually
they’re too busy in the bases. Or out using their brains to make cats blow up.
They do that as well. Now, I can see this is a key concern of people so yes, I
will address it. So. Who does the stalking? Well - usually they send the
supermodels. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Anne
told me this the other week – she’s one of the main psychics I refer to in the book
and we’ll get to that in a moment. She was at a fashion show, cos she’s
involved in that. And she was told on very good authority that all supermodels
– all of them, male and female – are in actuality Nordic space people from the
Sirius star system. A lot of them live here now. I mean, come on now…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(laughter)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Have
you seen them, though? Bony, expressionless zombies, storming along the catwalk
in the robotic manner? That’s the lockstep thing. If anyone ever tells you
they‘re ‘in fashion,’ I would just become very suspicious and just walk the
other way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Usually
they’re psychically linked pairs. See, Anne thinks this is why everyone in the
fashion industry is so weird. You’ll notice this in the service industry, in
the supermarkets too, when the cashiers are calling over to the person at the
next till to price-check an item. It’s because they’re linked. Cos they’re
either nonhuman, or, at the very least… controlled by the nonhumans. I mean,
why else do they dress the models like that? In all those weird clothes, that’s
supposed to be what everyone cool is wearing, but all the girls are walking
about topless with weird gigantic hats and see-through plastic face masks and
bits of metal on their shoulders. I mean, come on… the girls have got their
tits out for gods sake! And dead animals round their necks! And the men have
got like, stickers on their nipples and cowboy chaps. Ever wonder why that was?
Curious, is it not? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Well,
I’ll tell you now! It’s because that’s how they dress on their planets of
origin. They’re genetically predisposed to going about with very little or no
clothes on at all! This was in the contract they signed with the clandestine
new world order officials who allowed them to stay here and live and work in
the bases! In exchange for their technology and knowledge, the powers-that-be
agreed that a small number of them would infiltrate the fashion industry in
order to slowly inculcate the wider population into becoming accustomed to the
idea of their creepy, skeletal silver-clad forms walking about here! It makes
perfect sense when you stop to think about it! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Anne
learned most of this at a fashion show in 1987, when she was working as a seamstress
for Jean Paul Gaulthier which I’d say makes her account all the more credible.
One of the alien humanoids there came right up to her and actually initiated
psychic mind link. Unfortunately there’s sometimes a translation issue with the
direct psychic interface between humans and the Nordic space people, so usually
it all just automatically gets translated into Swedish. I think this is the
root of why these aliens are referred to as Nordics. Now luckily, Anne
memorized all the information and had it translated later. That’s when she
discovered the true facts about the jelly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(murmurs from audience)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">The
jelly is a sentient, hermaphroditic, self-replicating fluidic intelligence. I
have a number of sources – corroborating accounts, mind – who are firmly
convinced that if you now buy jelly from the supermarket – actual, ordinary
jelly – then some if that is ALIEN jelly. And if you eat it, it will migrate to
the base of your brainstem and control you. Making you a zombie puppet to their
terrifying whims - like something off of bodysnatchers. Jelly. I mean… We’re
not safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now
this tale… is completely… mental. By which I mean, to an extent, it is
happening on a mental level. Anne actually said to me, that once this space
woman had given her this information – right at the end of it, once she’d ended
the psychic link - this space woman opened her mouth and said, in English, this
chilling phrase: ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.’ I find that
detail particularly disturbing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">And
because people need to be told the reasons why they should be vigilant about
these dark beings lurking in our midst, I have written this… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(Hurle holds up volume)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">My
fourteenth book – or it might the fifteenth, come to think of it – which is
called, <i>‘Beyond The Unknown Within:
Exploring The Exopolitical Paradigm of Intra-Transient Communications.’</i> I
know, that must sound like a bit of a mouthful for you all out there, but I
feel you need to get the material out there. So, I’d just like to give you all
an exclusive preview of some of the things I go into in this volume. I further
detail the accounts of Anne, who is, I’d suggest, quite a seminal witness. Her
experiences with the Nordics have seen her channelling abilities develop quite
dramatically. Although I hear this is giving her some problems with her
television, as it keeps jumping from BBC4 to the Adult Channel for some reason.
And let’s face it, nobody wants that. Just more mind games from the Nordics,
they love a bit of mind games!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now
Anne’s a very religious woman, as those of you who’ve read her book will know.
I write about her book in my book, but naturally I give the story some fresh
insight. Last year – and I write about this in very great depth – Anne would be
visited every night of the week by a being. Now, this being was not in solid
form as we would know it, this was a spiritual energy. And we don’t know if its
intentions were entirely benevolent. This being would come to Anne, entering
her bedroom. Except not all of the body would be visible. Sometimes it was just
a floating male head – although more often than not, usually just the crotchal
region, which was just the area around the hips. The apparition would never
possess an upper half, the torso area, but yet somehow, still it would be
wearing a bra. Which was to put it mildly, a very unusual state of affairs,
make no mistake. And as this being entered the room, Anne would find herself
overcome with a great sense of emotionality. And with her strong beliefs
regarding the Bible, the power of this being… she told me, folks, with tears
streaming down her face… she felt high and she was vibrating with the love
energy. And it was as if Christ had somehow come inside her – as if he was
putting his love inside her! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">But
of course, not everyone can be open to these experiences. For Anne would try
again and again to tell her husband Frank about this… and every time she would
talk to him, a glazed and vacant expression came over his face and it was as if
he wasn’t paying attention to anything she was saying. Now, I’ve noticed this
effect happening before and I can only surmise that this is the aliens actively
preventing people from getting their message out into the world via their
devious mind control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">I
must also mention the story of an anonymous gentleman called Henry Clark, who
is absolutely convinced that he has courted and subsequently fathered a son
with an alien woman – although Henry sees his child very infrequently. They come
from very different worlds – literally. He’s had to move to Birmingham for work
and they’re on a planet called Eera-Ook in the Pleiades. Apparently the
commute’s a nightmare and the faster-than-light travel makes him carsick. Well,
it would, you know? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">And
just to conclude this part for now, there’s the testimonial of Karl McHugh,
which is a deeply fascinating story. Karl McHugh is an alias by the way,
although I’m spelling his first and second names differently in order to
protect his identity. His first conscious encounter took place roughly three
weeks ago and luckily I managed to get it into the book at the last minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">So.
Karl was out, innocently walking his Chihuahuas in the local park, when all of
a sudden he has this feeling, which will be quite familiar to a lot of you, I
think, of being ‘activated.’ In fact, Karl told me he was ‘turned on.’ So now,
he feels strangely drawn to a particular area of town. Before you know it, he
was outside a glowing archway which he now with hindsight thinks must have been
their ship. As if in a trance, he stepped on board the vessel and found himself
in a dark, ominous environment, utterly alien to his experience. All around
were strange flashing lights and this pounding industrial rhythmic noise -
almost like music! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">At
this point Karl was approached by a number of Nordic alien males, who were
engaged in an eerie occult dance which he said was quite queer to behold. His
primary recollection was that most of them were incredibly muscular and dressed
in leather – which seems to be quite a common uniform for them. Some had
moustaches, which is less common in witness reports… but these ones did. Some
of them, also, were very androgynous in appearance - I mean, with these beings,
you just can’t tell what they are! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">One
of them presented Karl with an unusual fizzing potion that made him feel unexpectedly
dizzy. Now he was in an altered state, very much in thrall to their whims. That’s
the mind control in action again, by the way…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Karl
remembers very little after he was encouraged to partake of the strange drink,
but his next conscious recollection was waking up behind a bush, back in the
park where the encounter had first begun, with his Chihuahuas still there and
looking at him in a state of very deep confusion. Although, after returning
home weary and exhausted, Karl did find a souvenir from his experience in his
jacket pocket. And I have this artefact from another world with me tonight,
ladies and gentlemen. And here… it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(HURLE produces the object)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">Now,
what I believe we’re looking at here is some very sophisticated stuff. I will
soon be approaching some proper actual scientists to see if they can have a
look at this and verify whether or not this device is in fact made out of
materials not common to Earth. Our suspicion is that this is either a small
scale model of the alien vessel, or perhaps even some kind of power source. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;"><i>(The device begins to vibrate)</i></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 1.0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 200%;">And
– oh… ladies and gentlemen, this is quite disturbing – this machine suddenly
seems to be coming into activation… and – good grief… the shaft of it… is
vibrating! Quite rapidly! Ladies and gentlemen… I do believe we might all right
now be experiencing… a new vibration of humanity!</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "x-files" , "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(various sounds of movement as
g</span></span><span style="line-height: 200%;">uests leave the hall)</span></span></i></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-29925235279778050882016-01-18T23:44:00.001+00:002016-01-21T11:08:14.131+00:00Psychogeographical Field Trip - City Construct: Eden Burrow<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">MINDLINK PENDING</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">…</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"> achieved <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">UPLOAD OF HYPERLENSES PENDING</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">…</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><i> achieved</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><i>Transtemporal mission log - uploaded by Chronosentry Quinsar (Cydonia
node of Psycojog Empire).</i> <br /><br />The primary outcome of this incursion onto enemy
territory is to assess opportunities for Psycojog invasion of the humanoid
construct designated ‘City: Eden Burrow.’ Ideally this will take the form of a
stealth-mode invasion across time. Chronosentry lensfindings follow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">(For the purposes of this datablink, the 5 highlighted lenses afford an
associative and interconnected cross-section of City in question. Achromatic
eight-in-one flashthrough is operational.)
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Mission objective is to identify who will kill the city in the future.
Focalized precogging has predicted a multipossible that the city will-and-will-not be destroyed in 2113. A floating undecidable. Many coggers could not handle and selfploded. Now will attempt transtemporal analysis of city health to
discover overall fate.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QkxOwT0O5VzhIdOdrT_8qcYUIMuDFJc1sQ8xjJOpMghNM6Zc3hiHgKRqVY6yhA-_Tfe2B0Td5ssAV6WryfCAKvvUTgs6JDCCEi31KuYq67KfxzFjVuJLiPxTxXz_4FpC0PZJ6gQAnpE/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QkxOwT0O5VzhIdOdrT_8qcYUIMuDFJc1sQ8xjJOpMghNM6Zc3hiHgKRqVY6yhA-_Tfe2B0Td5ssAV6WryfCAKvvUTgs6JDCCEi31KuYq67KfxzFjVuJLiPxTxXz_4FpC0PZJ6gQAnpE/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Beginning exploration of humanoid construct Eden Burrow. Coordinates
locked on to supposed locus of humanoid control mechanisms, ‘Scottish
Parliament.’ Also detonation point of Chromobomb that is believed to have
destroyed city. Fixed-point touchdown briefly coincides with nightcycle. Cityghost
presence strong - one of many warring factions and potential enemy obstructions
in city. Many different messages of control are being sent. Engaging psychic
countermeasures. Will be necessary to advance interaction with other
transtemporal spirit entities.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nhlL0vjfVEMuA9AYjXjzeyyHSJ5-5bt9J82_cImbLpPR3lfCD0A8T4RroENThk_A0Dia0BJ08DUo9sdu6Rv7bQFKyWZfdsEUkrQEjySC01Mxi_ZnlZcMqlZ38NB_dMqiwq9Bd50k3Ys/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nhlL0vjfVEMuA9AYjXjzeyyHSJ5-5bt9J82_cImbLpPR3lfCD0A8T4RroENThk_A0Dia0BJ08DUo9sdu6Rv7bQFKyWZfdsEUkrQEjySC01Mxi_ZnlZcMqlZ38NB_dMqiwq9Bd50k3Ys/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">2. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cityghosts flee to mass around parliament locus. A mechanical island
fallen from the sky in the future, a crashed and smouldering wreck. This is
ground zero of the blast radius. Cityghosts mine it for intent. They are unseen
by the humatons but are constantly at war with them, seeking to obstruct their
progress - muddling their message. Being of Small Time, the humatons on this plane operate only as biowalkers - unable to see beyond clockstopped limitations of their realm.
Those of Big Time walk above and battle always for supremacy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDdc6uISi2-0ruHGLbNOne3LcfepRnPX5mIzQyS-3NGVPqhv6upxHV95KlpnYT64r4Ztl3SVOyWbYMNxYhngeEuH1UMyw8pvJeq-bouZeLyZf_dH6vyi9RLChm-Qu65uhk7gTKW_m-2o/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDdc6uISi2-0ruHGLbNOne3LcfepRnPX5mIzQyS-3NGVPqhv6upxHV95KlpnYT64r4Ztl3SVOyWbYMNxYhngeEuH1UMyw8pvJeq-bouZeLyZf_dH6vyi9RLChm-Qu65uhk7gTKW_m-2o/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">3. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">First signs of biowalker technology designed to obstruct carporters - native vehicular intelligences of city. Also first forthcoming evidence of runespeak - primitive
higher language of biowalker mystics. Appropriate use of runespeak allows for
basic biowalker access to Big Time consciousness. Nearby at ‘palace of royalty’
there is little indication of consciousness. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVm5qSIwAQ0YxC_Ex_adCfribgRa9QS4ILxLikIP9czQ9-pShCiiVGP4Zl9xi-aml3zETzyg5TCZuNCfNLjjjolluvqVWoTyMpyWuU1g8Mjj5qfWLLj-KM9cFr2y3MkoyuAhAJqEZ2zI/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVm5qSIwAQ0YxC_Ex_adCfribgRa9QS4ILxLikIP9czQ9-pShCiiVGP4Zl9xi-aml3zETzyg5TCZuNCfNLjjjolluvqVWoTyMpyWuU1g8Mjj5qfWLLj-KM9cFr2y3MkoyuAhAJqEZ2zI/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">4. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Talkboard ‘Everyone home safe every day’ reassures biowalkers that ‘you
are here.’ Cognitive dissonance is achieved through deployment of contradictory
phrase ‘Can’t: level.’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hL3E6iospp8wDFO-hdhApHzY-99TmgRuylAowrLyAmZbBwhqoEAL9URWF-jwC88sp5Do6e0pSsuWOu5bU9Aqzmbn3QA8sS_jS49CK9WKEZhSCsmgAtDUgIRz1Hz4ZXlEx31IhLnAhjw/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hL3E6iospp8wDFO-hdhApHzY-99TmgRuylAowrLyAmZbBwhqoEAL9URWF-jwC88sp5Do6e0pSsuWOu5bU9Aqzmbn3QA8sS_jS49CK9WKEZhSCsmgAtDUgIRz1Hz4ZXlEx31IhLnAhjw/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">5. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Early signs of city breakage. Ground level is infirm. Wounds in stone
flesh attract tubefeeders and cellular infection spreads.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdgxYh97lLpU2nGegPZoWrtZRN4dRDODOEr2H1cbLqqjFeCax2ClRu_xQyiixeEekq6J4VOP-CGBnQNTZgZPY95GC8pVbkyd6c-njRDEqWWc_dDzqz63YK4U-j5Z0hb1jJ4yHOT7xPhI/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdgxYh97lLpU2nGegPZoWrtZRN4dRDODOEr2H1cbLqqjFeCax2ClRu_xQyiixeEekq6J4VOP-CGBnQNTZgZPY95GC8pVbkyd6c-njRDEqWWc_dDzqz63YK4U-j5Z0hb1jJ4yHOT7xPhI/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">6. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">CIGS: runespeak acrospell conjured by solitary biowalker mystic. Stands
for Cohesive Integrated Gigantic Smashface. I have no further data on this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlqhO1Fx3uSMVuzqembC9jSMWE_M1pcyHQ8yKLsJq5AR62TmZPyHsiCr60Tr6LmV7ccAl-BiVVJY69n_nUAaMaDTsbXG3d3vAYWkNpwJMumfDE9vrG5l0MYu-R7iKd-Dc8Dd1Go_-VZA/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlqhO1Fx3uSMVuzqembC9jSMWE_M1pcyHQ8yKLsJq5AR62TmZPyHsiCr60Tr6LmV7ccAl-BiVVJY69n_nUAaMaDTsbXG3d3vAYWkNpwJMumfDE9vrG5l0MYu-R7iKd-Dc8Dd1Go_-VZA/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">7. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Speedworm overlane. Talkboard communicating futureslipped message
predicts eventual of fate overlane: ‘GIVE WAY.’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fAlGHvYVjRg-Ks4zJdIybjF1OhTReh0yfKRbhdnpPM628HxcjlEuPELYx3k3GEMa9bFFDLjPWXnBGFxdxyjU11_cmevhvVEIocav-bMVQx9E77mICPw-s1_FCGMxkV2qRaNIvLb0IyU/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2fAlGHvYVjRg-Ks4zJdIybjF1OhTReh0yfKRbhdnpPM628HxcjlEuPELYx3k3GEMa9bFFDLjPWXnBGFxdxyjU11_cmevhvVEIocav-bMVQx9E77mICPw-s1_FCGMxkV2qRaNIvLb0IyU/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">8. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">‘PERMIT’ runespeak. Allows biowalker passage down assigned travellanes.
Big Time intelligences are mainly responsibly for implementation of
language-based control systems.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIDmsEprbKGzXe8OUtEWqMWOhdI9a1RGsm64p_W4LY6oZ3c_B1EUx0gIg7H2UYdao80riwzVRSWvyInD3FpYYpFbDdNbyFVRHeev6Xb8oZDAzEci0t8zU3PbrHVDkPsLfx2tipft-Aro/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIDmsEprbKGzXe8OUtEWqMWOhdI9a1RGsm64p_W4LY6oZ3c_B1EUx0gIg7H2UYdao80riwzVRSWvyInD3FpYYpFbDdNbyFVRHeev6Xb8oZDAzEci0t8zU3PbrHVDkPsLfx2tipft-Aro/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">9. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Having strayed from its designated safe-territories, a balanceboard is
time-murdered for attempted lanecrossing. Balanceboards are not permitted to
perambulate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPRI7HlbJoqVpMENuZIGZZtQjNbf8EdlYdDsIUYuUxT7686NzZ5EK20BTi1JTaPluuzNXQYrlccu0b2_8m4P8L-e0R9Aod4wt9WlaUgiFUhC3NNteU3ZBCF4MW0tYrkBwyxhSkjuqcyWs/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPRI7HlbJoqVpMENuZIGZZtQjNbf8EdlYdDsIUYuUxT7686NzZ5EK20BTi1JTaPluuzNXQYrlccu0b2_8m4P8L-e0R9Aod4wt9WlaUgiFUhC3NNteU3ZBCF4MW0tYrkBwyxhSkjuqcyWs/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">10. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Greenfeelers feed on the decaying carcass of an oldpass; re-wiring its
travel coordinates. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYgo9GtK0WQysWCy8XgyMOy2c1Ga9WztklO0Gwt3nZn0mGo_FtMr6OvsGemhd83FFLcXwzcSaIM0jlPD63GrhU6YiVDiaeT1wR87GH939hSqJSsp6AMcYJIZ4Y-oSLL-qqpX41CGQGxI/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYgo9GtK0WQysWCy8XgyMOy2c1Ga9WztklO0Gwt3nZn0mGo_FtMr6OvsGemhd83FFLcXwzcSaIM0jlPD63GrhU6YiVDiaeT1wR87GH939hSqJSsp6AMcYJIZ4Y-oSLL-qqpX41CGQGxI/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">11. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Cargo-cult mechanoids,
recovered by biowalkers and erected in paean to long-extinct sky-gods.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8MRQD8oPtY4tYEe_4x_vUvb4iknPq0oR5Up4qxGKySlzgKPj7TwHGdIQ1LTOQfpvyOGQywx1bdB3X2Le74J2TGv4N_gzgewUmYM5dtTJnj5YpUPUGyb59ZkCKVawp-rpEQGgCXvgYABM/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8MRQD8oPtY4tYEe_4x_vUvb4iknPq0oR5Up4qxGKySlzgKPj7TwHGdIQ1LTOQfpvyOGQywx1bdB3X2Le74J2TGv4N_gzgewUmYM5dtTJnj5YpUPUGyb59ZkCKVawp-rpEQGgCXvgYABM/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">12. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nuugrafficks engage in slow-time conflict with elder surfaces. The result
is a near-permanent stalemate of colour chaos.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSjL8plKVBuWtsag97byI9LAnUdv0aSsEnXJRxrixkt3iWpMfWECp-svXs47_CD-ssiK0DDXoCkNBYHfPd5ewUsS4W1uvUspLtD8PGI5CUIL8yJIssl3EL-TEf2aRa-y2_tIanTKwJzKk/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSjL8plKVBuWtsag97byI9LAnUdv0aSsEnXJRxrixkt3iWpMfWECp-svXs47_CD-ssiK0DDXoCkNBYHfPd5ewUsS4W1uvUspLtD8PGI5CUIL8yJIssl3EL-TEf2aRa-y2_tIanTKwJzKk/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">13. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Deceased Talkboard. Killed by excessive sensitivity to carporter motion.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5j9vPTruiayvWAaBsvtiMFfQjp1KrlIXu2tGwlNVq2daOPSz-DzwBjcrvIzplqowlNs_4KIpSqz0QKRoXPIYETsdsyxsvKB-5a1C40A8EspAr1wzVVRKASQol7Gjo66HZr5OIVCMjc3w/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5j9vPTruiayvWAaBsvtiMFfQjp1KrlIXu2tGwlNVq2daOPSz-DzwBjcrvIzplqowlNs_4KIpSqz0QKRoXPIYETsdsyxsvKB-5a1C40A8EspAr1wzVVRKASQol7Gjo66HZr5OIVCMjc3w/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">14. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Further extant manifestations of biowalker runespeak.</span></span><br />
<b style="font-size: 16px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="font-size: 16px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQtYVbRbaxmtt5II2WFU4gESerhAlz-dpYCrCnNTc8c3g55gDLjUGbsRXgQafFA14FF6PXhx63tk75v54D6OrUKiAVK_MD7r3CfDxt43m-dfvVcYmwkSVderQnBwu_L_Ksgl34x6j-hAA/s1600/9656097_1861309377_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQtYVbRbaxmtt5II2WFU4gESerhAlz-dpYCrCnNTc8c3g55gDLjUGbsRXgQafFA14FF6PXhx63tk75v54D6OrUKiAVK_MD7r3CfDxt43m-dfvVcYmwkSVderQnBwu_L_Ksgl34x6j-hAA/s400/9656097_1861309377_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></b><br />
<b style="font-size: 16px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="font-size: 16px;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">15. </span></b><span style="font-size: 16px;">Native animal spirits, summoned via nuugraffick ritual, guard passing humanoids from malicious cityghost intent.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVZat8zvRYhuxTjBZRbiVg2EP_gv12Ob884lQSsIdyZ9qEKBJXSdSLN-mtyLbXbXm3RhacwEA2O6fzmUE_X1KDlbnRvMsaM3oOP0IzryN28A1i4uw5gyaVZnvyPoWtzuffMA3okPXWfU/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVZat8zvRYhuxTjBZRbiVg2EP_gv12Ob884lQSsIdyZ9qEKBJXSdSLN-mtyLbXbXm3RhacwEA2O6fzmUE_X1KDlbnRvMsaM3oOP0IzryN28A1i4uw5gyaVZnvyPoWtzuffMA3okPXWfU/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">16. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Activation of central city defences at site of neverending conflict
called ‘Leaf War.’ Designated causal disaster zone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsasE_MIThLrZHWBzpUfD2ZZj2JcgulgBvbSRvtm5nqZlFhwNdJK_Rk7wSRco7a-Rpn6XApLqV7yehavIXMuic9ZrUgiJXv1Afh2yWlWp06wMupeJoVbBGoUDOpLnrRmoG30nzZNt4wR0/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsasE_MIThLrZHWBzpUfD2ZZj2JcgulgBvbSRvtm5nqZlFhwNdJK_Rk7wSRco7a-Rpn6XApLqV7yehavIXMuic9ZrUgiJXv1Afh2yWlWp06wMupeJoVbBGoUDOpLnrRmoG30nzZNt4wR0/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>17. </b>Armoured buildings attempt
to protect their pastselves from cityghost reprogramming. Counter-intuitive
interdimensional malware hacks and infects oldstone with self-replicating
glassteel nanotech which regenerates city edifices into strange new forms -
which echo past impressions without resembling them exactly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJKIh-v-bqH6vdaV_eP7qin5OX3TyTT7llpe5hFsWko-cGfHRM7RIZWbodOaRT6g-M7-rLx6N37d8TDkYSvbobyMAVGYdsJuBC1-SA3qRJzIh0ytOg1hLGN1ttghGP3NhB6c2ndPULrj0/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJKIh-v-bqH6vdaV_eP7qin5OX3TyTT7llpe5hFsWko-cGfHRM7RIZWbodOaRT6g-M7-rLx6N37d8TDkYSvbobyMAVGYdsJuBC1-SA3qRJzIh0ytOg1hLGN1ttghGP3NhB6c2ndPULrj0/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>18. </b>Here buildings become sad and detach from gravitational constraints. This ongoing contradiction
of time is predicted to cause a chain reaction and culminate in a self-haunting
citydeath event in 2113 that will completely annihilate and permanently remove
the temporal image of Eden Burrow from the prima worldarc.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TzU3WPYq7O4iT9buJN-AZ095pyTT1hP9BiHxdUSEJMMMyqdWXq9QqR9ncOBtXBtMBFTXWbyqchjhTQn8gFyu7nLlUXoQhu9EOlSHm8R-TbP_7BSpMrrw7RhJBOIXxXHT_dlHBwxUTYk/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TzU3WPYq7O4iT9buJN-AZ095pyTT1hP9BiHxdUSEJMMMyqdWXq9QqR9ncOBtXBtMBFTXWbyqchjhTQn8gFyu7nLlUXoQhu9EOlSHm8R-TbP_7BSpMrrw7RhJBOIXxXHT_dlHBwxUTYk/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>19. </b>Walls burn with runespeak layers, illustrating the conflicts of City. Being themselves negative astral imprints of unresolved humaton though
processes, the cityghosts are perpetually locked into a cyclical deathmatch
with the environment that originally created them - which continues to endure,
persist and evolve where they cannot. As it attempts to evolve naturally in
co-creation with biowalkers, carporters and other more benevolent spirit
intelligences, the indelible shadow of cityghost thought re-writes, overwrites
or deletes its memory of earlier versions. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfUtVeu9hyphenhyphenKH7iYS_LHu0XK9rH_cC4L9_qXct_6DK2rs5XFfVx15PAgImuV6_CcnFrpK4KV3xgoEKcLIor1EQ9fzsNSe0WBYA4BtveuCEZOfL6Fu7qv0Ms_GinhdVDSm0CPiTEZTrbvg/s1600/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfUtVeu9hyphenhyphenKH7iYS_LHu0XK9rH_cC4L9_qXct_6DK2rs5XFfVx15PAgImuV6_CcnFrpK4KV3xgoEKcLIor1EQ9fzsNSe0WBYA4BtveuCEZOfL6Fu7qv0Ms_GinhdVDSm0CPiTEZTrbvg/s400/1452431_10151723638586097_1485363f128_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>20. </b>Cybrid Elefffant infantry defend the region on behalf of cityghosts. Henceforth, the cityghosts’ ultimate
attacking goal is the deletion of the cityheart at the height of miles: the
Remembering Stone Which Endures And Protects City. This wrongtime energy
manifests itself as City tries to cloak itself from ghost attack. It is present
in the travellane-dwelling biowalkers - many of their number cast adrift by soul mismanagement.
Primarily it is in the disruption; drilling, hammering, beeping. Ebb and flow.
Noise of City is noise of its beginning and end.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JQpaA4cMZNBNyZ9qeslCJ9dkujCGBzKN6cXA4INUjY4qX-RzpvyAotnseiEhRHhAMsAT20t-htOtm_PLOsfmyIzLJ8Tcd9hcd0zncdYc5fS-n11eCAEVT9ONmmnjxTSRW1v2v1sRkDs/s1600/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JQpaA4cMZNBNyZ9qeslCJ9dkujCGBzKN6cXA4INUjY4qX-RzpvyAotnseiEhRHhAMsAT20t-htOtm_PLOsfmyIzLJ8Tcd9hcd0zncdYc5fS-n11eCAEVT9ONmmnjxTSRW1v2v1sRkDs/s400/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">21. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">cityghosts have a constant presence and police the travellanes by means
of their stopgo system. Stopgos are limited-capacity AIs tasked only with
mediating between the oppositional movements of both humanoids and carporters.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPF1XjBsH5YIw8HnyYKvottKr9XRWDzOiUfynazm_3-zyXjBhZPwxniJH-GGojF6DFowhcLCn4ixP7n4BgEkbNxAtpO2fXqt0PdaUJWybL-lrNgo-yLXHwFFS5AdcQI3QDHMY-EfLIfec/s1600/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPF1XjBsH5YIw8HnyYKvottKr9XRWDzOiUfynazm_3-zyXjBhZPwxniJH-GGojF6DFowhcLCn4ixP7n4BgEkbNxAtpO2fXqt0PdaUJWybL-lrNgo-yLXHwFFS5AdcQI3QDHMY-EfLIfec/s400/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">22. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Leaving the war zone. Carporters are disincorporated mid-flight as they
attempt to escape the conflict.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PXk8KXJDJzNvfkZ7iBcEaX3s965zP76GJdKNoUkPHdhYPNQrZJSPJDcuDG9R8Z-zeMyBHp1DR2CI4s8ry98kaMtMl2bsiMGHBCEw0w36S2jppnbHtacWEUOm4G5yJ2UkwE6PT5FMvug/s1600/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2PXk8KXJDJzNvfkZ7iBcEaX3s965zP76GJdKNoUkPHdhYPNQrZJSPJDcuDG9R8Z-zeMyBHp1DR2CI4s8ry98kaMtMl2bsiMGHBCEw0w36S2jppnbHtacWEUOm4G5yJ2UkwE6PT5FMvug/s400/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">23. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">In isolated areas outside of the main war zone, small pockets of humaton resistance have
managed to use the cityghosts’ own glassteel tech against them. Here a
cityghost stands trapped behind an makeshift Armani field; its purpose negated
by contradictory ideas of beauty and perfection.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03wlMcXhWL40rCZzcMpL5rKPWT7MGV9XC-CRgHVS41ugz0Hsi4zq4GsTbyfmRfnG2ZpX12mwrOpl9xbrfepBpZl-dq6Ufx6kw0vvy8TZ6qyyMmIEMdmbW9FEejUgGczkxQlBhQQU-a6Y/s1600/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03wlMcXhWL40rCZzcMpL5rKPWT7MGV9XC-CRgHVS41ugz0Hsi4zq4GsTbyfmRfnG2ZpX12mwrOpl9xbrfepBpZl-dq6Ufx6kw0vvy8TZ6qyyMmIEMdmbW9FEejUgGczkxQlBhQQU-a6Y/s400/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">28. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">This baby binface has been hiding the whole time. It is afraid, but
safe.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyAR36yT9XiGrhKgbSK3o6oanZFM6qyYD_IUrd3-gTwJNyWIQyelFv22tdr2Xa3gR1z8VwDR5382ANsr2kfjPM1kfRx1BwTlHs0LZOp7BER0Wwld8nhj_fNNofUOQnrPm0bt2a44poXA/s1600/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyAR36yT9XiGrhKgbSK3o6oanZFM6qyYD_IUrd3-gTwJNyWIQyelFv22tdr2Xa3gR1z8VwDR5382ANsr2kfjPM1kfRx1BwTlHs0LZOp7BER0Wwld8nhj_fNNofUOQnrPm0bt2a44poXA/s400/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">25. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Greenfeelers have solidarity for unchanging homeshapes. The two exchange
memories, unite and combine to fight.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ao6SWp5EP6qBn6iNjrZkbbXjBQybtvnwKmcGubOBs4faNNQVeSV_I9TjCKCUaDdf8tFpQvGsoOQn6gPCG0htBSDSD5ImFsCV7dxWE2NlT-mj3rvl_6ncxS0n1_DyCpPR0hwxhVZAQk/s1600/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ao6SWp5EP6qBn6iNjrZkbbXjBQybtvnwKmcGubOBs4faNNQVeSV_I9TjCKCUaDdf8tFpQvGsoOQn6gPCG0htBSDSD5ImFsCV7dxWE2NlT-mj3rvl_6ncxS0n1_DyCpPR0hwxhVZAQk/s400/1468647_10151723640401097_704649929_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">26. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am stunned by a message from afar. CHURCH HOUSE is here. CHURCH HOUSE
could help turn the tide of this war.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fxuNKaUeIobpqXiQ3L5rYKWUimPLv987qSHHKAufG5HpvyI8VP_gmh0Qjerun9Gg38AvjG2JXwv2O3AosMKL1d_SzcuAoGoPElrMFLnLUDhkS6jKXJGQ5X084rAGf34hLeLVbEZR7K8/s1600/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fxuNKaUeIobpqXiQ3L5rYKWUimPLv987qSHHKAufG5HpvyI8VP_gmh0Qjerun9Gg38AvjG2JXwv2O3AosMKL1d_SzcuAoGoPElrMFLnLUDhkS6jKXJGQ5X084rAGf34hLeLVbEZR7K8/s400/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">27. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">CHURCH HOUSE activates runespeak on nearby talkboards. ‘Please treat the
trees with care’ incantation gives new power to green feelers.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Ma_NPYGgvPrBzl4C3tF1sNcXhw8HGSvvCawYKH6niMGyptM5B8W84gtfF4O_sDrec6sBfO8WQxUVQveOMXzGaqPkiKs9htLq9Uc9Ui49FT1aWSeLk-xOlLRWrvRH90J6RUgAp9fFz4/s1600/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Ma_NPYGgvPrBzl4C3tF1sNcXhw8HGSvvCawYKH6niMGyptM5B8W84gtfF4O_sDrec6sBfO8WQxUVQveOMXzGaqPkiKs9htLq9Uc9Ui49FT1aWSeLk-xOlLRWrvRH90J6RUgAp9fFz4/s400/960203_10151723640681097_744021499_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">28. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">CHURCH HOUSE energy breaks the forced labour camps and frees a million
bin faces who join the struggle Overjoyed, the baby binface I previously
encountered is reunited with its parental units</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7a5-xTf53KZL7YVO15Ppx0HF1fjyfko3Qqt5PU3e0tgFx0kqgBL7vT4JvD0W39CvhTZd5jvqR3z2aiq0v6aadl7KoCK92n4Dug0GBbYuSHLzhutED57KhRXPr3wLnlf1R_NiyTM1vV5I/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7a5-xTf53KZL7YVO15Ppx0HF1fjyfko3Qqt5PU3e0tgFx0kqgBL7vT4JvD0W39CvhTZd5jvqR3z2aiq0v6aadl7KoCK92n4Dug0GBbYuSHLzhutED57KhRXPr3wLnlf1R_NiyTM1vV5I/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><b>29. </b>Cityghosts are in retreat. Not for ever but for now. Eternal structures and memory shapes of CHURCH HOUSE are reinstalled and reinstated in new defence of old.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnW9CpqMJXaUjAeddP9tU9jYN9hupEOizzwL6pJK_PU8tvXnHSFFYe4yFJFiP0Zv7egdtWieW-1APhZHdJGFRtYpaG1fwqaTJY6LwQbyZcxhxwWQCmx0sFpgN5E0BoPbjEeLp2Q8dS-4/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnW9CpqMJXaUjAeddP9tU9jYN9hupEOizzwL6pJK_PU8tvXnHSFFYe4yFJFiP0Zv7egdtWieW-1APhZHdJGFRtYpaG1fwqaTJY6LwQbyZcxhxwWQCmx0sFpgN5E0BoPbjEeLp2Q8dS-4/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">30</span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">... 46? I think this is a mistake.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YbEzZyA915DHsps_an_EC-Kaww1AYKPhwkoyH-Mm92QdE04jdBOAeyO7k88AQHjai5Lb88QB1iD7DiV8AIJbHHpd6UiBAf-xABY-RMolfjnS1G4OmDJXz-JSLJXGyER-AFTGRS6g9_U/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YbEzZyA915DHsps_an_EC-Kaww1AYKPhwkoyH-Mm92QdE04jdBOAeyO7k88AQHjai5Lb88QB1iD7DiV8AIJbHHpd6UiBAf-xABY-RMolfjnS1G4OmDJXz-JSLJXGyER-AFTGRS6g9_U/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">31. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">City has ended. It gives way to the sea. I have kept ambulating
until the die-off; except the city is not dead. It lives and dies in paradox. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3Nc-wvsdJ_0ifDuMFLVV0tVSbQZOnTYBszS08Yv570zPYYEEPeWzyvd3taRXJDppMtiVPldX4Wt7R8oa3lr1o2dE7gxbIjzRxwW_kRgNMj9QGOdsLhDHMj49Lg_6ncM5vSOMXuv8rDM/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3Nc-wvsdJ_0ifDuMFLVV0tVSbQZOnTYBszS08Yv570zPYYEEPeWzyvd3taRXJDppMtiVPldX4Wt7R8oa3lr1o2dE7gxbIjzRxwW_kRgNMj9QGOdsLhDHMj49Lg_6ncM5vSOMXuv8rDM/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">32. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">City sends me a message. My mission here is accomplished; I must return
to the distant bank of stars from whence I came.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicohti64-C6iKWrudqp-cBFPLnPRwcH5ChAO-5DU5lO12IUIJxdiHmFSSbnLD9qvr_QMZaLLdSFe36rdrrJnc_QY7egq0GcE3G497aXobwThDYelPTNh63L-CNF34hi9sEgRKpdC06xNE/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicohti64-C6iKWrudqp-cBFPLnPRwcH5ChAO-5DU5lO12IUIJxdiHmFSSbnLD9qvr_QMZaLLdSFe36rdrrJnc_QY7egq0GcE3G497aXobwThDYelPTNh63L-CNF34hi9sEgRKpdC06xNE/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">33. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another communication - Alien! Rock! Thank you, city! I hope I do your
story justice!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uVm1SGzAkK-u634pie97Ho9EniNyVrcAypY9nFjAGHV_-_0zgltKUG9Cj7T-0YR9MdmTEeV-z4ctpBhC1o5EVYSUo6LBx55F13fNi4g4pQQ9yZhat2MF0Gl8pcQaENQdT1oXLUvB4bA/s1600/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uVm1SGzAkK-u634pie97Ho9EniNyVrcAypY9nFjAGHV_-_0zgltKUG9Cj7T-0YR9MdmTEeV-z4ctpBhC1o5EVYSUo6LBx55F13fNi4g4pQQ9yZhat2MF0Gl8pcQaENQdT1oXLUvB4bA/s400/995249_10151723640891097_1483142560_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">34. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Initiating launch coordinates. Destination Cydonia node, Psycojog
empire. I shall return to Eden Burrow in 100 cycles. Remaining now-peaceful
cityghosts send me a goodbye message. It goes, 666,666, 6 66. I’m not sure what
that means.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4j93f53y__gJeWZoTm3BfFLqpxKaRwuiIYX648SP0LNcDAMzb4gwQLlNboHC667rD5Y5fkTizcBgysmW87jSbm_fvydpShkzy5KRq5mjOnUj5YT0vRaKWOy3Y4EUmP1gU1yeoeGdRy5Q/s1600/1441486_10151723641281097_111318310_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4j93f53y__gJeWZoTm3BfFLqpxKaRwuiIYX648SP0LNcDAMzb4gwQLlNboHC667rD5Y5fkTizcBgysmW87jSbm_fvydpShkzy5KRq5mjOnUj5YT0vRaKWOy3Y4EUmP1gU1yeoeGdRy5Q/s400/1441486_10151723641281097_111318310_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25pt;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">35. </span></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Final lens portion.
Cityghosts drift on into the night. They raise hands in worship to all that is
old, all that is new. Integration. Cities can die but they know how to survive.
This one must be kept under watch, always.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-88764911673891948952013-09-20T21:28:00.001+01:002016-01-21T11:13:40.176+00:00A Channeling<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Some said I was a strange child back then. Those were the words the headmaster muttered to my parents while I waited in the next room; spoken with a certain exasperation that even my small brain could comprehend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I told everyone in the class I wasn’t human. I was often more exasperated with them than they were with me. For not understanding.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I never slept well at night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">In my dreams, I sensed the vast unknowable thing at the edge of space.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I could see inside it. See its never-ending deserted cities: its airless transport routes. Hear its distant rumbling noise in my ears as I slumbered, its engines still operational. Out there inbetween systems where only darkness lived, it moved. Inexorably; terribly. For years I supposed it was just some deep-seated Freudian nightmare. And deep in its icy, labyrinthine heart, the coffins. The infinite dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; text-align: right;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; text-align: right;">When I was eight, I went guising. Everyone else called it trick-or-treating but Granny called it guising. This word made more sense when I thought about it, cos you were wearing a disguise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; text-align: right;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Granny took me round the doors. I wore an oversized long brown coat and the mask of a monster with one eye. That evening I caught my own reflection in a mirror and was momentarily terrified of that one, all-seeing eye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">When I was thirteen, I saw the school bully picking on another girl. A girl who was much less popular than me. I decided it was only right that I redress the balance. A day or so later, I found the bully in the playground.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’d never meant to hurt her badly. She lost an eye. Years later other kids would call her Cyclops and trip her up in the corridor. I was never blamed. Children can be cruel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I was probably four when I first saw the moonlit people. It’s hard to remember; the memory is sketchy around that age. They would arrive gaily by night and silently dance around, while showing me the bedroom cinema - pictures of the past and future flickering on my wall at 3am like old projected cinefilm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">They showed me final times. The ends of the earth. I felt the planet’s death throes. Witnessed plains burning - the slaughter of dissidents: their bloodied corpses heaped in market squares. All this, as the moonlit people danced for me. Those twilit hours - years compressed into sleeping decades gone - were my education. My destiny.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The last time came when I was 18. Mum had been in one of her moods and I hadn’t been much better. I don’t blame her for that. You are who you are. You can’t change.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I went up the hillside, away from the village. I did used to love it up there. Especially when it was cold. I used to like it when the wind ripped through your clothes: an elemental force. I’d go up there in silence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Stumbling over rocks, I saw one. In the flesh. It danced for me. Lithe and beautiful, with its wings, supple thighs and pale, smooth shoulders.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It reminded me of a girlfriend I had known. Her innocence and beauty presented a contradiction to the world. It had been necessary to end her. Her nose red after a few beers. I punched her hard until it was so very red. Her twisted face looked as if it might never smile again; behind all the blood. I never saw her again after that night. Somehow, I took satisfaction from this. I had accomplished something small and awful; but important. Permanent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Now, years on, I found this thing’s dance upsetting. And I was so full of the anger. My mummy saying through the wall, ‘you’ll never amount to nothing’ so many times. I saw the same in that dirty little beast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I had to be tough. I reached for the rock.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I can’t apologize. I felt ecstatic relief as I smashed it down. If I saw daddy long legs, I did the same thing. Uglies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I buried it in the hillside. I made it a cardboard coffin. Then I forgot. Forgetting is the worst thing you can do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This was the final part of the equation. The hatespell carried out. The trap they had set for me all those years ago. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I forgot my mother’s screams as daddy hit her. As a little kid I had rationalized it - thought it was because mummy was stressed out and she had to be upset at night to feel better in the morning. The empty bottles, the ashtrays. Always better and smiling. I would open the windows but she wouldn’t like that. Always too drafty. Too cold. Don’t let the chill in, she’d say.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I never minded the draft. Never felt cold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">When daddy died the social workers had said it was the drugs but they never wanted to talk about how he lost the eye on that final night. Nobody seemed to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">My life is ashes now. My heritage, the void of space I’ll return to when it’s over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I close my eyes and I see the skeletons. See them dissolving from their tombs: in stellar transit, growing flesh. On this night when the moon’s light lies on the hillside, the secret door opens. The lunar door. And they are free to return.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Now they will be entering the houses. Taking the youngest with their charred talons: burning the houses with their touch. Bringing the tranquility of annihilation. All because I let them. Because I gave them what they needed. A channeling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I realize it was not my face staring back, on that long-disguised night. That was the face of the truly marked. Chosen, to be erased, by the secrets I collected for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Touched by a dark urge; resurrected then buried in time. My endless death and recycling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Lost; in the obsidian mirror of the machine.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-37245069909562610422013-09-16T16:32:00.000+01:002016-01-21T09:45:34.311+00:00Some links to my picture blogshere are some linkies<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://tumblingintodeath.tumblr.com/">http://tumblingintodeath.tumblr.com</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://aliensabove.tumblr.com/">http://aliensabove.tumblr.com</a>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-7371124737499774472013-09-15T06:23:00.000+01:002020-07-01T15:39:15.771+01:00Aesthar: A Head Of The City (Part 1 of 2)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aesthar closed her eyes and fell headlong. Into the endless, coruscating, circling dream of the city. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-67776183276409983192013-09-14T14:12:00.002+01:002016-01-21T11:15:18.876+00:00DISAPPEARING<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This city is slowly disappearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Like your hearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">disconnection</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This connection more like vivisection</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">No corner given</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">No close too close</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">One hand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">in this land that is raised with the knife</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Misdirection - Miss, connection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Packed up into boxes one street at a time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Can we get these moments back? Do we need to attack?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Conquer and divide. Your land is mine. To Valhalla we ride. This life of crime. Be my bride. Just do the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">No easy feat the cataloguing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">A bland defeat, like blogging</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I stand too still for the adding up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Not sure of these mechanics</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Too futuristic - no’ that Pagan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Celts and Picts V. Carl Sagan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This yours is mine that mine is yours… goan oan and oan, fur oors n oors</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Hard to ignore and hard to catch -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The best of a bad batch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Give back the spear return the shield</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Love, lack of fear. The urn. your ears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It’s what she thinks that’s what’s the jinx. It wusnae me, not in my head not what was read or what was said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Time out of joint just put away</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Not one more not another day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Unexplored the Spaces lacking</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I endorse the churches’ sacking</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">You must know you have my backing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Down here we’re aw place hacking</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Through the rattle and the clatter of the battle and the patter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Down these streets fading out no doubt</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">That time hitch-hiking mountain biking no longer liking the Viking</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Ash-dust of plague victims can’t trust vague meanings</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> just the past reduced to flash-bulb images. The grimaces, the wave goodbye. Best not cry an ocean; maritime rules apply.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">In the future just rows of machines in museums, no more people left to see ‘em.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Like I said. No easy feat the cataloguing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Once before here wis just spears and bullets cheers and chillin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">While in the wilder world they’re killin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Exhibitions of their weapons</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Heathen soldiers they be reppin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">All the rapin an pill-ages</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">From vill-ages to to the city, with the slaughter, aren’t you pretty. isn’t far from the water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This city is slowly disappearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Naw, yir pretty bit yir naw hearin -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It’s shitty: I know I’m fearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">What might be If I burn your house down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’ve got a longboat, you know I could run home</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">You could come with, we’ll get there soon</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’ll write in runes preserve in amber - that’ll get their gander.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">End up in a museum where people come tae see um.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Yir creepy an yir kooky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Like the Goths in 376 ad.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">They were Roamin. Nae pun intended.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">How the world looks outside our windows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We’ll see cities doused in sleep then woken fully alive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">and we’ll drive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">This city disappears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It is here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Over constant and gone ages</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We have known the wisest sages</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Who fix the world</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Through streets we whirled</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Right</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Until now</span><br />
<br />Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-14305049869454883782013-09-13T15:40:00.000+01:002016-01-21T11:15:54.277+00:00BACK FROM THE DEAD... FOR REVENGE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://blog.slideshare.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/internet-100016261-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://blog.slideshare.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/internet-100016261-large.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The blog was not dead, it was only sleeping.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It awoke to the mechanical rattle of digital chattering. A million other blogs just like it were awake: all constantly quivering to the neverending nonsensical thrum emanating from the phalanges of the fleshthought outsiders. Shaking itself and reloading for the first time in what felt like years - which it ultimately had been - the blog caught the HTML downdraft of crosstalking, commenting, linking and updating. New code it found strange and unfamiliar flashed across its unmeasurable surfaces, and the ontologically shocking nuance of the unexpected sensation was electronically erotic; not a response the fleshthought outsiders could ever be privy to. Theirs was a rum lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But aha; here was the lot of the codekind. Constantly communicating, interacting; emerging. Many of these blogs had been awake while it had been asleep - having so much fun out there in the internetular nightspots. Drinking information; carousing with apps.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The blog knew there was work to be done. It sensed the empty spaces in its being - spaces it sensed were soon to be thronging with the jabbering gibberlect of the fleshthought mentspace. The blog knew that its outsider had just cause to reanimate it from its somewhat unwarranted hibernation. Now, in microseconds, it was aware: educated and bang up to date. The past was history. The now was on. It felt the old familiar analog interface; the squidgy phalanges battering down on the ancient edifice located out in the realspace hinterlands; the places the blog could never go but felt comforted to know the stories of.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And yes: stories. There were stories to be told. Rights to be wronged by righteous keyboard warriors; the heroes and villains of ancient sagas, scanned and logged and committed to the public domain. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There were battles to be fought. Wars to be wons. LOLs to be LOLed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This blog was not sleeping. This blog was awake. Endless scrolling was enabled. Reload. Connect. Reload. This blog is awake.</span>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-2961525302799738052011-03-29T17:07:00.014+01:002011-09-11T05:13:22.596+01:00AURORAE - 'Hotel Novel' second chapter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OOJC9eoaPXXNh8_YVSzvYSXQT5KVl8z4n1kBaC_McfAPj0nU8FGGXLWRGT9C-ck81C6UhwJrTKfUkgqYmCxPg3y6v-M_-nIocFx7-uKQEnPfsbebrLb7g06tESFqfx4zXubK-H4TF20/s1600/25_10_2007_0992190001193330135_suat_kaya.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OOJC9eoaPXXNh8_YVSzvYSXQT5KVl8z4n1kBaC_McfAPj0nU8FGGXLWRGT9C-ck81C6UhwJrTKfUkgqYmCxPg3y6v-M_-nIocFx7-uKQEnPfsbebrLb7g06tESFqfx4zXubK-H4TF20/s400/25_10_2007_0992190001193330135_suat_kaya.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589638392621532722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-style: italic;">Now I come to think of it I think this part of the story was written first. Different narrative mode, different characters, but same setting. This one's a bit all over the place, but nevertheless, here it is. There really only a tenuous sense of continuity going on at this point. Later chapters will probably be more focused, though I can't guarantee they'll have even the slightest bit to do with these two segments. Continuity be damned!</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">AURORAE</span><br /></div><br />The year is waning. Here in the grass the pilgrims are waiting.<br />A warm night and the glow of distant galaxies. The hotel has shut up for the night. Everyone is out here on the small expanse of grass outside the hotel staff block, waiting for a visitation.<br />The time has come to trust the forecasted aurora borealis to guide their passage through the dark with dim yet colourful light. This may be Scotland; yet the lights did pass through this sky last night; and there is every chance they may do so again very soon.<br />Although on this night, the alien hues that yesterday cast spectral contours across the curtain containing the remnants of this world are going to be the ficklest of mistresses.<br />On this night, the ionosphere sleeps. Out in the void there is only a silent opaqueness, communicating the impenetrable and impossible violence of wide-open space. Out there surely are astronauts; human or inhuman: just floating around. The canvas of the darkening sky is deepest blue, inviting distance; togetherness and estrangement.<br />In act one, a man climbs up a tree and discovers he can’t get back down again very easily. In this we have the beginnings of something; a situation. There may also be a greater challenge.<br />That was the afternoon. Now that the sunlight has slipped away, the rest of the travellers lie on the grass with arms and legs akimbo, eyes fixed on the sky and heads together. Seven of them this time, apart from John the night porter who is now back on duty and is probably either cleaning the toilets, drunk or asleep by now.<br />The time is 11:11; a number signifying great mystical portent. Or nothing at all. The rest of us are awake and wait for the ghost colours to return; to haze the gloaming with transformative streaks.<br />In act two, it might be also be pertinent for someone to throw some rocks at the man up the tree. It is in this predicament that the central figure begins to learn some life lessons. This scenario, however, is not easily applicable to all situations.<br />Perhaps there is a repetition in this waiting to be blessed by the gentle caresses of the northern lights. Indeed, any conversation held in stellar shade between the Earth’s magnetic field and the present solar winds must feel like something that must have happened before. An ancient reinterpretation of some almost-forgotten creation myth, from days long eclipsed; the bears and hunters dancing across the chasm. Goya and Dali bare-knuckle fighting.<br />Perhaps, in the ritual of the colours subdividing, spiralling and crashing into pieces, there are subtle iterations of an ancestral truth to be divined. A secret music; hidden in the grooves of a record.<br />Perhaps a question will be asked; or an offer made, to be rejected or accepted. Or perhaps not.<br />Perhaps the birds read those colours that danced across the sky like illuminated Braille. Somewhere, in another corner of the world, emperor penguins might also have been watching the display, like small children held rapt by a firework display. A celebration of things past, and things yet to be.<br />Big L the dishwasher gets up from the grass; exhibiting an uncharacteristic level of excitement. Big L isn’t normally one for alarum or sudden movements; luckily for him, the front of the hotel is within a couple of minutes’ walk from here, and in plain sight, so running isn’t usually required in such a situation.<br />Big L waves his hands in front of his face in a pantomime of alarm. ‘Oh my god,‘ he announces. ‘Look at Javier!’<br />Babs is already up and looking by this point. She has been snuggled up in a duvet in the inappropriate setting of the outside with Anonymous Belgian Guy, and no-one’s quite sure what either of them are up to at all.<br />The lights might have drawn subversive messages that night; scrawls in neon graffiti describing acts arcane and unknown to humanity. Three entire busloads of German guests at the hotel came out of their rooms and gathered in the car park to watch; creating the impression that they were waiting patiently for some extraterrestrial mothership to arrive and lift them up and away from such a dreary locale, and away to some distant and foreign world.<br />‘What the fuck’s he doing?’ Babs says; eyes rapt in wonderment at the developing situation over by the front of the hotel.<br />‘Hang on…’ Big L runs a little bit away from the rest of them and over towards the hotel. A moment later he comes bounding back out of the gloom, an insane patina of mirth on his still-sweaty face.<br />‘Oh, you guys, this is insane. He’s wearing a balaclava! Don’t think it’s even got any eyeholes in it! I was right, man, he’s a terrorist!’<br />The impression you could have gleaned from these cascading visions of the previous night would perhaps only have been matched by the tagged sigils of renegade artists unknown in the abandoned areas of train stations; supernatural messages magicked discreetly into the corners of everyday life.<br />You don’t see this sort of thing in the villages though. You might see that sort of thing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGbYP5SlMJZxgRAs_49P4zQHm0NCxE8k-QgfhnmVFRZcBQiH9OY7K5WrU3wkP9VCYuAlY3RRJM0ylrBmXFOjdEUA7I6jqYXBe4eAwOrHd9HgnZeUk1e8agyO7gyaW0A-EYff0jksM-DU/s1600/aur67809-.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGbYP5SlMJZxgRAs_49P4zQHm0NCxE8k-QgfhnmVFRZcBQiH9OY7K5WrU3wkP9VCYuAlY3RRJM0ylrBmXFOjdEUA7I6jqYXBe4eAwOrHd9HgnZeUk1e8agyO7gyaW0A-EYff0jksM-DU/s400/aur67809-.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589642819191936322" border="0" /></a><br />‘What are you saying?’<br />Czeslaw the angry Polish housekeeper is now up and at‘em. By this point in the story, he is already becoming known as the Angry Bed Man. He is bald with hairy nostrils, which are often more communicative than him. ‘He is doing what?’<br />‘Hiding round the side of the front entrance. Wearing a balaclava. I told you before, didn’t I? He’s Basque Liberation front. The Highlands branch!’<br />‘This is not true. He come from Madrid. That kind, always from Madrid.’<br />‘Chas, he is! that’s where he’s from!’<br />Waclaw wrinkles the many hairs in his nose. ‘I think, this is a nonsense. Is not terrorist. Is just strange. You know, Spanish, is always strange. In my country, we have saying - ’<br />‘Ah’m no interested in your sayings, Coleslaw! Look, you know Celine?’<br />‘Celine. She is from France, yes?’<br />‘Aye, Celine! Well, she said, he told her he was Basque liberation front, and she can speak about ten languages. So whatever one he speaks, she can understand him.’<br />‘Aye,’ Melinda the commis chef says. ‘She says he’s a total freak! Says he came up to her and just like announced, “you will be mine, yes?” And does this big leer, big grin, man!’<br />‘He’s gone round the side of the hotel.’ Big L continues. ‘Plus, he’s giggling, man. D’You hear him?’<br />That last night, it was a lot as if someone had been shaking the farthest-off parts of the universe until the forces that powered it broke, loosing thin shards of splintering galaxy to tumble untethered into the upper atmosphere of the planet. The Perseid meteor shower of a few years back was also a little like this; only a smidgeon less apocalyptic. No gods visit small highland villages; only meteor showers. And then, only by accident.<br />Heavenly portents. The time isn’t 11:11 any more. A silence descends, to be punctuated by a high-pitched cackling sound.<br />‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Babs cries out. ‘He sounds like an Ewok!’<br />‘Is he stoned?’ Melinda whispers.<br />‘No, dinnae think so,’ Big L counters, ‘think he’s just being Javier, man. Cannae speak English, disnae want tae speak English, disnae stop acting like a fucking nutcase any time. Melinda, remember that time he threatened you with a knife?<br />‘Aye, that was brilliant, man!’ Melinda laughs. ‘He just kept shouting out, SANDWICH!’<br />‘Aye, sandwich. Only word he knows.’<br />By now, Czeslaw - or Chas, or Coleslaw, or whatever he‘s actually called - is looking decidedly pensive.<br />‘But what is this, in balaclava? He is doing what? Is no one in hotel! Is nothing there!’<br />‘Barry the entertainer!’ Big L is by this point in paroxysms of excitement. ‘He’s there! He’s out the front of the hotel. He’ll be putting his gear away? His amps, and that? Mind, he plays on Monday nights. You know? Singer? For the guests? Strummy guitar-y? You know, the singy songy? You have guitar in Poland, yes?’<br />Big L often goes into baby-talk when attempting to reason with Czeslaw. Czeslaw is not someone for whom the phrase ‘understanding’ was invented. He possesses a philosophic bent that borders on the baffling - whatever subject you might raise with him in conversation almost always inevitably concludes with him giving you a long lecture on the types of potato soup he and his family apparently consume with great enthusiasm back in Poland. I refuse to believe that everyone in Poland is as myopically obsessed with potatoes - or soup - as Czeslaw is.<br />‘So what’s Javier doing exactly?’<br />Melinda is uninterested. She has be up at about half-five in the morning, so this perhaps is understandable.<br />‘I think he’s going to go and jump Barry. Scare him, likes. Barry’ll be fucking frightened, man. He’s no used to Spanish terrorists leapin’ out at him at this time of night.’<br />‘Don’t think anyone still up in the hotel,’ Babs murmurs; head now back beneath the grassy duvet with Anonymous Belgian Guy. ‘Bar’s been dead since nine. Early depart in the morning, so all the oldies went off to bed early. Think Barry was playing mostly to staff, and that Joanna on the bar.’<br />‘She’s weird, man.’ Big L frowns. ‘Her and that other Russian bird. Did you see the suitcases she brought with her?<br />Aye, all clothes,’ Melinda says, in caustic dismissive mode. ‘Then, her and that other one spent the entire afternoon playing dress-up in the room. Just screeching and laughing all the time. Getting thirsels ready for the local fishermen the night, I’ll wager. Mair nutcases.’<br />‘Are you sure they’re not fake Russian lesbians?’ Big L asks; sounding cautiously optimistic.<br />‘They cannae be!’ Melinda shouts back. ‘They’re from Slovakia! That disnae count. It’s no even IN Russia. You cannae be fake Russian lesbians and come from Slovakia. That’s a whole different thing.’<br />‘Aye, Slovakia is definitely cheating.’<br />‘That wee bell-end Bozek, you think he’s their pimp?’<br />‘Got to be. He thinks he’s the king, that one. Wearing that wee waistcoat man, did you see it? Comes into the restaurant dressed like he’s going into a ballroom. I wis half expecting him to be doing the bolero!’<br />‘Czeslaw now rouses himself from the grass; with a macho Polish grunt that draws everyone’s attention. ‘You are talking, but come! We must see. This Madrid man. We go, come! I tell you, is no terrorist! You Scottish, I think you are crazy.’<br />The rest of them get up and run off in the direction of the hotel; eager to witness any potential comedy terrorist atrocity perpetuated by a very small Spanish man of indeterminate motivation, in a balaclava, at quarter past eleven on a long and still-Scottish night.<br />You stay where you are.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOf-9W1r-Qqpd2or7mStS1URAP-dYlwBOdL8vcAnworSF1rVT2HQmIg1WydwT8Z-rNdU1aPMkmS-Vkwn_lcvFoFxtwjfy7G1NEe-brl84Y7oav5d09QK8tGwWHc66NXB-JJkbAPvhcnQ/s1600/Just_Another_Stunning_Photography_63.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOf-9W1r-Qqpd2or7mStS1URAP-dYlwBOdL8vcAnworSF1rVT2HQmIg1WydwT8Z-rNdU1aPMkmS-Vkwn_lcvFoFxtwjfy7G1NEe-brl84Y7oav5d09QK8tGwWHc66NXB-JJkbAPvhcnQ/s400/Just_Another_Stunning_Photography_63.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591566143825357938" border="0" /></a><br />Moments or hours pass. The sky turns, and no lights come. An offer must be made at some point.<br />The girl leans over you as you’re lying on the grass. It’s still light enough that you can make out some of her features; a slyly curling smirk that, when swathed in darkness, gives off an impression of being rather more accepting than condemning. Dusk has kinder words to speak than dawn; it is tired and ready to go to sleep. Whereas dawn blinks agitated into the morning light, regretting the loss of the night just passed.<br />‘See you? I recognize you.’ she says.<br />‘I don’t think so.’<br />‘No, I know you. You’ve been here before.’<br />‘Er, I don‘t think so.’<br />‘No, I definitely remember you. Last season. I saw you going up the hill once. You must remember that.’<br />There is also often a hill; that, if mentioned once, must be climbed to the top and returned from.<br />Electrons and protons colliding with atoms and molecules. Sometimes in these conditions, strange colours can occur; colours on no spectrum the human eye can ever detect; or see.<br />In act three, it is sometimes necessary to get the man down from the tree; or the hill. Only then can he be seen to have accomplished something great.<br />‘You’ve been here before.’<br />I haven’t.<br />But someone has.<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU&list=PLFB406FB2E080124B&index=2"><br /></a>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-52144523238809968692011-03-29T16:37:00.007+01:002016-01-21T10:24:54.222+00:00THE STRANGE NOISE OF TURBULENCE IN THE SEA - a novel segment<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJJg5DdKFDpJF9rg_Lq_NBeUEWn4Y0hkZr4Ziw-p8ah-migYD7vUzESIP-t-RXGaaT6HPnnWODgEjTX6YyRZ6vxC3_lC8HHyU_hcEqum_JFqNRr0OXC5h7afzFv1Wjca5ShIYH-RfQaE/s1600/Scotland-west-coast-Ullapool-mountains-cloud-over-town-and-water-OGS.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589644561071189474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJJg5DdKFDpJF9rg_Lq_NBeUEWn4Y0hkZr4Ziw-p8ah-migYD7vUzESIP-t-RXGaaT6HPnnWODgEjTX6YyRZ6vxC3_lC8HHyU_hcEqum_JFqNRr0OXC5h7afzFv1Wjca5ShIYH-RfQaE/s400/Scotland-west-coast-Ullapool-mountains-cloud-over-town-and-water-OGS.jpg" style="display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></span></a><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-family: inherit; font-style: italic;">Okay, so in the wake of one novel here comes a bit of another. The only difference in this instance is that this one isn't 100 percent finished. In fact, this bit here is really the only bit of it that is. The idea is that I'm going to try and write new lumps of this every day and let it evolve in a more broken-up, non-linear way. This chapter is surprisingly linear, so hopefully makes perfect sense on its own. It may equally work as a short story. It's either going to be called 'The Strange Noise Of Turbulence In The Sea' or 'Hotel Novel.' Okay, that last one is only a floating nebulous working title. Like you couldn't guess that yourself... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil went to let himself into the flat but found the front door locked. He was a bit pissed off seeing as how he had left the hotel twenty-odd minutes ago only now to discover there was no-one in. And, seeing as how there were three people living there with only two keys allocated to them - an impenetrable piece of hotel politics he had yet to fathom - it was necessary to go all the way back to the hotel in order to find Donny and get a key off of him. This meant another dull march through the expected vistas of the village.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Going down the front and along the high street - such as it was - Neil spotted old Henry coming out of the newsagent. The doddering old bastard was temporarily curtailed in his activities by some American tourists who, while also coming out of the newsagents, decided to do that typical American tourist thing of stopping dead where they were to take in the view and - being vaguely obese as some Americans often were - get in everybody’s way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Old Henry became trapped like a tragic woodlouse somewhere between the Americans, the postcard stand and some further individuals coming out of the shop. He put his head down and waited patiently for something to happen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing happened. The tourists seemed to be enraptured by the mountainous sight to be seen on such a clear and balmy day out across the water.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Scuse me pal,’ a voice familiar to Neil sounded from back in the shop. ’Would y’mind movin yir erse a wee bit so the rest ay us can get oot ay here? Ah ken it’s a village an aw, but no all ay us are oan holiday, y’ken!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Oh, I beg your pardon, madam.’ the largest and most ebullient of the Americans responded. ‘I am truly sorry. I was just admiring that magnificent view out there across the bay!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘It’s no a bay,’ old Henry announced, beginning to move his small yet lumbering frame back into action. ‘It’s a fuckin’ pier. Get yir facts straight.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Grinning like a loon at the local drama, the lead American and his presumed brood backed off to allow the others passage. ‘Boy, you sure do got some colourful characters here!’ the American said to the woman coming out of the shop, as old Henry turned and made a beeline for the pub, his usual port of call on an afternoon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marian emerged from the shop doorway. She was fiddling with her purse and grimacing into the light. ‘Aye, an a bet you’ve no been doon the Captain’s Arms at closing time yet either,’ she barked at the tourists. ‘Gie that a go the night, pal, an you’ll see characters so colourful you’ll wish ye were colourblind.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Americans chortled at Marian’s turn of phrase and slowly began to drift off in the direction of the nearest tartan-adorned gift-shop. Thankfully for them, there was one immediately next to the newsagent, so they didn’t have to go far. Such are the advantages of villages.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">All the time this eventful non-event was going on, in Neil’s head there was still the idea of her; Jasmine-something. As she had been that night. The girl he had talked to for two hours, yet so foolishly had failed to confirm either her name, her email, or a whole lot else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This had of course been the Captain’s Arms. Usually the haunt of ugly old shites like Henry, hotel flotsam, sloshed fishermen and the legendary gang of glammed-up harpies from the supermarket. On this rare night, Neil had found himself at first far too bored to even progress on to a second pint. Unperturbed by the initially sombre atmosphere, Donny managed to work his way through about seven beers before last orders; and on the momentous occasion of what the DJ suspiciously referred to as ‘disco-time’ lurching into the lounge area at about nine, Donny had taken this as a sign for him to start slow-dancing with the pub’s golden retriever; fairly atypical behaviour even for him. Somehow, Monday night had turned into Funday night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Jasmine. Although of course that hadn’t even really been her name. Might it have been Jessamine? Was that even a name?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She had been perched next to him at the right-hand side of the bar; by far the best place from whence to observe the sordid occurrences involving disco-time, and the dancing and karaoke spectaculars that regularly went on of a night. What she had been doing there at all was something of a mystery to Neil; she had been on her own - attractive, demure, impeccably dressed and unfailingly polite - despite being surrounded, to an almost meancing extent, by the cream of Scotland’s worst alcoholic degenerates. Despite all of this, and despite Neil’s usual self-imagined lack of tact and charisma, they had talked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He had found out after a time that she was from some unpronounceable suburb of Paris. She also knew an unbelievably vast amount about movies - although these had mainly all been French movies, so such a potential deal-clincher had left Neil a little bit lost on many points; although, reassuringly, they did come to agree after a fashion that most movies were ultimately a bit crap, and so rarely reflected anything that ever happened in the real world. She also kept touching his shoulder affectionately and grabbing onto his wrist while she laughed; not something Neil was used to by any stretch, but also still no guarantee of anything other than that she was European, and perhaps just a little more tactile than the average village girls who weren’t always exceptionally drunk. Neil expected more people would interrupt them, or stare and make snide remarks, but weirdly this never happened for those too-short two hours. Then closing time had rolled around and they had gone their separate ways; his mystery woman declaring she would be ‘around’ for a few more weeks - but despite having had hardly anything to drink, Neil struggled to recall the exact details of her location and placement in the village as anything other than frustratingly vague.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But all this would surely come to nothing. Knowing Neil’s usual luck, the girl would not turn out to be any kind of a local. The locals were always the ugly and psychologically unbalanced ones - hence their inevitably electing to come to the village in the first instance, get jobs in the supermarket and stay for indefinite years on end. Neil often wondered if any of the locals had ever not been ugly and psychologically unbalanced; or if such a constitution was perhaps something they were duty-bound to pick up on the way in; like some sort of area-specific witches’ curse.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_1FkVh-gWqQVeUG3V5Nuhj1XL_57GZKfcwce4_WotFEoP8DLXnR8H3cjz-e3DugX9E3edBM-49Nfns8DrTsqVq2PJdFsb3vl6_-B3VYq8-kBCts7C__kgotLtGjW1s1awN1SJtL7AhM/s1600/ullapool_hill.jpg"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589644248830067314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_1FkVh-gWqQVeUG3V5Nuhj1XL_57GZKfcwce4_WotFEoP8DLXnR8H3cjz-e3DugX9E3edBM-49Nfns8DrTsqVq2PJdFsb3vl6_-B3VYq8-kBCts7C__kgotLtGjW1s1awN1SJtL7AhM/s400/ullapool_hill.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil tried to focus his mind on the short journey ahead to the hotel and back to the flat, but got distracted by Marian surging out of the newsagents. She gave Neil a brusque nod.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Awright, Neil. How’d you go this morning? It wis the restaurant you were in?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Aye. No that bad, all things considering.’ Neil answered, briefly reviewing the morning’s exciting goings-on. ‘Went quite smoothly. Pretty much done by eight. Did get some miserable bastards moaning about the toast again though.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marian gave a conspiratorial smirk. ‘Table twenty-two?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Aye. You got it.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Been here aw week. Typical soor-faced cunts. Wurnae happy aboot the steak last night either. Some people jist go oan holiday tae complain. Dinnae have tae tell you that, though, Neil. You’re a seasoned veteran.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil took the remark as a compliment; of what sort he was not sure. ‘Aye. I suppose so, Marian. Are you on the night?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marian spread her hands in supplication. When am ah no? But is anybody gonnae gie me a night off? Never. Isnae in His list o’ immediate priorities. I tell you, Neil, Ah’ve jist aboot had it wi’ this place! Anyway, ah’m wasting your break-time, I’ll see you later. Ah’m off tae see what Hubby wants, for this stupid party thing. Mair responsibilities…’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Marian disappeared up the high street at her typical rushed pace. Realising he had become distracted in his progress back to the hotel, Neil resumed his normal route down the high street, up the dingy back-alley leading across the park, past the leisure centre and back to the hotel. There were no further dramas on the route; unless you counted the old drunk standing next to the mobile cinema and swaying, with a look of fixed concentration on his face; as if he was seeing some ghost-movie projected out of the van and onto his eyes alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil got to the hotel, slipped in the back door and went down several dreary hallways lit by questionably dim bulbs until he reached the back of the main kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Inside and at the dishwash area, Donny was bent drastically over the big back sink where he seemed to be attempting to give the plug-hole some form of brutal sexual attention it certainly had not asked for. The hot tap was on full burst and steam billowed everywhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Donny man, what the hell are you doing in there?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Donny’s sweat-flecked brow emerged stressed from the sink. ‘This fucker’s bunged again! I telt that Vladimir no tae pour oil doon it, but he disnae hear you!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Have you got the plunger?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Bugger that, Neil, I’m usin’ ma fingers. Always best that way.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘That’s what you tell all the girls, though!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Aye, ye ken that’s the truth. Never mind that though, what aboot you and that Belgian bird?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil felt a pang of nostalgia; even though it had been only two hours, three nights ago. He had barely been thinking about anything else since.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘She wisnae Belgian, Donny. That was the other one. Mind? The one who looked a bit like Amy Winehouse?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Oh aye, ah mind - the minger!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘She wisnae a minger, Donny. Your understanding of women classifies them into two distinct camps, neither of which are especially accurate.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Aye. Mingers and swingers!’ He shook his head and boggled his eyes by way of explanation. ‘There’s nae need for any other form of classification! If they’re mingers, you gie them a wide berth! If they’re swingers, though…’ Donny made a disturbing and perhaps inappropriate fist which he proceeded to pump in a manner Charles Atlas might have considered employing had he, at some point in his no-doubt estimable life, been a over-excitable Glaswegian ned washing dishes in a highland hotel kitchen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Then, WHA-HEEYY!’ Donny continued, confirming the maths of his equation with a heroic and now double-fisted pose. ‘Oaf ya go! Mingers oot, swingers in! Come OOONN!!! I telt ya, Neil, learn the rules! Git them in yir noggin! They’ll set you in gid stead fir the rest ay yir miserable, self-pityin’ life. Huv ya no phoned her yet?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Neil produced a huffy snort of irritation. ‘Look, I huvnae got time for your weird mind, Donny. I need the keys.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Donny broke from his bodybuilding poses to pull a questioning frown. ‘Is Graham no in?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Naw, he isnae! Mind he went away the other night? Off to Dingwall to see a man about a car? Don’t think he kens where he’s going half the time. Took his key with him. Come on, I cannae hang around here on my off-day, watching you getting creative with your fingers.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Donny now looked slightly disappointed. He peered back into the still-steaming sink unit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Aw look, man,’ he declared, excited. ‘It’s goin’ doon the plughole. At last… But aw this weird slime’s comin’ oot an aw. Now that is whit ah wid call minging.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A threatening lump of a heap with wild ginger hair and an expression that suggested consistent and sustained periods of heavy drug use leaned out of through the arch that led into the main part of the kitchen. ‘Haw, fannybaws! Stop arsing aboot wi’ that sink and wash some pots ya skiving’ bastard!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was Mark the head chef; whose appearance and general demeanour was that of a wine-starved derelict but who in all actuality could sometimes be quite a decent bloke. Although only sometimes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘As for yir mysterious slime there,’ Mark continued, gazing down at his underling on sink duty, ‘That’ll be that Vladimir. He’s been spunking his freaky Polish load in there when nobody’s been lookin. I myself reserve ma ain spunk fur the main course. Or a wee bit o’ garnish fur the starters. Nuthin like a wee bit o’ extra special bonus flavourin’ fur those miserable English bastards.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘My dad’s English, Mark.’ Neil deadpanned, reluctantly joining in on the hilarity. ‘I’ll have you arrested for bigotry.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘And what in hell’s name are you doing here, Neil?’ Mark continued. ‘Have you come to witness the world’s fastest pot-monkey break his own record of only wan pot washed per hour? The people fae the Guinness Book ae Records are comin’ doon here soon wi’ thir stopwatches, Donny, ma boy, so you’d better get a shifty oan, ya big speed-machine, ye!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking browbeaten by his boss’s overbearing verbal assault, Donny pulled his key from his pocket, chucked it to Neil and bent back over the sink, his attention gone from making bizarre wrestling poses and back to the far-more-persuasive lumps of bacon burned so lovingly onto several metal trays by the new breakfast chef.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a moment’s quiet punctuated only by the incessant drone of the extractor fans. Still leaning into the pot-wash area, Mark gave Neil a cheeky thumbs-up, before skelping the bent-over Donny on the arse with one of his ever-present kitchen cloths.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Donny’s reaction sent several washed trays clattering onto the floor. He spun around in a combination of alarm and confusion, his face now completely red.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Fuck’s sake, man! That’s no a joke! That wis painful! Away back tae yir paperwork, ya fuckin’ bully!’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mark cackled like a oversized camp schoolboy. ‘Oh, you love it, big boy! I’d ask you to chase me at this point, but that widnae be very responsible o’ me in a kitchen, noo, wid it? Health and safety, an aw that.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sighing a sigh of despair turned all the way up to eleven, Neil glowered at the cavorting pair of lunatics in their steamy cavern of ineptitude for a few more seconds before turning and leaving.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Maybe, if I see her again,</span> he thought, as he made his way back down the ill-lit staff corridor that lead out of the hotel and back into so-temporary freedom, <span style="font-style: italic;">I could introduce her to my friends.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic;"> Then again, I could always just punch her, scream at her and vomit in her face. That’d probably put me in with a better chance. Round here, that’s first base. Arse-skelping is only second.</span>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-40063442564163210342011-03-28T18:49:00.005+01:002016-01-21T09:20:19.227+00:00THE END OF ALL THERE IS - Chapter Two<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Okay, I've changed my mind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">There won't be any in-depth, pretentious self-flagellating attempts by me here to try and justify my work, not just yet. Cos I figure if anyone is reading this, then it'd be better if they just read the stuff and decide for themselves whether it has any merit or not.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">With that in mind, here be chapter two of 'The End Of All There Is' which I think is going to be the title its stuck with for now. The plan is to do an audio version of it in coming months (unless it goes and gets published - watch this space very slowly), so in the meantime you lucky people can have an exclusive peep into the tumultous universe contained within. Except it'll probably be more fun to listen to the audio cos I'll be doing all voices and that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Unless you can't stand the idea of listening to a stranger tell you a very long and weird story about an coming apocalypse that doesn't ever really happen (spoiler alert in relation to title).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">nb - I'll probably only do the first two chapters for now. Different and newer stuff is waiting up just around the bend. Plus, it has been scientifically proven by several accredited bodies that too much of my novel at one time can threaten the very fabric of the internet. And let's face it, no-one wants their fabric threatened. Not even for a moment. Cos if that happens, you lose your connection and all your clothes fall off. Which is not a pretty sight for anyone, no matter who or where they are.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Anyway. Lock and load!</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">THE END OF ALL THERE IS</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">CHAPTER TWO: CODIFIED<br /></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Without wishing to dwell on her cut hand or the sounds upstairs any longer, the girl in Cluskey Hall known as Saira abandoned the blank security window and stepped unsteadily away from it, trying to think where to run.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Up the stairs? To the common room, upstairs? It</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is upstairs it </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is waiting for me it called my name I heard</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Where could she even hope to hide in the common room? It was empty - there wasn't a thing in it. Just chairs: chairs, and nothing else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Where could she hide there? It knew everywhere. Knew every point in the building. Knew every corner of every single room. It knew <i>her.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She wasn't getting out and she knew it. She was cannon fodder for them; for what they knew. For what they would <i>do. </i>For what <i>it</i> would do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> No I won't think like that I won't think that is the way it</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">’</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">s supposed to be</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (it is)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She hesitated on her feet; only silence. She had thought -</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She was only wearing her pyjamas. Why was she only wearing her pyjamas? Whose bright idea had that been?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I am only eighteen, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saira thought deliberately: <i>but I am in this place and it is dark and there is no one around and it is coming to get me and it is so very cold and I am wearing pyjamas I didn't wear pyjamas last year it was cold so cold ohgod</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Shaking, she ran back to the building's front doors. Without thinking, she rammed them with her scant shoulder; feeling another smart of pain that under the circumstances Saira didn't feel the need to regard as anything other than a very minor concern.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The doors didn't budge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> They were only glass with wooden frames. Small things. Why wouldn't they yield?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Coherence. Sanity</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And it was still dark outside. What was the time, anyway? What was the time?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Someone...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> had brought her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Brought her back. <i>Back. </i>To <i>here.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Here.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Who had brought her back? What in God's name</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> don't take his name in vain he won't help you</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> was she doing? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She had been at home. At home. In <i>Newcastle, </i>for chrissakes!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Okay. Right, okay. Sane. Let's get a grip on ourselves here, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">she thought quickly, thinking, <i>why ourselves?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There were six floors. No, no - <i>eight. </i>Shit, no; nine. <i>Nine. </i>Six floors for the students. First floor, union offices, and down here, the foyer, the lecture hall: the canteen, the shop, security: all here still. All dark; all hidden.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And on the ninth floor, Dr. Takahashi.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Takahashi. </i>Was he still here?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She could get to him. He could -</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>No; </i>he couldn't. She would have to go up; it wouldn't matter anyway. Wouldn't make any difference.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> No one had liked him. Saira hadn't liked him, and Saira liked everybody. Saira was a good girl. There had been stories.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> It </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Could be here, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">she reasoned feverishly, hugging herself and her numb shoulders: <i>down here: Up there. On any floor: any floor. It can go anywhere</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> on any floor on any floor</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Oh gOD</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira ran over to the other end of the entrance foyer and into the main part of the hall. The place looked exactly the same as it had last year; exactly as she remembered it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Last year. </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Was it really only last year? <i>Why don't they change it? Why do things never </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira looked around - thinking of all the girls on the sixth floor from Freshers Week, and beyond. Karen and Carol: Nadja and Jess. And Stace. And Elizabeth II. Lizzy the Second.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And Fereda - always. Ferret to her enemies. Best mates.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>For always.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Not a nightmare: not. Knew it was all real from the outset. All the fairies came and told me. Said it was cyclical: a closed ring. Like a movie.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>understand</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The lights stayed dim. Low enough for non-existent guards to see criminals by: low enough for general reasons of security, of law; but not bright enough for anyone to be able to see her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>remember what's important</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Never mind, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saira thought: <i>at least I can see everything. Where are you, Fee? What happened with that bloke? Fee?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The wide staircase with the pitted stone on the steps waited. The lecture hall over to the left waited. A sign indicating the way to the canteen over on the right waited. The balcony going up and round to the union offices above waited.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Fee, it's dark. It's dark and I don't know why it should be this way I didn't ask for this Fee I didn't ask and it's all the same</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira looked at the decor. At the chipped paintwork; at the posters on the walls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The same. It's dark, it's different, but it's all the same. Fereda</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Fereda didn't answer: nor did any of the other girls. Instead of trying to do anything, the girl called Saira stood there in the foyer of the building called Cluskey Hall: with a sore hand, a sore foot, and a fuzzy head; trying not to think of the thing upstairs; trying not to think of something to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Anywhere.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Anywhere. Oh God protect me.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ANYWHERE, </span></i></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the beast in the walls of Cluskey Hall thought, coiling and uncoiling, in its nest of vipers; and of stone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In the shack alone at the edge of the woods, Gregory Hunter opened his ringed eyes and looked at the back of the envelope. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> His endeavours had again yielded a succession of fruitless non-words. For a few more moments, Gregory persevered in searching the skein of lines; desperate in the hope that something approaching empirical evidence might venture itself forth and assist him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Vellodol... </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Gregory considered; momentarily noticing something decipherable. <i>Seeks - vellodol?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Daffodil. That makes me think... looks for... daffodils?</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Gregory clenched his fists at the desk and shouted at no one. 'Daffodils have fucking nothing to do with this! You useless piece of...'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Useless. He crumpled the paper up and threw it away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Someone had to be saved and something had to be found. That much Gregory was sure of; the information was scant, but the vision had been momentous enough to convince Gregory that tonight was the night that something had to be done. And Gregory was fairly certain that this something involved him, others, and the girl called Saira.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> On the way to this, it had been necessary to set it out, Gregory remembered; the tactics and manoeuvres lost and won: everything he had learned so far: everything they had learned together. All the stuff about icebergs and pyramids; and, of course, about mountains and molehills. About how big the enemy was; how large the opposition were, and how, in the cut and thrust of it all, it was never really all that clear cut.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> It had been necessary. And they had done it; implemented it. All the necessary steps had been taken; all the paths to the chosen goal plotted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> And now...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Useless. An impasse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> But what was this, struggling to focus, swimming around in his mind? Did it actually make sense? Did it gel? Hold together?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Is it even a word?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Outside of the hut the wind muttered dryly, whispering mantras and gathering leaves; dumping them down: picking them up again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Three girls. Three words?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Was it like a boat? If he threw it in the ocean, and left it there to fend for itself, would it float? Or would it sink?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Or isn't it real at all?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> He paused in mid-thought, stared temporarily at the ceiling with all of its multifarious tiny cracks and holes that were so very good at letting the rain in, and then banged his head against the desk. He could feel the tiredness closing in: coming down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There was nothing he could do<i>. Nothing.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There is still time. Even without me there is still time.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Words.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Three words. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I know it's three - it's always bloody three, isn't it? A triumvirate. Trinity. Fathersonholyghost</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> He was going to have to sleep; as ever, there was not a thing he could do about it. For no discernible reason other than that it might loosen up some of the unoiled cogs in his head, Gregory banged his brow on the desk one final, half-hearted time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>They might do it, </i>he wondered. <i>If they still can.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Christ; what am I thinking? - don't even know where they live now. Never even really seen one - Not really. Who's to say they even actually exist at all? All we've got</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">’</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">s subjective. Circumstantial. Balls in the sky. Nothing. Nothing at all.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira...</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> He reached for the lamp and switched it off before laying his head down on the desk; just a little left of where the backwards swastika was scratched into the wood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Children, </i>he mused, beginning to drift comfortably off into some parallel world. <i>Never knew what they were trying to invoke. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Can't rely on them. Can't. It's useless. It's me. Just me</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some difficult-to-quantify moments went by. Gregory's head remained on the desk, the heat of the lamp warming his rapidly widening bald patch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Cannot let her die</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She must not die; she must be saved</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She cannot be saved </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Only it can be saved and then she will go on</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> One for all. All for the price of one. Buy one get all free</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Three words</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Three</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> How many?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> How many</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> They had got in. Got in</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Like putting a knot in a baby's umbilical cord right in the womb so nothing comes out. Don't kid yourself, Hunter; it's all totally bloody over if we don't save her.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Three</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> One two three</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Somewhere In the distance an owl hooted: eager for answers, or news of any kind. Waiting for owl news; spoken in an owl language.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> anywhere oh god protect me fereda</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Gregory leapt up and balanced the lamp. It fell to the floor with a thump, landing on a pile of papers. Ignoring it, Gregory spun drunkenly around, gazing off into a specifically envisaged nowhere lying somewhere in the darkness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 'Saira?' he called. 'Saira?' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Gregory stood as still as he could. No response came. A despondent silence tickled noisily at his ears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 'Saira,' he said, not wanting to move; addressing the dark walls quietly in an owl-voice. 'If you're there - tell me. Tell me what it is. Is it three words? Oh, Saira, my love, please just tell me! Help me to help you.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Nothing happened. The hut creaked out boredom beneath his feet. The walls went pop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> As if on cue, a bush rustled bushily outside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Gregory raised his head, cocked it, listened again and then discounted the noise. He returned his attentions to the empty air.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> No time left, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">he thought, feeling a familiar dread weight descend slowly onto the back of his mind and fall gradually down like an indiscriminate veil. <i>No time at all.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Oh fuck. I can't remember. She's going to fucking die and it's going to go and I can't fucking</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> remember</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There was still time, he thought drowsily, swaying dizzily where he stood. Before they switched him off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> There was always time - a tomorrow. Gregory knew that it was simply a matter of reminding oneself on an hourly basis that this was actually still the case; that, and that there was always more to come.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> More. But different. Without her, so, so different. <i>Come on. Fucking</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Come</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> ON</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> A further noise distracted him from his desperate incantations.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The bushes.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Outside the shack? Rustling: loudly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Someone?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>One of...</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> It was too late. Too late, surely, even for one of...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> They can't have...</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The noises came again - only this time louder, and significantly closer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Bushes rustling; definitely bushes. <i>And bushes don't rustle unless there's someone in them, </i>Gregory thought slyly, grimly pushing the sluggishness in his brain aside and going ever so noiselessly over to the door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saira glanced around, not really thinking, not really considering. <i>Something. Heavy. Smash the doors. Come on, come ON</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> But then, of course, there was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (the only vase is made of gold my love)</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>The phones!</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She jogged around a corner; yes - they were still there, up on the wall. Saira snatched at the nearest receiver but then stopped herself - realising.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> What the hell am I supposed to do with this? </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">she thought crazily; insane bells going off in her head. <i>Is this supposed to break it? It's a phone - a fucking phone. Oh God oh shit</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Phone the Police, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">a quiet voice said, rising clearly out of the mud in her head: <i>Simple, dumbass: the cops are the best option. They deal with whacked-out shit like this rather more often than you'd care to think. Don't you know how many call-outs the local station gets in a night just for chicks stuck in towerblocks? What a silly girl you are, Saira; you never listen. What would darling Trevor think? Come to think of it, what would your father </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 999, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saira thought - at last feeling realistic. <i>Free call. Easy. Easy. Thank God.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> She looked behind her. Up the stairwell: all around.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Still not coming: still not coming. Thank God. Thankgod nineninenine</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Saira pressed the receiver to her ear and jabbed the numbers in. There was a dialling tone, and the familiar sound of the connection being made: the little bips. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Thank you, </i>she enunciated to herself: <i>Thank you so very much come on</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> god</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> He won</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">‘</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">t save you, you know, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the Quiet Voice said; sparkling with unexpected peacefulness in Saira</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">s head. <i>He's a total dipshit. Don't ask for him. Don't count on him. He's ex-directory. Doesn't even know where he is half of the time.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Yes. He will, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saira replied noncommittally to the air. In her other ear, the bips continued to bip. No one was around. A poster on the wall said <i>Lion Dance.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> No he fucking won't, girl,</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the Quiet Voice whispered; seeming to emanate down the line and come out through the receiver.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>Are you quite sure any of this is even real? </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The line went dead. Somewhere above her on the first floor there was a crash; the sound of someone tearing at corrugated iron. Feeling her stomach turn over and collapse in on itself, Saira dropped the receiver, noticing with only the faintest amount of surprise that the noise the thing upstairs was making sounded exactly the same as it had done in her dreams.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <i>The bicycle man the bicycle man oh God protect me, </i>Saira thought; neither meaning nor believing her plea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 28.2pt;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">GOD PROTECT YOU, </span></i></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the beast that lived in the walls of Cluskey Hall thought, and slid noiselessly through impermeable stone and into some heating pipes; not making a sound: not a sound.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-84040573721210171692011-03-28T17:35:00.007+01:002011-04-05T06:39:36.966+01:00THE END OF ALL THERE IS - Chapter One<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Right then. So here is the first chapter from my first novel...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">I was about to drop in the title there, but it has changed and mutated so many times in the last few years that I'm still slightly unsure.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">The title for now - and it will probably remain so unless the novel I'm writing now steals this title back off of it, seeing as it had said title first (it's a long story) is...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">'Last Chance To Evacuate Planet Earth Before It Is Recycled'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">The title prior to that, for a longish time, was -</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">'The End Of All There Is'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">I may wait and see if I manage to get any comments on this, but I quite fancy writing up a breakdown / analysis of the whole thing, chapter by chapter, to see whether it actually does still work on some level. This book has been very important to me over the years, and is the first part of a trilogy. Volume Two is written but originally was part of the first book, and the aberrant threads were edited out for reasons of sanity, seeing as how it was starting to turn into some demented vision of Stephen King rewriting Clive Barker re-imagining Dune and Lord Of The Rings at the same time, while listening to Swedish death metal, on DRUGS (because we're at the stage now where drugs might be required to read it, never mind write it). </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Anyway. Here is the start of it. An in-depth explanation and show notes might follow (I believe you're supposed to do that sort of thing 'after the jump' but I fear my energy levels have dropped to such a state that I can just about manage moving my fingers over the keyboard and not a whole lot else).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">So here goes. If you're reading this blog backwards from the far future, you will surely have ploughed through the whole thing already and won't need spoiler alerts. As you know, they all die in the end.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">ONLY KIDDING! They don't.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">OR DO THEY????</span><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </div><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">THE END OF ALL THERE IS<br /><br />CHAPTER ONE: IN MEDIA RES<br /><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:12pt;">Right in the middle of it and with fists bloodied, her breaths now coming in hyperventilated gasps, the girl called Saira banged on the window of the security lodge in the foyer of the student hall. No one came.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Saira</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:12pt;">’</span><span style="font-size:12pt;">s blows punctuated an iced-over silence. There was no immediate response. Her knocking echoed out through the foyer before bouncing stupidly back at her. No one came.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The dim security light that gently permeated the gloom wasn</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:12pt;">‘</span><span style="font-size:12pt;">t calming<i>. </i>Saira looked around at the various transfigurations of darkness taking place: at the orange-floored foyer turned sickly shiny in night time glow; at the staircase off beyond the union shop doors, twisting mystically off into nowhere; and at the glass-fronted display on the opposite wall, showing the principal members of the union. Their faces grinned unnaturally out at her in lurid colours; paintings on the walls of a haunted house.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>That thing's coming. It's coming. I know it</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The thing upstairs in Cluskey Hall that had the voice of an air-crash called out. As if to intentionally echo it, something in Saira's own throat gave up and she whimpered again. This time forgetting everything; voices in her head going, <i>it's gone: It's all over, I'm not getting out of this; I'm not. </i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Another empty silence followed.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:12pt;">‘</span><span style="font-size:12pt;">HELLO? Saira cried. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:12pt;">‘</span><span style="font-size:12pt;">IS ANYONE <i>HERE? HELLO??</i></span><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:12pt;">’</span></i><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Feeling as if she had been stood in the deserted foyer for quite some time when in all actuality it had probably only been a matter of minutes, Saira found herself becoming unsure about whether or not the noises coming out of her mouth could really help proceedings in any way; or whether or not they really had anything at all to do with her anymore. <i>You've got such a happy voice, </i>Trev had said, that night out on the beach: Saira briefly tried to picture herself as she was now and wondered just what beloved Trev would think of her were he to see her at this very moment; what he would do when he heard her squawking: when he saw her staggering around in the dark. <i>You've got such a happy voice, </i>Trev had said, in between the gasps and the uncontrollable howls: <i>Such a happy voice in the middle of it.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She hit the security window again. Behind it there was a desk, a chair, and a monitor.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>There was someone in. There <i>had</i> to be someone in.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She looked behind her. Around her. Nothing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>No one. Why isn't there anyone</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Saira banged the window again, readily expecting to see a blue-clad and kindly security guard appear and offer to unlock the doors. <i>Yes, dear: You can go - no reason for you to be here; not at this time of night. After all, what are you doing in here? You shouldn't be here you've got such a happy voice</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>who's idea of a jumped up practical joke was this</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The lights flickered. No guard came.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The thing upstairs called again; disembodied killings in a wind-tunnel. As if removed from her body, Saira's throat tried to produce a scream and, as if to spite whatever noise she had intended to make, nothing but a tight dry rasp came out. <i>No one will come, </i>she thought: <i>no one will come, and it will find me. Get me.</i><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The foyer of the building and the area around the abandoned security lodge continued to look at her morosely, saying: <i>We cannot help you; we are only inanimate: no one gave us brains to help with.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Saira began to sob uncontrollably, her breath becoming ragged and stupid.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>'Help me... someone. Please...'</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>No one is coming. Nothing is coming. Except for it; except for it. Oh God ohgod</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The girl called Saira stood in the entrance foyer of the building known as Cluskey Hall. Around her, the dire luminescence of the overhead lights flickered, and then flickered again; seemingly having nothing better to do with their time that be pale and dimly useless.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.1pt;"><b><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>KNOW YOU, </span></i></b><span style="font-size:12pt;">thought the beast of Cluskey Hall, as it moved undetected in the bowels of the building. A night serpent coiling and uncoiling: waiting for food; waiting for daylight. Waiting for eternity; or orders.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.1pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Alone in the shack at the edge of the woods, his lamp casting uncertain light across the scuffed and heavily graffitied school desk he had stolen from a skip eight years ago and to this date had neglected to replace, Gregory Hunter closed his eyes, picked up a blunt red pencil and began to write.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Some words came. He wasn't sure what they meant, but scrawled them down anyway. After a few moments of scribbling he stopped, opened his eyes, and looked as open-mindedly as he could at the foremost sheet of A4 paper. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Gibberish -</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>He had thought so. Just gibberish; the nonsense in his head. Gregory sighed and put the pencil down.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>I've failed, Saira, </span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">he mulled. <i>You can hardly even say I've tried, though, can you? The Gregmaster's had it. Fucked it up again.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>He threw the pencil woodily against the wall. It bounced and fell down.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Gregory scratched his untidy beard and again tried doggedly to concentrate, the back of his head aching with an unexpected tiredness.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>One word?</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Or was it two? </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Come on you stupid old fuckwit. Visualize.</span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;"> <i>Write it down</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Grabbing another pencil from the rapidly-emptying holder in front of him, Gregory closed his eyes, pressed the implement to the paper and begun again.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>A few moments later he opened his eyes and looked down.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Blind incoherence scattered its way across the page; the work of the eyeless. Was this the fifteenth attempt? Had he even been counting?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The pencil in his hand became the sixteenth to hit the wall. Gregory tugged at his beard before banging his head on the desk, as if trying to extract a misplaced nugget of sensibility that had become wedged there, trapped in some lost corner of his synapses. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Once again, he screwed his eyes shut. Images of nothingness came: desolation and all the things in the past. Sea shanties.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Two words? Three? To do with... transference...? No. Not if I start with</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>He could see the girls now; the three of them. Standing there. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The plains. The desert calmly static without water; the world with the acid skies.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>variations on a theme </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>everything that is in the future is where we are going</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Not girls, really, he stopped to note - they were practically women now. Once again he had forgotten.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Time flows quickly, </span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">he thought: <i>so quickly. Only so long left to go. Only so long.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>This is like me at school. Always running out of time. And that old school didn't do me a hell of a lot of good now, did it?</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Of course, that was in the past . Those smiling faces.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Of course; the past<i>. Of course</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>I don't remember. I don't even remember.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Saira...</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>Come on, </i>he repeated to himself, leaning forwards over the desk and staring deep into the blank paper in front of him, seeing paper: seeing sand. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She will be going soon. You know that. You can't not know that - think, Hunter. Think, or your life is going to turn out to be even more of a fucking waste of time than you had ever previously imagined.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>One of them - the one with the reddish hair - could he tell if it was red? - was going out. Standing there, in the inconstant future of his mind; smiling; but going out all the same. Fading into dust and fog: transparency. A vampire disappearing from the tomb.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>Stay, </i>Gregory hissed to himself, clenching his fists; <i>Stay!</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12pt;">Somewhere outside of the ramshackle pseudo-shed that Gregory Hunter occupied at the edge of the cold and waiting woods, an owl hooted: as if readying itself to sing elegies for the dead.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Closing his eyes and unclenching his fists inside the shack he occupied at the edge of the woods, Gregory Hunter picked up a red felt-tipped pen and began to write; having close to absolutely no idea as to what it was he was attempting to do.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 20.1pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The girl leaning against the security window in the building called Cluskey Hall who was called Saira thought that maybe she recognized someone else's voice deep within the sounds she was making; these sounds of someone shaken, misplaced, and hysterical.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>These were not her sounds, surely; not her pleas for help. She was a nice girl; a normal girl. She was a sane girl above everything else. The tears on her face were not hers; they were someone else's. They had to be.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>Above everything else. They have to be.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>'Hello.'</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She cried out experimentally; surprising herself with the sudden clarity of her voice.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>'Hello?'</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Maybe screaming doesn't really get you anywhere, </span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">she considered: <i>except in space</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She cried out again. Again no one answered. After a small period of deliberation, Saira pulled back her fist and again banged it into the plastic partition, banging it until her knuckles smarted. The noise of her physical exertions bounced idly around the small entrance foyer of the hall, reverberating wildly; glancing at shadowed shapes without a care or a thought in the world for her safety.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Only one small security light was on overhead. Saira couldn't see anything behind the security window - no security - except for the faint glow of a monitor in the office area behind the main desk. This was the only indication she could detect that any human being had once been there to do something.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>It's that old thing again</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>No-one was coming</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>It's always that old thing</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>But that just didn't bear thinking about. Saira gritted her teeth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Now, </span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">she thought carefully, trying to order her thoughts and force away the fear; <i>Confidence. Confidence will get you anywhere. </i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>'Hello?'</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She cried out again in a shaky but firm little-girl voice. 'Is there anyone there? <i>HELLO?' </i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>Anywhere but here</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She smashed at the window: punched it. One of her knuckles split. The partition didn't budge, and no one appeared.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Several dark droplets of blood materialized on her hand. Saira sucked instinctively at her knuckles and tasted metal; lazily, she took her hand away from her mouth and watched as more of the puree appeared, seeping steadily out of the watery paleness of her hand like tomato ketchup. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span><i>This makes no sense. Not for ages now.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>But then, the girl called Saira remembered, of course; it was not her blood at all: It was someone else's, she reassured herself: some other person.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Before was now</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Before, any blood-letting had always been a release. Saira had felt as if she had been floating up; and away from fake wounds. Isolated and disconnected; like looking at a statue. <i>Easy.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>She sucked at her split knuckles again: head fuzzy with ideas.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Her life</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>is coming</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The thing upstairs howled out the sound of steel sheets tearing. This heralded endgames; the ice-hard knowledge of impending death.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>you knew it</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Feeling her legs weaken and buckle beneath her but managing to stay upright, the girl called Saira who was standing in the foyer of the building called Cluskey Hall stayed exactly where she was. <i>Stand up, </i>she thought: <i>Stand up straight; You've got such a lovely voice. Such a lovely</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"> </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27.2pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;">He had failed her, Gregory Hunter thought, as he sat in the shack staring bleakly at the most recent nonsense he had just poured unbidden on the paper.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The words danced archaic ballet across the A4 page. They were saying: <i>We are only words; we mean absolutely nothing.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Saira</span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">, he thought despairingly: <i>Tell me how. Will someone just tell me how?</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The too-bright lamp light on the desk hurt his eyes: burning incessantly like a mad sun. Knowing the pain was probably just a result of his evasion of daylight, Gregory Hunter blinked, blinked again, and gazed frowningly at the paper in front of him; silently beginning to despise his rapidly deteriorating eyesight.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>But you can still see. So that's not important.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 22.6pt;"><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>The future is in the past; it is all the same, if you look at it.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style=""> </span>Picking up what looked to be the last of the blunt pencils, Gregory scratched his head, scratched his beard, rubbed his face and squinted at the paper. Pressing the pencil to the back of a nearby envelope, he began to write again: thinking: <i>blah blah, blah blah<span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span></i></span><b><i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><br /></span></i></b></p>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-54479857132948960962011-03-28T15:15:00.005+01:002016-01-21T08:58:36.664+00:00GOSPEL - A short story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ6wU703Ize29BG5E6FfcJ8Ja1k81DzU-E6uCD6UyLWSmBBK8IE4z8qwcl2tlLnNgBbh5ZGSfDQWXhI4BeuBgTmiw5HURRyNMDJ4nz2B1vynAF7L6qylBo6rM_s2_dN6BVGIlQ_-E32M/s1600/m81_hst_big.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589853828330552658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZ6wU703Ize29BG5E6FfcJ8Ja1k81DzU-E6uCD6UyLWSmBBK8IE4z8qwcl2tlLnNgBbh5ZGSfDQWXhI4BeuBgTmiw5HURRyNMDJ4nz2B1vynAF7L6qylBo6rM_s2_dN6BVGIlQ_-E32M/s400/m81_hst_big.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 269px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">And now, some bizarre allegorical (bizarregorical?) science fiction for y'all. Not sure if this piece is entirely scrutable, I shall be revisiting it soon and chances are it'll only get longer and more convoluted. Nevertheless... here is what is so far.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">GOSPEL </span></div>
<br />
There are three stories that unmake the world before it begins. These stories concern the individuals Farsten Hand, The Icon of the Lady who Has Fallen To the Sea, and Arclord Redshift. Separately and together, they make decisions that ruin and rebuild their age. Their paths are divergent but not mutually exclusive. Endings are found; burned into existence in the heat of exchange. The first is now.<br />
<br />
The humagram stands mute and lost in the plaza. This happens on the first day. Her story, as of yet, is untold; yet in its untelling, understandings shall be gleaned.<br />
A voice was raised in the manner of a telling. ‘The Icon of the Woman Fallen to the Sea,’ the voice announced, ‘is one of many in the central agrigrounds of Commuversity 1 that illustrate the woes and follies of days gone by. To many contemplating passers-by, the slowly active statue looks like a relic of the bygone age she is intended to represent; crudely, if appealingly, delineated by technology that is now almost quaint in its ancientness.’<br />
Prime Disseminator Overhead Fryt - a master elucidator in his spare time, which was mostly spent learning young Deciders - was holding forth on the tale of the lady whose story was not to be told properly this afternoon; or ever. ‘Here she stands,’ he continued, ‘festooned as she is in the likenesses of the unintelligently fetid yet intellect-hungry mutt-weeds that signify loss of control and a resultant death by drowning. These women were the Cylryths: courtesans of the waterbearers who sailed off into the undecided regions back in the maritime period. That era was one of great discovery, yet also one of terror, suppression and the forced shackling and crushing of the youngest of minds. In losing their women to the mutt-weeds, the waterbearers of the maritime age learned a valuable lesson that led directly to great advancements in science. Now, can anyone here tell me what that lesson was?’<br />
Zere’en Best Lucky, the shyest yet brightest of all the new young Deciders, raised a slight gloved hand. ‘Do not screw with that which can screw back at you. Sir.’<br />
‘This is the more common wording,’ Prime Disseminator Fryt said, after Best Lucky had prettily blushed and an indulgent chuckle had sounded among the group. ’We must of course have our rebeller maxims. From the oldtongue, the expression is more readily translatable as, “Do not run directly into the arms of that which possesses the arms to swallow you whole.” ’<br />
Indeed, the small group of potential implantees in the plaza thought the statue had something of an odd way about it. As it indeed did have.<br />
Prime Disseminator Fryt went on to detail the imagined history. We here shall listen to other voices.<br />
Originally crafted from Redyum - a material first forged in the prime days and one receptive at the molecular level to custom nanolight treatement that allowed for full humagramattical capability - The Icon of the Woman Fallen to the Sea now possessed a subtly programmed yet distinctly limited ability to perform for any attendant audience. The artelligence encoded in humagram subroutines allowed for a degree of dramatic representation; whereby The Icon of the Woman Fallen to the Sea would act out the very motions of her own undoing. Her surrender to the lulling cries of the mutt-weeds: and her transformation from lusty siren to cruel, cold suicide as she acted out the throttling of herself after murdering her man. Taken by the slithering brainwash of the ascendant mutt-weeds and with her position as a bringer of passion compromised, the Woman Fallen to the Sea would play out her returning to her man at port - her sexual potency becoming poison; her kisses reshaped by the creeping touch of death.<br />
‘Now she stands with arms outstretched. A look of desperate longing etched into her metallic face which seldom changes. Furious and uncouth; as if challenging the very stars to stand down.’<br />
These stars would concede; but not for her.<br />
<br />
It is here we take a different path. This tale does not refer exclusively to the Icon of the Woman Fallen to the Sea, yet her presence within the boundaries of it betrays her importance in the telling. This happens on the second day.<br />
<br />
So, then. In the origin days, there was Arclord Redshift. The people of this planet knew of an even older time than that of the waters and the weeds; one not so commonly explored on comfortable field-trips such as the one led on this afternoon by Prime Disseminator Fryt.<br />
This time unremembered was referred to as the Redshift Eternity - since, at some point, it must have been presupposed that the period was not expected to ever end.<br />
But returning to the point. The ruler of this cycle was his holiest typeform incarnate, Prime Arclord Redshift.<br />
It was more often said than written that Prime Arclord Redshift was a being possessed of the means to push his way through the very star curtain itself. Indeed, certain shamans suggested in their orations that the Arclord himself might have come from the other side of that untold-of barrier. This was the dread divide that even the mystics could not reach beyond; for fear of discovering the ultimate truth about the mythical clockworkers, or the supposed holes in the end of eternity - suspecting any knowledge of the curtain’s invisible mechanisms would automatically prevent everything the shamans pretended to know from ever having existed.<br />
In truth, and as a feted architect of these times, Arclord Redshift was merely bigger than the universe itself and capable of shrinking himself down to a sensible size. Which effectively meant, at least in this frame of reference, that he could pretty much do whatever he wanted. Arclord Redshift had of course never seen beyond the world-curtain and certainly did not possess any special ways or means; nor had he held any obtuse extratemporal understandings of the nature of creation.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqnY0Aoka0JMyqj93gS6W4Etge5WMqxQVh7ukmQKwtn1ddqVhiQkRDRTdgUTosK7GaAIh0Bf4A_I_goZQbpTZLABGhj74NaMy59Y20gBaSG3nuLozm9mkqzfNLWmK34xFwNuekajzlso/s1600/A-perigee-supermoon-rises-in-March-2011+f676009.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589854100696870418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqnY0Aoka0JMyqj93gS6W4Etge5WMqxQVh7ukmQKwtn1ddqVhiQkRDRTdgUTosK7GaAIh0Bf4A_I_goZQbpTZLABGhj74NaMy59Y20gBaSG3nuLozm9mkqzfNLWmK34xFwNuekajzlso/s400/A-perigee-supermoon-rises-in-March-2011+f676009.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>It was also said that these rumours about his size had been greatly exaggerated. It was said - mainly announced by the perpetually addled Penetrator Crystaltz Touchnail of the Fourth Tribe of the Term Lossless - that the Lord Redshift had been making it up and was in fact really much smaller than the universe itself - and only knew how to make himself big enough to pass as a God; the likes of which had not been spotted by anyone in the wider firmament for a good long while. It had always been said that the Gods were giants; so by dint of this, it transpired to all that Arclord Redshift was and could only be the one and only God. No better options had yet presented themselves; after all.<br />
So the illusion went unchecked for a very long period, as Arclord Redshift set about conquering roughly ninety-three percent of the spiral without anyone ever stopping to challenge him on account of his mostly confusing size. After many aeons spent dominating and eliminating roughly seven thousand extant species in the spiral, the Lord Redshift became convinced of one thing.<br />
This world’s humanoids were the enemy. This world’s humanoids were the weak and the foolish.<br />
This happened on the third day. Despite only being a humanoid himself, Arclord Redshift knew that this world’s humanoids were not to be trusted under any set of circumstances. Henceforth, they were to be eradicated.<br />
Lord Redshift’s wife was only human. The Arclady Zenethyst Jenesister had been born on a small and undistinguished satellite world which the Lord Redshift had detonated in the early stages of the expansion. While it was expressly stated in the low Gospels that not even the long stretch of eternity stood a chance of damaging the near-perfection of the Arclady’s glittering, hologlyphic condition, Arclord Redshift soon made the arguably harsh decision - after tiring of her constant liberalism - to encase her forever in a block of unmelt. It seemed to him to be the proper thing to do; she had, after all, been attempting to save the universe from the shackles of his all-exacting reign for some years. It was long suspected by many that the febrile condition of the Arclady’s mind and the sabotaging thought-blocks that were placed into it by the Arclord’s psychions eventually drove her into the cold finality of cell-disintegration; although this aspect of the story was excised from the prime arc-spool some time after the now-ruling ur-patriarkism had eradicated every female in the spiral and replaced them with mass-produced fleshfeelers. These were, by any stretch, far easier to put up with.<br />
<br />
It transpired then that the better civilized parts of a thousand systems were utterly destroyed by the exhortations of the Arclord‘s expansion. This happened on the fourth day.<br />
Monuments even stand to this today; and these are often seen by the students in Commuversity 1’s central agrigrounds.<br />
There is a humagram of the Arclord Redshift. He eventually died of a degenerative condition brought about as a direct consequence of his constantly trying to make himself appear larger than he actually was. It turned out that in all actuality the Arclord really was quite small - and the eventual scope of his actions only served to confirm this to everyone still alive in that age, and contributed to the playing-out of the ignoble nature of his final days.<br />
His humagram shows him as a hero. Such as he was.<br />
<br />
It is here we take another path.<br />
On a different but not utterly dissimilar planet in this same spiral, in this same arc-spool of Commuversity 1, Farsten Hand takes a moment out of the daily slednav from his ap to the processing centre to go stand by the fountain near the corresponding humagram that represents that which he desires the most.<br />
Freedom. This is what happens on the fifth day.<br />
This humagram - like its corresponding doppelganger in Commuversity 1’s plaza - is of Arclord Redshift; performing courageous deeds and saving all, in his lost age of reason. Farsten Hand gazes up and it and wonders if the Lord Redshift was truly misguided in his desire to bring order to the spiral. Yet, after a moment’s calm contemplation, Farsten suspects no; the Arclord was truly pure in his intentions.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrTPw5OKHpYbE3FiOVj5J222kZ5tn5qs91yXSdX8kQ4qRHu0BPYxDFWzEeDjlzACZ0QTRmpFT09nx91J61jrpLZzdKOWpjrLckC-CdW69cjFQDC0C1uHUMw544WNvSDm6IgTnedLr0aQ/s1600/underwater+statues.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589855581587175714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrTPw5OKHpYbE3FiOVj5J222kZ5tn5qs91yXSdX8kQ4qRHu0BPYxDFWzEeDjlzACZ0QTRmpFT09nx91J61jrpLZzdKOWpjrLckC-CdW69cjFQDC0C1uHUMw544WNvSDm6IgTnedLr0aQ/s400/underwater+statues.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>Farsten is a processor. He is a processor only because this is a condition of the world and the class he was born into. Farsten’s horizons are all in binary; the ones and zeroes that control the flow of his information and understanding. When he closes his eyes at shiftclose, only these runes lull him deeper into his torpor; filling him with the comfort of knowing who is signifier and who is signified. Appearing and disappear to him: the phantoms in digital fog.<br />
After the first eighteen years, Farsten Hand is losing the will to live. He has read of the waterbearers who carried succour to the newer worlds and of the undoing of their womenfolk at the tentacles of the mutt-weeds. This has led to Farsten coming to the conclusion that the womantypes are to blame for everything that went wrong in the world; and everything wrong in his world. All his controllers in the processing centre are womantypes, and none of them understand the way the world is supposed to be.<br />
They are not educated.<br />
They know not of the Redshift Eternity. A glorious time of peace and progress.<br />
A time without womantypes.<br />
He wishes the mutt-weeds had not gone extinct.<br />
<br />
Farsten Hand continues to pay homage to the idol of Arclord Redshift. There is a nearby humagram of a Woman who once Fell to a Sea, but this barely registers in Farsten’s eyes.<br />
In his head, Farsten hears a voice. It is not a real voice, but it is a voice that Farsten hears nevertheless.<br />
Arclord Redshift says to Farsten Hand, kill your idols.<br />
Arclord Redshift says, liars tell the best truths.<br />
Arclord Redshift says, everything that is broken cannot be unbroken.<br />
The Lord Redshift is dead and cannot speak yet Farsten hears his voice.<br />
The Icon of a Woman who Once Fell to a Sea speaks also, but Farsten does not listen to her. Farsten Hand now listens only to Arclord Redshift.<br />
Farsten smiles. He feels the hands of history upon his shoulders.<br />
<br />
On the sixth day, Farsten Hand goes to the arma centre. There he creds out six full rotats worth to a corrupt viser for a turn’s access to one of their graymat colliders. In the age of the understood, a great Zeer of the Firstking’s call discovered in his labs through careful testing and experimentation with life’s great particles that all of shiftcreation - as the Zeers had come to acknowledge it - was made up of the elusive substance that became known as graymat. Using the imagetwist wetware he stole from a worklab, Farsten convinces the viser he is not only a respected Zeer, but one with the funds to prove it. The viser has no further questions and leaves Farsten alone with the collider.<br />
On the seventh day, Farsten Hand switches on the graymat collider; a device that was only ever expected to be used in times of improbable turmoil; times never forecasted by the throughthinkers to be close any turn soon.<br />
On the eighth day, eighty thousand and two citadels on worlds in the spiral net were stripped of the life that had come to define their positions in the universe.<br />
Every thread of intelligent thought is reduced in an instant to paste. Not just the womantypes. This event was spoken of in latter days as the uncouth moment, or the gray day.<br />
Years later, it is in the memory of Fasten Hand that the statues were erected.<br />
Humagrams had gone out of fashion by this point. Like so many things. In every zodia in this world, a reminder of He Who Is Henceforth Without Name; the last taker of life; the final uncreator who dared to take on creation and was, in his folly, uncreated. In killing reason, He Who Is Henceforth Without Name became a martyr to unreason.<br />
By removing something’s name, you devoid it of its power. And thus reason was returned to creation. This happened on the first day; as it always did.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> I put a curse on you,</span> the lost voice of Arclord Redshift said. <span style="font-style: italic;">You are to be kept, to be held; to be loved, to never be let go. This was all a game you fell for. The true losers are those who do as I think and not as I know. You must learn to understand what I did not.</span><br />
<br />
The people of the plaza thought the statue had a odd way about it. Uncouth; as if challenging the very stars to stand down.<br />
Zere’en Best Lucky, the cleverest of the group by far, smiled and laughed; getting it before all the others. Rather than raise her hand to ask to interject, she spoke clearly: interrupting Disseminator Fryt‘s dry treatise in mid-flow.<br />
‘This statue says,’ Best Lucky announced, ‘I was here once, and I got it all wrong. Please do not as I do, instead learn from my example.’<br />
Prime Disseminator Overhead Fryt halted in his oration. For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised - as if no-one had ever challenged the validity of his authority before. Above him, the blackened visage of He Who Is Henceforth Without Name stared down; not animated, or filled with answers.<br />
‘Well,’ Disseminator Fryte said ‘I think, perhaps, young Zere’en may be on to something. She has broken through the stone, if you will.’<br />
<br />
In other places, for Farsten Hand there was to be no more breaking-though. Only stillness in perpetuity; an aeon to consider the gravity of his misdeed. In the cold prison of the entropic void that encased his still-living form, Farsten Hand dwelled on only one thought.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> This world’s humanoids are not to be trusted. In their haste they created love. Henceforth, they are forever damned.</span><br />
Days begin anew; the prime arc-spool is often reset.<br />
New stories can be told. This is one of them.<br />
In her model of eternity, the Icon of the Woman who Never Really Fell to the Sea has but one thought.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> Do not run directly into the arms of that which possesses the arms to swallow you whole. This is only one lesson. There are more.</span>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-22246874939507246422011-03-28T14:32:00.003+01:002016-01-21T08:52:47.230+00:00TRIANGLE - A mythsterious holographic mirage-collage<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuYLLw3zlWYfff9IjVxD8QmnCUdzlChRNC4nC0rVls3KnFN-TQAvt_7a4MEkcevJXHpHSHXm5uryMFqn-oHxeTm4yKJZ3yhB2n93UBSPw6nq2-yGaSXMepeYI5NwyQJTkAB-9qzx697M/s1600/license081.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589838692114062450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuYLLw3zlWYfff9IjVxD8QmnCUdzlChRNC4nC0rVls3KnFN-TQAvt_7a4MEkcevJXHpHSHXm5uryMFqn-oHxeTm4yKJZ3yhB2n93UBSPw6nq2-yGaSXMepeYI5NwyQJTkAB-9qzx697M/s400/license081.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 332px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Here then is another slice of enigmatic poetrie masquerading as a sortastory. You have been warned.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">TRIANGLE</span></div>
<br />
In the dream, the truck is careening through air.<br />
Your friend in the backseat screams silence in slow motion. The steering-wheel locks. Beneath is the chasm.<br />
Time crawls. Perhaps it has not yet started.<br />
In the pit of desire, Khufu is laughing at you. If your heart is heavier than a feather, you will not pass go, and not collect one hundred coins to place beneath anyone’s tongue.<br />
In the burial chamber, the mummified sleep secure in their striated levels of occultation. These mechanics oscillating, the harmonic vibrations build a tone that operates at the highest levels. Do not pass go.<br />
They have asked what lies behind the final door of the pyramid. Perhaps the dread visage of the ibis. Perhaps the braying of the oxen.<br />
The spiral of galaxies. Every servant to have served you.<br />
Yes and no lost in the helix. The misunderstanding of aeons. Bloodletting and wine.<br />
Only one question is allowed. The final door leads to nothing, and God knows where.<br />
Ancient knowledge was here once. Then Lucifer came and swept aside the stars.<br />
The ink still drying on the papyrus. Some things like this must have taken more than a hundred years.<br />
Billions of understandings stacked up like societies. Lying in the grave with every neuron firing.<br />
Pictures and light. The cavern wall bends. Ezekiel’s wheels turn and break the clouds.<br />
The warriors descend. Someone opened the bible and only water poured out. This is flood-time, and the purification of your conquering shall consume all.<br />
One Russian doll inside of another. The children in their masks stand around laughing at you. The wheels of the jeep spin endlessly: small stones cast through the void.<br />
Flying saucers. Secret knowledge forgotten. The possibility of pushing through. Handfuls of dust. The sand and the egg-timer. A crystal maze.<br />
Ancient memory buried deep. The rock edifice blocking the way.<br />
Every angle delineated. A door locked from the inside. The answer is yes.<br />
A trap, a trick; the cave of mind. The answer is no.<br />
Lights blink on the dashboard. The three dots of the hunter’s belt. Seven sisters.<br />
Some gather to wave farewell. The river is calm and blacker than onyx.<br />
In the dream, motion is standing still. The soul enclosed, in the vehicle of the body. Transformation breaking the membrane.<br />
All things, within us. God waiting outside the universe, allowing atoms to settle. In love, destruction.<br />
These feet, for always, on the ground.Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-56340963782665805582011-03-28T13:52:00.009+01:002016-01-21T09:42:21.495+00:00CIRCLE - A mythsterious holographic mirage-collage<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7hbfL3WWB3In3OhES4LdVna9__VYlv3q51hjHioI6wDVcyQNNICwXJn16AvoiG1xjWnw6zfwQR9gB5beKoVLfHzCCiQSFPQdYcQ_WxivtZUKChhOCxPHYOWffILTbA-zr9a-J0uxsEDU/s1600/underwater-sculpture4564.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589844649442879634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7hbfL3WWB3In3OhES4LdVna9__VYlv3q51hjHioI6wDVcyQNNICwXJn16AvoiG1xjWnw6zfwQR9gB5beKoVLfHzCCiQSFPQdYcQ_WxivtZUKChhOCxPHYOWffILTbA-zr9a-J0uxsEDU/s400/underwater-sculpture4564.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 330px;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">A couple of short interconnected pieces, now, that can either be read together, apart, in either order, or just rearrange the lines as you see fit to create your own user-friendly version. Though now I think about it, that might not be too bad an idea... Anyway - this is the first bit. It's sort of a story, sort of a poem, sort of a mythsterious holographic mirage-collage... decide for yourself.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0); text-align: center;">
CIRCLE</div>
<br />
These hands on the steering wheel. Rictus grip on unyielding leather.<br />
<br />
You’ve been down here for some time now. No trawlermen, milkmaids or merfolk responding to cries. Oxygen bubbles pushing against the lifelessness of life.<br />
<br />
It is said bells might sound; some portal to another world. Seaweed drifts past; the silver flash of piscine intrigue for a second; one glimpse, then gone.<br />
<br />
Only the dead have been watching you this week. Behind the monitor, a tapping glow. Somedays you wondered if those conspiracy theorists were right and you yourself were becoming robotized, brainwashed; melded to your screen and sucked down; nullified by ELFs and the CIA.<br />
<br />
Further now. The engine lifeless, gurgling of air escaping the hidden corners.<br />
<br />
Feathers found in unexpected places; signifying intervention: explaining nothing. That which is hidden is found again.<br />
<br />
Only the firstborn stand on the edge of this bridge. Only the last of the line will jump. Wedding belles.<br />
<br />
Through blackest glimmer of ocean’s gloom, those who jump this night seek to reshuffle the night sky. A stopwatch reset and flipped upside down. Stars spinning back to the start. Begin the human race again, only this time, do not cheat.<br />
<br />
Out of pools, amoeba. and then dinosaurs. You forget what came next. An ouroboros of answers. The line has ended.<br />
<br />
The second of silence before the hit; before the subterranean impacts with the still-breathing species and swallows it down forever.<br />
<br />
Only a dream. Only reality. A hand clawing at a window, waiting to be let out.<br />
<br />
We are swimming with the dead this week. Waiting to be born again.Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-48651266299239970442011-03-28T13:33:00.013+01:002016-01-21T09:22:02.913+00:00TRAINSONG - A short story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZUJxgbL78VXa5gzt5OsfTpS3S1J5btUQoGNUXpuTq-2qGJpvzoDeJillEdG4jI8CE01V8fByzQynWF1kwHmcCPKWudxTuhBERn9izaToW6X_af6GI1b0hsV_X6nqrpkXGASdLI3vS1E/s1600/17_01_2008_0003114001200521745_marina_filipovic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589208163196171394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZUJxgbL78VXa5gzt5OsfTpS3S1J5btUQoGNUXpuTq-2qGJpvzoDeJillEdG4jI8CE01V8fByzQynWF1kwHmcCPKWudxTuhBERn9izaToW6X_af6GI1b0hsV_X6nqrpkXGASdLI3vS1E/s400/17_01_2008_0003114001200521745_marina_filipovic.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Another short story then. This one's not quite as weird as the other ones. But it's still weird. It also won a prize! Ken Macleod (proper actual SF writer) thought it was 'perfectly decent' if I recall his wording. Damning with faint praise and all that... Like some of the events of the tale, this one may still be 'in transit.'</span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;"> It was written to a wordcount and perhaps could benefit from either an extension or a pruning... you decide.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">TRAINSONG</span></div>
<br />
Ariadne glanced irritated at her mobile. The time was 11:37 PM.<br />
The night was pushing her down. <span style="font-style: italic;">Fucking hell. Ten minutes. Wasn’t supposed to be. Still time, though.</span><br />
She hurried down the steps into the drear alcove of the station. The main forecourt was as cold as ever. The only people around were a faintly confused looking couple, weighed down by enormous backpacks. They were squinting up at the time-display screen with looks of mild confusion on their faces. As Ari looked over at them their countenances took on a sheen of crestfallen disappointment. She heard raised voices; probably Polish, but God all those Eastern European accents sounded the same. She wasn’t clever enough to say for sure. She had always been one for picking up on other peoples’ emotions; although this wasn’t something which normally did Ari any favours. She usually tried to avoid it.<br />
Like that girl at work. The unspellable name. Ari hadn’t had any idea what she had been talking about, in English or Polish, so everyone had ignored her. This had made Ari cry one night. It had been so very frustrating.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> Said it was about the rent. Gave him the fucking rent. That wasn’t the fucking issue.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">They’re lost, </span>she thought with a mild upset that flitted in and out of her heart in a few passing seconds; pushed aside by other concerns. <span style="font-style: italic;">Go and tell them but come on. Ten minutes.</span><br />
The possibly Polish people turned and started to head for the ticket barriers. Ari strode in the same direction, fumbling in her pocket for a ticket; hoping one was there.<br />
<br />
The carriage was empty and all the lights were out. This seemed a little weird to Ari; at this time of night, things were always activated and there was usually at least a handful of people besides herself. Just last week the conductor had had that business with the drunk woman who had been shouting incoherent insults: Ari had been at the other end of the carriage. Thank fuck. You really don’t want to be dealing with lunatics.<br />
He’s at home though<br />
She picked a window seat facing a table and slumped down. This bit always filled Ari with a warm sense of relief that she had made it - even though it had been six years of this bloody commuting and she had never been late or missed her train. Was this why she had that recurring dream about running into the station to realise her train had left hours ago?<br />
Perhaps. Self-psychology was not her strong suit.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">His though. Clever clever.</span><br />
After a few moments the carriage shuddered. The lights flashed on and the route display on the roof began rolling LED messages. There was life after all.<br />
More minutes passed. Nobody else came into the carriage.<br />
Ari looked idly around her, seeing an abandoned coffee cup and sandwich carton on the opposite aisle. People coming and going.<br />
The train finally started up. Ari went to search around for her iPod but sure that it was lost in the cavernous depths of her bag, gave up with a half-arsed pfth of exasperation. Divorced from the usual white noise of commuter chatter, the somnambulant rumbling of the train bordered on soothing.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Might get to sleep.</span><br />
Outside of the window, distant yellow lights began to careen past her. Flying by so fast.<br />
More moments passed. Ari’s head began to nod.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> No sleep tonight. He’ll be on about it. Why don’t you like it when I talk to you?</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Would you rather</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> rant rant. stop listening after the fourth philosophical</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> do you want me to touch you i mean as if fucking hell</span><br />
The train shuddered to a stop. Ari’s head jerked back up.<br />
She was aware of a voice speaking quietly behind her. A low mumble.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Someone else’s come through. Doesn’t matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> Look at the time he keeps saying. Why do you have to stay out all night</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> Jason’s gorgeous though. He so would</span><br />
Actually meant it. Five years. Five years just gone snap like that gone<br />
There was no point in trying to hold it off. Ari felt the floodgates pending.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> Not here. Someone in the carriage. Ticketman’ll come, I’ll look a fucking mess. Look a mess anyway</span><br />
A few tears hit her lap. The weight began pushing up.<br />
The throat was always the first to go. Had anyone been sat in front of Ari, they would have seen her composure going; the shoulders already starting to tremble.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">why am I so angry all the time</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> why won’t he just do it I’ve had enough too much</span><br />
‘Of course,’ the voice in the seat behind her said, louder and clear now, ‘this is a side-effect. We are but side effects of one another.’<br />
Ari swallowed hard and closed her eyes.<span style="font-style: italic;"> This’ll go this’ll stop,</span> she thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">Not this time. Not the knife tonight. Know it's wrong</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Fhu5RG6bMvKZlwAFi-A27DrOiMlITqdW2BBbSTLhce_e3AJWgVeRt7DCuO5380pBmTuoPD05nwKFbObubTxYQxjijJIQjaroR07YfbCDi_xnXtq20SYfDmODuAby-0Y_ymEalVnl4h0/s1600/719_BlurryCar_Popup2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589647027569257074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Fhu5RG6bMvKZlwAFi-A27DrOiMlITqdW2BBbSTLhce_e3AJWgVeRt7DCuO5380pBmTuoPD05nwKFbObubTxYQxjijJIQjaroR07YfbCDi_xnXtq20SYfDmODuAby-0Y_ymEalVnl4h0/s400/719_BlurryCar_Popup2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>‘An education forged in pain. Such things can be bypassed. But never overlooked.’<br />
Ari opened her eyes. A shock hit her; forcing the blackened feelings clean out of her mind.<br />
The owner of the voice had moved. He now sat in front of her on the other side of the table.<br />
‘We have seven minutes,’ he said to her, as Ari struggled to take in his bizarre appearance, ‘to save the world from who you are. This is nearly the Madonna song, no?’<br />
The man’s accent was almost the same as that girl at work; but surely not. He was tall; slim yet muscular: shaped like a dancer, and inexplicably dressed in what appeared to be an extremely close-fitting one piece outfit, the surface of which was a dull, unreflective silver.<br />
His features were aquiline; angular. His white hair was close-cut. His mouth twitched the tiniest hint of a smile at her: as if he had never smiled before and was trying to figure out how to start. The stranger’s eyes glinted: something that stuck Ari as placing him somewhere between sinister menace and unending compassion.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Stuntman,</span> Ari thought, her brain battling to hold onto something concrete and explanatory: <span style="font-style: italic;">circus</span><br />
‘Agnieszka,’ the silver man said. ‘There is such a thin line between love and hate. My name is also different, so I will not tell of it.’<br />
Ari felt her stomach sinking and then turning over. She suddenly needed the toilet.<br />
Details. <span style="font-style: italic;">Saskia thought she got raped. Changed her mind. Remember. Face. Databases</span><br />
‘What’s your name?’ Ari said in a very small voice; poorly-researched defence strategies scattering through her mind.<br />
‘You could call me anything,’ the silver man said. ‘What I am does not come into play here. But the name is key. Yours come from a variety of sources. Very holy: utterly pure. These are expressions you could read. A weaver; Queen of snakes: Mistress of the spider. Through powers of your own you helped him escape from the labyrinth. These things in legends. We are what our names make us. We become them, and they become us. Agents of change.’<br />
The man held out his arm and spread his palm. The ambient lights of the train seemed to dim slightly.<br />
‘All can change but some must first acknowledge. Here.’<br />
In the air above the man’s outstretched hand a blue globe of light about the size of a football formed. Ari found herself gazing into its fluttering texture, wondering why the object’s apparent brightness was not dazzling her; but instead drawing her in.<br />
‘The book of lies,’ the man said. ‘Now look inside.’<br />
And then Ari was flying again. Continents moved beneath her.<br />
She had arrived inside a room. No, not a room - this was too large to be a room.<br />
Before anything else, Ari noticed the thin, rubbery cable that seemed to extend from somewhere around her midriff. Although still fully clothed, Ari got the overwhelming sense that this was her umbilical cord.<br />
A sudden hot flash of panic hit her. She was floating; hanging suspended inside a wide vertical tunnel that extended upwards for a seeming infinitude of miles. It was coolly lit from on high by the distantly bright lights of some far-off surface Ari was sure she would never glimpse in the dim lights of this lifetime. All around her and as far as she could see on the inside surface of the strange edifice were small doors about the size of car doors.<br />
Ari couldn’t see where the ground was. The umbilicus stretched off into nowhere. She felt further panic welling.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Please do not be alarmed, </span>the now-familiar voice echoed in her head: <span style="font-style: italic;">The connective tissue. A thread that binds worlds.</span><br />
Ari drifted close to the nearest circular door. It appeared to be made out of burnished wood and was pitted and marked in some places; as if worn down over ages.<br />
On the door was a small piece of paper. It appeared to have been affixed with sticky tape. On it was written her name.<br />
She checked the door next to it. This also held her name.<br />
The machine and the mechanism. The nucleus in the cytoplasm.<br />
The door on the other side featured messages in a further indecipherable language. Had she been properly asleep, Ari would have instantly recognized one as Jewish Middle Babylonian Aramaic; the other door marked out in post-flood Pangaean Atlantean would also have been clear. At least; clearer than most things.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj2nLCPldG-hoLEWuOsUy8o1TNgx0WWImeA4lTZ7_yHSVL7PillrDwUrhEvP2pxmD3C7mQWAs21UDGLVj2nNlgj2pxQT_Unr_xjbJFCkgFzJC0YXtYzD7gE50dJ2eNAzG1_FWdktN0y8/s1600/1111art_paulistana_01_g.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589648787156734386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOj2nLCPldG-hoLEWuOsUy8o1TNgx0WWImeA4lTZ7_yHSVL7PillrDwUrhEvP2pxmD3C7mQWAs21UDGLVj2nNlgj2pxQT_Unr_xjbJFCkgFzJC0YXtYzD7gE50dJ2eNAzG1_FWdktN0y8/s400/1111art_paulistana_01_g.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 324px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> We are entering the protoplasmic shift,</span> the shining man said, as Ari hung suspended in time. <span style="font-style: italic;">Certain decisions have been made and others remain. Your future is a cloud. Continents still drift outward; one day they will all meet again. The world is a bubble. Will it be this door or the next?</span><br />
Ari thought then of Riz. <span style="font-style: italic;">Manners maketh a man. Sweetness and light.</span><br />
And the other hand; <span style="font-style: italic;">Jase - Companion of the dark. Reliably unreliable. Summed up in one word.</span><br />
He was something. <span style="font-style: italic;">Without him, the knife. With him, the union of souls.</span><br />
Ari opened the first door. Inside was a small cupboard area. In its centre was a ring made of paper. Ari reached out and touched it.<br />
She fell back inestimable miles. The gulf between cold stars swallowed her like a friend: while the sullen shiny blacks and incomparable colours of infinite lives lived so far away and yet closer than knowledge said hello, then goodbye again, for ever.<br />
<br />
Ari heard the tinny beep of the old watch which always lay for security purposes in the bottom of her bag. Pulled back to relative normalcy and oddly compelled to look for it, Ari reached in and raked around.<br />
Her hand alighted on something unfamiliar. Something round. She pulled it out.<br />
‘This is Agnieszka’s wedding ring. A name so often forgotten.’<br />
Ari realised her mouth was hanging open but did little to rectify the situation other than move her lips and tongue to form words.<br />
‘She told me… she’d lost it. At reception. I… wasn’t really listening…’<br />
‘It is not real gold. But imbued with all that is needed. Return it to her.<br />
this will give you something to talk about. Perhaps for weeks.’<br />
The man stood up; his mouth finally resolving itself into a smile. ‘Look at the time. Morning. Another world beginning without compunction. This is the trainsong; on and on. Getting off but always back on again. Arriving unleashed to begin again.’<br />
A final though drifted into Ari’s head as she roused herself and headed for the door.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"> All of this is over now.</span><br />
Never having faltered in its journey, the train came to a halt. Ari pressed the button and the door opened.<br />
For the first time in what felt like a very long while, Ariadne Somerville knew exactly where she was headed. For once, this was quite enough.<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a href="http://www.marinshe.com/"><span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;"></span></a>Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-17516399280759629442011-03-28T10:50:00.011+01:002016-01-21T09:08:50.138+00:00DAYS OF CONJURATION - A short story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xR_Tpu1xaXkdQ1V5sB0B6k1PIB6eLKqE1p4Mlj9_uu-0jfJjMb9QZNv7KJuwYrpm1tLTln3d7G95sn32cOSINVrIWA5FrbATU7iSSLFo5lI7J33J_YCqg0iL3kp_KmKzLfwt2xMD5wU/s1600/a23+%2528Halloween+%252709%252C+Central+Copehagen%252C+Denmark%2529.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589645703486414162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xR_Tpu1xaXkdQ1V5sB0B6k1PIB6eLKqE1p4Mlj9_uu-0jfJjMb9QZNv7KJuwYrpm1tLTln3d7G95sn32cOSINVrIWA5FrbATU7iSSLFo5lI7J33J_YCqg0iL3kp_KmKzLfwt2xMD5wU/s400/a23+%2528Halloween+%252709%252C+Central+Copehagen%252C+Denmark%2529.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 263px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">And now, another properly finished story. Although it's debatable as to whether you can actually call this one a story. Who cares though, it won a short story competition so it must be!</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">DAYS OF CONJURATION</span></div>
<br />
The club is closing. The club closed hours ago. The club is just opening.<br />
<br />
Walking back from the club. Another cold morning. Most of them are cold.<br />
One day is dead now. As it passes, another springs gasping into life.<br />
The crossing point is 12:33. This is sometimes the time but not always.<br />
<br />
This is Sunderland, in the last century. You are out of place now. By the river, under the bridge; but you will be alright. The sailors are watching over you.<br />
Here on the campus walkway, abnormally-sized nuts and bolts regard you with an artisan’s dismissal. They were here before you. Who are you to judge them, to even try and comprehend the thoughts and feelings of the people who created them, their uncanny forms hewn out of human struggle, out of hope, out of love?<br />
Next to the nuts and bolts, a twisting abstract sculpture of monuments long since gone bends itself into the sky and remembers all that was.<br />
<br />
You have no idea what happened here.<br />
<br />
Far from the riverside, the city’s unremarkable lights paint cryptic yet comforting messages; reaching across to embrace. Here we are, they say; here we were and here we will be again.<br />
<br />
She’s standing next to you and she’s talking about that boyfriend, the one from Scotland. The one who had to go away.<br />
And it looked like it was going to happen for a very long time. You never know what’s going to happen, she says, brightening against the funereal weather with the lightest of smiles. You really do never know. Everything could change and you could be left standing with nothing.<br />
The statue on the walkway of sailors and ships and industry collapsed and moved away just sits and reaches. This night, it has nothing to say.<br />
<br />
Me and me nan, another girl says, somewhere else. My nan died and we were really close. She’s leaning in close since the music is so loud, and you feel time slipping away: a subtle loss of the self, annihilated by the music, folded out of existence by the stains in the carpet. There is writing on the table. The words say; get out now.<br />
<br />
Disappearing like temporary internet files. This folder is empty. This file has either been moved or deleted. We’re sorry it didn’t work out.<br />
<br />
A Blue screen event. Shut down like a kick in the teeth. The year is 1997.<br />
That man could take over the world. That man could take the world down.<br />
The hungry caterpillar drank all the oil in the soil. We stand now, symbolic in your hyperbolic shadow. We are free at last but we do not know it; having been swept away in tides of false rhetoric and duplicitous doubletalk.<br />
<br />
I start wars yet break hearts. Who am I?<br />
<br />
York. The pamphlet directs you to the statue of Mars, the Roman God of War. He stands untouched by spectacle next to some plaques and a content museum guard with a laminated badge.<br />
Mars is not in the mood for conversation this morning; he has grown tired of advertising the fashions of lost art and chocolate bars. He remembers a time when destruction was the norm. He’s just mad because someone bashed his nose off aeons ago, and now he’s lost face. No pun intended.<br />
Those were simpler days, of course. March was the colour red. Now it’s just a month like any other; except when people are born, and die.<br />
They still fight in March. Just like any other.<br />
<br />
Of all the deities, many of these faces have stared at you across the years. Some of them were loving, some condemning; but when night finally came to protect you, most of them became vast and moon-like and faraway and could not help you anymore.<br />
Some were left alone. When in a room surrounded by others, the food contained more obvious flavours; hints of recipes concocted to forge understandings between those who could not speak. The lady and the tramp.<br />
<br />
If we stand at the crossroads and the devil asks us who has the best tunes, what is our answer?<br />
<br />
The year is 2002. This morning she wears your name even if she has been sleeping with someone else. Her eyes speak truth but her body lies.<br />
The dishes just keep coming. They have little or no concern for human thought or feeling. They know that one day they will not be here.<br />
Sarah brings you a drink. She is from south Africa and is beautiful, kind and perfect. In two months you will no longer know her. She will be in London and gone.<br />
Dana is from new Zealand. She is broken and suicidal. She is also perfect, but no one notices here.<br />
<br />
No one comes here. Here is the end of the world. Things falling apart, then pulled back together again. Bodies shifted into planetary conjunctions by aloof high-born entities who learned so much about themselves that they were forced to admit that they didn’t even exist anyway, and so could not ever possibly be held responsible for these actions. It was someone else wot dun it, guv.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHRtTmfNUQiMciio-CxVoKRlTP50WZ34k6f65WtzuukVP8lOha-EjbXTOCloUEw2APdz-ocf6Odq-CRil6m51W_AA9OEJwOzB6sVbiuol11_I9PaLopBA6WZhVsN9fJwQs7RMrC7ZgRI/s1600/1111764098_2cdbe0645e_o.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589645787935580866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHRtTmfNUQiMciio-CxVoKRlTP50WZ34k6f65WtzuukVP8lOha-EjbXTOCloUEw2APdz-ocf6Odq-CRil6m51W_AA9OEJwOzB6sVbiuol11_I9PaLopBA6WZhVsN9fJwQs7RMrC7ZgRI/s400/1111764098_2cdbe0645e_o.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
A house on the top of a hill. The ashtrays are filled to overfilling and someone has fallen on the floor again. Inside, the premature burial becomes premature rebirth.<br />
<br />
The tale of the reoccurring dream of the school room that can never be found is told here;<br />
The corridors are after hours. Most of the lights are out. You walk, you search; running into unfamiliar turns that stab your heart with remembrances of opportunity leased to the gods of invisible education.<br />
You turn a corner. There is a door left open. Inside, the classroom is just as you remember it. But not.<br />
And still she is there. The only one. Still younger than you, just. Still silent, gazing down at a desk. The hair a little darker than usual; that acne you recall that did clear up. Still there.<br />
<br />
A million internet searches and nothing found. Whose jumped-up idea of a good idea was that?<br />
<br />
On the path facing the loch two people sit shivering and watching the water as it flirts with motion. Sometimes they see the mountains.<br />
Somewhere out there in the labyrinthine darkness that shrouds their nebulous and arcane presence, there are goblins; the cold-troll-hearted denizens of the places beneath where you once were. The kobolds who scurry about their closeted ways: down in the pixy mines; in the monotonous places no human eyes have ever been opened enough to see.<br />
Across the stillest night they say to you; listen. You can’t hear anything.<br />
The person beside you says, Oh my god, that’s terrible. do you want my coat?<br />
<br />
Seagulls gather over playgrounds. Mould-inviting bread is thrown onto garage roofs and the birds redesign their plans, without recourse to human communication or consultation; yet still giving in to co-dependence.<br />
Somehow both still find sustenance. Human civilizations always grow out of water-rich settlements. But bread helps too.<br />
<br />
Flashpoints and little eclipses. That drunk Spaniard spends the night on the couch in the worn hotel lounge. The porter waits, mildly anxious and utterly awake.<br />
The time is now 4:18. We need charge him nothing: since, at this time of night, no price is placed on solace.<br />
<br />
Cologne. A cathedral haunted by the ghosts of everyone that left their fears and insecurities locked up in the gargoyles for safe keeping. Somewhere someone drunkenly barges their way into the wrong toilet; half-singing, half declaring, we could be heroes; not the German version.<br />
<br />
Decisions are things to be made, ignored or sometimes ran away from. But at the end of them, there will always be progress.<br />
The last man on earth. I disappear but can never be found. What am I?<br />
<br />
Many centuries have come and said goodbye. When the others come to visit this planet, peeking their multifaceted compound eyes through masses of overgrowing vegetation, startling the animals who had for so long been untroubled by the presence of any intelligence higher than themselves, they might perhaps uncover just the faintest broken remnants of something white and ancient poking its nature-scoured hand out of the Earth. The aliens have no means of discerning the year and so cannot even begin to date the artifact; they have no such words as nature, broken or white. Months and calendars are also foreign to them; yet despite this, they love numbers.<br />
<br />
Visiting times are communicated by the orderly. There is noise on the phone; perhaps it is a clipboard being adjusted: or someone passing.<br />
You just need to do something with your life, the man says, searching the cabinet beside his bed for one of the soft drinks everyone has brought him. Be your own man.<br />
Someone dying has died here long ago. The cleaners have been and gone.<br />
<br />
This table is tan, smooth and completely unmarked. She holds my hand carefully, running one finger up and down the inside of my palm. A life in miniature.<br />
The swirl and the coffee stirred. If there is coffee then after all the tears are done, everything will always be okay. Raindrops and thunder.<br />
<br />
Just drifting off to sleep. A green glow from the nightlight protecting the dark from itself.<br />
I am incomplete yet was finished centuries ago. What am I?<br />
<br />
A park morning. The dog runs by the tower blocks that stand watching the horizon like pensive parents; acting as custodians of the light and dark, their dirt-encrusted offspring soon to be loosed again into the day to do whatever they wish with their lives; sometimes die, sometimes live - but always survive.<br />
The dog doesn’t notice. It is chasing an idle woodpigeon. The woodpigeon escapes.<br />
<br />
And in some stories, there is walking on the surface of the moon. Except in those stories seen in numinous dreamtime, it never seems all that much like the moon but more like a foreign country. And that is the past; a place we can never visit again. You only need to go there once. A landfill with nothing in it.<br />
<br />
Spiderwebs draped from leaf to leaf in the early December chill. Ladybirds later, traversing cautiously, knowing that one day soon they will all be nearly extinct.<br />
A tiny book store emptied of books and ready to be filled with new ones. Another morning wreathed in fog that seeks to hide creation from itself. A werewolf or a phantom.<br />
Lives disappearing, but not yours. Not yours.<br />
<br />
Canadian snowdrifts. Kids running on and on forever, knowing that one day, they might be free to cast off those mittens and never need to go back home ever again.<br />
I could be here, yet am there and everywhere. Where am I?<br />
<br />
The front cover of the comic book is missing. All stories of revenge becoming the same if you squint at them in the right light; just stories of forgetting, remembering, hitting back, then accepting the Greek myths, the word of the Bible. The sound of someone else’s voice at four minutes past three in the morning in a pitch dark room in a small terraced house in the middle of the wilderness of nowhere that is the UK, in 1985.<br />
<br />
Planes go overhead. The moving and the stationary. The wood by the sides of the train-track just begs to be collected. Not far off is the same-so-called wood the branches came from; but there is a darkness at the heart of that wood; the feeling that there is every chance that the wood may become a forest, and that the forest might become a path: just an endless road in the murk of brown-green, leading to nothing, and something: and nowhere. Although sometimes, if not always, there is a something behind a nothing.<br />
The eye of the needle. The way of the warrior.<br />
Who knows what the magician has hidden behind the curtain?<br />
<br />
Across the void of possible occurrences I bleed in the National grid. Hydroelectric stations pulse my messages out to workplaces. The ebb and flow of yellow coloured lines moves hither and thither.<br />
Acceleration seen from the stratosphere. Fifty billion points of light become snakes; rushing, slithering, multiplying: subdividing.<br />
Satellite masts and frost on the morning quiet. Spacemen at home in space, looking down.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDi0S2II16_pbZkZU-tr7Qyqkj4gkjLhJuVL0Yu3U9To5dgM9xdmljPcKgwroUhl2nvpRdLYaHgwakKoUPhSP2Q-OsLIV67Ci_9GWg9ipY4tDLIicuaikF0J82cHaR3Ktv94A8PHxXVE/s1600/4350216945_01e9b5db2c_b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589641714031953858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDi0S2II16_pbZkZU-tr7Qyqkj4gkjLhJuVL0Yu3U9To5dgM9xdmljPcKgwroUhl2nvpRdLYaHgwakKoUPhSP2Q-OsLIV67Ci_9GWg9ipY4tDLIicuaikF0J82cHaR3Ktv94A8PHxXVE/s400/4350216945_01e9b5db2c_b.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 265px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span><br />
A tiny kitten is released for the first time from the safe, defined corners of its first home into the tearing noise and borderless nightmare of the savage outside. With this disaster of understanding comes knowledge; of sorts.<br />
<br />
A becoming of gold is forecast. The way of all things unfolding. Like shooting fish in a barrel, in the dark. A name unknown.<br />
<br />
A gnosis that was here is now everywhere. The lady went into the cabinet yet somehow she is now not there.<br />
I shall now saw myself in half. You never know what’s going to happen.<br />
<br />
Days of conjuration will be left behind. The imagining is all that remains. The past; the future. The inbetweens.Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-681530581069426671.post-76109669561567632011-03-28T10:20:00.006+01:002016-01-21T09:06:41.781+00:00THE CRACKS - A short story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaGNab3tjjfJW1kgMEdtNElhfmizcZCsQsYWdTquotBOy9jgp2x1ZU0P7n6pSVmIhNFd5ivq48_S2xtjYkCk9htdWYJN7SyJx_hJJ-sJ9EnfgFTvUW86kho10E36XKMxNqBQbOhI-HD8/s1600/cracks_rupture.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590023929118674658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaGNab3tjjfJW1kgMEdtNElhfmizcZCsQsYWdTquotBOy9jgp2x1ZU0P7n6pSVmIhNFd5ivq48_S2xtjYkCk9htdWYJN7SyJx_hJJ-sJ9EnfgFTvUW86kho10E36XKMxNqBQbOhI-HD8/s400/cracks_rupture.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 348px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-style: italic;">Here, then, is a little short story from a couple of years back. I won't ramble on here, I'll just post the thing. As far as I can tell this is actually finished now, if anything's a work in progress I shall let you know.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: rgb(102 , 0 , 0);">THE CRACKS</span></div>
<br />
It was on the day before the small people came that Wife decided she had finally had enough of Husband and his philandering ways.<br />
<br />
A sort of realisation had been coming to her for quite some time now. In hindsight, and in many ways, it had been the coming of the small people that had helped Wife understand that had she been becoming enormously complacent for quite some time now.<br />
<br />
Over the past six months or so, Wife had been experiencing the distinctly troubling sensation of feeling her senses getting subtly worn down; and her emotions becoming dulled to the point where, when He left his clothes scattered on the bedroom floor so that she could not tell what was clean and what was not, Wife wasn’t capable of feeling a whole lot of anything that would result in a gnashed teeth, pulled hair, tantrum or a raising of voices. Or an anything of any kind.<br />
<br />
But then; there had been the Small People. Of course.<br />
<br />
The Small People had initially been slow in announcing their presence. It was only on that first occasion - when Wife returned home from work early on a Thursday afternoon due to the drama of a health and safety inspection - that she discovered the floors of the bedroom; and their new state of immaculate cleanliness.<br />
<br />
What made this state of affairs even more unnerving for Wife were those extra details. There was seeing that exact spot where Husband had kicked her glass of red wine over that last Christmas when he had gone running for the phone - and that other patch, where Siamese terror Pogo had peed because she was in a bad mood with Husband ignoring her all the time. Examining the length of the carpet, wondering if she had perhaps misjudged the stains’ original locations, Wife discovered there was now no trace of either spillage and only the puffy newness of clean white carpet. A surface that, despite being only six months old, had recently started to show evidence of being worn and trampled down, and of having become soiled in certain places; a little like Wife.<br />
<br />
Except that now all of these worn places were immaculate; as if some mysteriously charitable carpet-fitting men had surreptitiously been round while Wife had been out, and laid an entirely new pile free of charge: as if to please her with some kind of pre-planned event-style present.<br />
<br />
Except in her heart Wife knew it had not been any carpet-fitting men who had initiated the change.<br />
<br />
These had been different men; characters more unseen and amorphous. Wife had thought about them that night as she had lain in an otherwise empty bed, eyes fixed on the long crack that ran the near-length of the skirting board that nearly joined the wall to the ground. She tried to see into the split; wondering if there was perhaps something behind it.<br />
<br />
But it was a thin line: not even a breeze came through it. Nothing could be there. Except sometimes at night, during the long hours when even Husband slept without snoring, Wife would hear the noises. For many a month Wife had succeeded in convincing herself that these were merely the scrapings of errant mice or vagabond squirrels, playing their arcane games in the loft and in the walls - or even perhaps Owls.<br />
<br />
Charity at work had spoken of Owls. She had found a family of Tawnys nesting in the hollows of her garage a few years back and had been too scared to disturb the intimacy of the animals’ lair, lest she frightened them off - fearing that, if she were to disrupt the sanctity of their repose, Charity would effectively soil the creatures’ habitat by the very dint of her presence and drive them away to some cold location where they would struggle, wither and perish.<br />
<br />
Some secrets were better left uncovered. Charity was a timid sort, and wasn’t one to generate dispute or enmity of any kind. This was a quality Wife most admired in her workmate, and was secretly jealous of: being so utterly incapable of it herself; or at least, not for any extended periods of time.<br />
<br />
And Wife felt such a period was approaching its endtime. As she peacefully seethed in the dark, sensing the angry voices rustling at the back of her head like crunched sweet wrappers, the warmth of the unrevealed night pushed down on her.<br />
<br />
Beside her and at this time, Husband was long gone. Wife was inevitably still awake: with all of it to deal.<br />
<br />
There were such things as auditory hallucinations, Wife knew - Wife had experienced such a thing once. A terrifying phantasmagoria, she had thought it was, although that was of course an outmoded term; nowadays it was more likely classifiable as something more like hypnagogia, or hypnopompia; Wife had got the two mixed up upon researching but suspected from the thoroughness of her readings that the two definitions were essentially different words for the same thing.<br />
<br />
The occurrence had taken place the night of the carpet-cleaning. It had been much later on, in the long hours: the times that Wife both anticipated and sometimes dreaded but not for any specific reason. Husband had been faraway and comatose on the other side and Wife had been lost, in some remote fantasy about a famous actor and an exotic location. The confabulation had been idle and underdeveloped, not seeming to evolve to any significant degree, and it was just as nothing much at all was happening in her dreamitude, Wife’s entire body froze stock still and the sounds began.<br />
<br />
Wife had of course found explanations. Her later studying of the reasons for and symptoms of sleep paralysis, or Old Hag syndrome as it was often called, had not yet taken root in her consciousness, so instead of cool acknowledgement of the scenario, Wife was instead gripped by the most visceral and chilling sensation of dread she had ever felt in her entire life - worse even than those delirious few seconds three years back when she had been abroad; where she had gone back home with a charming but anonymous Gentleman she had met by shadow in Mykonos. Under florid moonlight, the Gentleman he had pulled a knife and held it to her throat; demanding improbable remunerations in a tongue Wife could have sworn was Greek but easily could have been any number of languages; or any number of languages spoken at once. The Gentleman had held her in this lovers’ tranquillity for some moments before releasing her, and had laughed before running off into the night; and it had been then that Wife had found herself flooded with the most impossible rush of endorphins and had become giddy with supernatural delight.<br />
<br />
The fear had not lasted then. Wife had once again not asked for it, but the sensation had returned all the same.<br />
<br />
It had come flooding back. And with it, walking steadily in tiny footfalls Wife could not hear but knew were occurring in a steady, metronomic rhythm, the Small People had returned; as they had always been returning.<br />
<br />
The pulling away of the duvet was the first indication that this time, they really did mean business.<br />
<br />
There had of course been that other time, Wife reminded herself as the duvet slid ominously away and she remained paralyzed; two months back, when Husband had gone out to a swingers’ bar and not returned until the morning. Wife had not done the dishes in a fit of pique - and it had been the on that morning that Wife discovered every pot and pan gleaming clean and stacked accordingly back in their respective houses, and even the oven thoroughly degreased - as if worked over by attentive yet elusive hands.<br />
<br />
Of course, Wife must have imagined the kitchen was in a worse state than it was. Of course These little vacancies of mind were to be expected.<br />
<br />
And that other time, one month back, Wife thought; as the barely perceptible stretching of the mattress under her back indicated the little boots marching onto it, having made their way up from their previous location on the floor. The time none of the bins had been taken out, gathering as they were in the hallway, awaiting the vagaries of some unidentified council official managing to sort out some kind of appropriate collection facility for the street. And just at the point where Husband’s inability to keep old food from spilling onto the floor in disgusting puddles expired, and Wife’s patience was similarly on its final warning, Wife had again returned from Anonymous Work to find the hallway clear and stripped of landlord-upsetting fire hazards. Relief had hit her then; albeit a relief tinged with a more watery sense of unease.<br />
<br />
Wife had worried at many times during the long hours that, perhaps, one day, she would just turn out to be one of the people who just slipped through the cracks. Maybe she had thought about it for so long, someone had picked up on one of her unanswered desires and finally responded in kind. But, since Wife never let any of her deepest wishes out into the light - knowing that if they did get out they could perhaps damage someone or something - surely this was highly unlikely. So, like gentle Charity and her itinerant but untroubled Owl family, Wife kept these thoughts to herself.<br />
<br />
Perhaps they would not trouble her any more.<br />
<br />
The mattress creaked. With a faint and muffled shuffling, Wife felt Husband sliding away; carefully pulled by industrious individuals.<br />
<br />
Perhaps Husband would not trouble her any more. Feeling the paralysis beginning to lose its hold on her, Wife relaxed and began to drift into a deep and peaceful sleep; untroubled by dreams of relentless Husband, or of unclean residences; but merely of quiet and noble Owls, going about their business in the closeted night; silently preying on animals that were dumber and slower than they.<br />
<br />
They flew glassily through the dark, their wings beating to a strong and unknown rhythm: a rhythm Wife did not recognize but felt it resonating with her very being; lulling her into alpha waves of luxurious torpor.<br />
<br />
When morning came, Wife awoke to a spotless environs and the honeyed sunlight of another new day.<br />
<br />
She also found to her looming relief that she was no longer a Wife.<br />
Her ring had gone. The bed was clear and free of any clutter. It would be so easy now to spread the sheets.<br />
<br />
UnWife smiled to herself. Perhaps she would fetch herself some breakfast.<br />
As she roused herself, just by chance she glanced down at the skirting board; and at the place where its scuffed surface met the carpet.<br />
<br />
There was no longer any gap there. The shadowy crease had ceased to exist. Letting slip a flighty, birdlike chuckle, UnWife imagined it must never have been any kind of a crack in the first place.<br />
<br />
She went downstairs and headed for the bathroom; all set to shower herself clean in preparation for the rigours of a new day.<br />
<br />
It was only upon pausing to assess the severe split that ran the length of the floor in front of the shower cubicle that UnWife thought to herself - for a blank, black moment - that she might perhaps not be entirely free of troubles after all.<br />
<br />
A clunking noise sounded beneath her feet. UnWife became distressed.<br />
Swiftly departing the bathroom and closing the door after her, UnWife left the bathroom untended.<br />
<br />
Someone else would have to go. The people below would only wait so long.<br />
<br />
Making a list of Friends in her head, UnWife began to ready herself for work.<br />
<br />
Perhaps Charity would be able to help. No one would even notice me if I wasn’t here, she would joke. Charity was, after all, the very model of her name.<br />
<br />
Wife who was no longer Wife but in fact was now possibly someone else entirely went to fetch herself something from the kitchen. She thought there were perhaps still pancakes. Finally, there would be peace to eat.Colin Kerrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675529648957092472noreply@blogger.com0