Thursday, October 19, 2017

Voodoo Pin-Cushion

Dreamchild ~ Bang Sangho

The path up to the plateau of Hilly Fields had always troubled him; ever since he’d started cycling in the area. He would reach the plateau gasping for breath and on one or two occasions the spectre of his death had entered his head and filled him with fear.
Over the years his speed and ease of ascent had increased with his fitness, and while the spectre sometimes loitered, he became less concerned with the possible effects of over-exertion on his body.
On the pleasantly cool but sunny autumn day of his passing, he reached the plateau with bearable effort and was some distance past the summit of the path when he noticed the edges of his vision flickering with luminescent urgency. The impact of the path against his left side was curiously numbing and he watched the clouds skittering against the impossibly indigo East Anglian sky.

Tom and Sam were crossing the plateau with the child-construct they’d chosen to christen Bingo, when the bicycle clattered down ahead of them.
Tom, who had done the First-Aider course at work, did his best to apply CPR on the prone cyclist while Sam called 999 on her phablet and Bingo ran around chittering with inquisitive innocence in the raised level of excitement.
Three hours later, after all the furore had died down, the ambulance gone and the police completed their questions, a ravenous Tom and Sue took Bingo home and, over a take-away dinner scattered with the Crunchy banana bits that Bingo insisted were part of her dietary requirements (as suggested by Parental Guidance Directive 732 of Apr 2027), discussed their afternoon of drama.
“And you wonder,” said Tom in conclusion, “why I don’t exercise.”

Tales for an attention deficit world

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Friday, October 13, 2017

Chromium Skye

With faces back-lit by atom-glow and thumbprint access to a smart world future, we ride the light-speed wave of progress ever-forward toward the waiting utopia.
And we smile unsurprised by the ingenuity of humanity; with streamlined fishtailed weather-hoods and spacesuits, climate-controlled by the force of our own consent.

With faces up-lit, ghoul aglow by the light of our thumbprint-smeared bubble-pop smartphones, we sleepwalk-shuffle, progress-driven ever-forward toward the waiting precipice.
And we are surprised and indignant when we are shaken awake with baton and Taser; when hood and boiler suit await us in the climate-change cage of our own consent.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Hate Paper Doll

Nighthawks ~ Edward Hopper 1942

I saw you between my hands cupped against the city’s reflection on the plate glass window of some Point Road bar. You were drinking from a shot glass, 9 in the morning, 1977 and blood from a new tattoo was seeping through your sleeve.
I heard you’d been to the border; taken some fire and come back a different guy; left behind the friends you knew before you knew that the world would not give you much more than grief.
I left before you could noticed me, not wanting to consider the possible consequences of talking to a ghost.

Monday, October 02, 2017

Giant Impact Theory

The sign reads: Markov 53.4N 62.7W
Shouldering the bag, I step down from the train onto the platform; stuttering relays in the station’s antiquated gravity unit cause grey dust to levitate a centimetre above the pointed silver tips of my shoes – my eyes follow my feet through the ovine throng of icon bearing pilgrims to where the matt-black clad security units are scanning the arrivals for contraband and chip-infringements.
I am not afraid.
Markov’s mind pings my chip and as it reads me I read it back and find it wanting; my implant convinces Markov to find me acceptable and it opens the turnstile before me, worn mechanical inefficiency adding to the parallel clatter of its companions as I pass through.
I have never arrived; I have never existed; all memory of my eye-patched razor face erased from Markov’s history.
I am the sword.
I am the arm.
I am the lord of change.
This god-fearing little police state will learn to know real fear.

An alternate ending to Dali's Egg

Tales for an attention deficit world