White Smoke, New Pope

 White smoke – New pope.

Grey smoke – Oh no, the new pope’s on fire!

No smoke – It’s okay, we dragged him from the pyre

Intermittent smoke – The new pope keeps crawling back into the flames

Green smoke – The new pope’s… melting? His flesh is coming off in lumps.

Blue smoke – That’s not a human skeleton.

Red smoke – That’s definitely not a human skeleton.

Beige smoke – The segmented thing that, until recently, was lodged

just below the pope’s sternum has begun to scale the wall.

White smoke (faint) – Is… is that our new pope? I guess we did just appoint it.

Pink smoke – All hail the scuttling pope.

Taupe smoke – The scuttling pope has descended to address the committee.

Teal smoke – The scuttling pope has dislocated its jaw, and begun to eat

the committee.

Gold smoke – The remains of the committee are hiding under the table.

Lime smoke – Except for Father Benedict, who has stayed to man the

smoke signals.

Chartreuse smoke – Father Ferdinand is going for the papal harpoon gun.

Sepia smoke – Father Ferdinand is firing the papal harpoon gun.

Mauve smoke – Something large has fallen. It hit the floor with a thud.

Violet smoke – The committee are peeking their heads around the

table legs, craning to see if the new pope is dead.

Navy smoke – The body of the new pope is twitching. Father

Ferdinand is covered in green gore. He’s trembling like a leaf.

Cerulean smoke – The committee have exchanged meaningful glances.

They lift the papal robes from the twitching corpse, and drape them over Father Ferdinand's gooey shoulders. They don’t hang majestically, but cling to his shaking form.

White smoke - New pope.

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Short story: Shoreline of Infinity 24

The ever excellent Shoreline of Infinity have gone and published their 24th Issue. I can neither confirm nor deny that I may have a short story in it, but I can say that there's a brilliant story by Tim Major, an intriguing review of Aliya Whiteley's Skyward Inn, and the details of their upcoming flash fiction competition...

A Poem-Shaped Thing

Last Night

I dreamt that Tim Key

was in an advert for Grolsch

there was a Miliband in space

and you were in the back garden

retching up a kitchen.

 

You coughed up the spoons without a problem

tinkling into the flowerbed

where they bounced, for a moment,

like landed fish.

But the appliances caused you grief

and you braced and grunted

as you heaved a fridge-freezer onto the lawn.

 

I crossed my fingers that the oven would be electric.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said, as you coughed a rusted gas range onto the grass.

You could tell I was inauthentic -

reading from the litany of vague praise 

reserved

for other people’s hideous children -

and asked me to go inside.

‘I’ll finish up alone,’ you said

And you did.

And I woke with the feeling that you would hold this against me forever. 

Self-Storage

The minotaur in the self-storage depot was the wrong way round – the face of a man on the body of a cow. “Milk me, please,” he asked Jay, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Er, sorry – “ Jay replied, “I can’t.  I’m looking for the exit.”

“Please milk me,” he said.

“Sorry, I – My girlfriend’s waiting for me in the car. I have to get back. We just came to drop off a sofa. Don’t want it cluttering the place up.”

The minotaur raised an eyebrow.

‘Did she give you string?’

‘What?’

‘A roll of twine to find your way out’

‘No’

‘Then she dropped you off.  Didn’t want you cluttering the place up.’

Jay looked around – surveying the twisting corridors and identical doors. The minotaur snorted impatiently.

“Milk me, please.”

An Unironic Recommendation: Dream Corp LLC

Dream Corp LLC - an Adult Swim show currently available to stream via Channel 4. 

The conceit is similar to Matt Berry’s I Regress; the setting is a clinic of sorts, and every episode, a patient visits to have a psychological problem cured, only to gain a new – and worse - affliction. But the execution is disarmingly original. It’s set at some point in the not-too-distant future, and the dream-clinic is a dilapidated shell of its former self. Like the apartments in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil you get the impression that the building is alive – but where the flats in Brazil gasped and wheezed, the clinic in Dream Corp is a wounded beast, lacerated with scars that are not healing, and springing leaks that drip slowly down the walls before coagulating around the staff’s ankles. When a thick pink liquid begins to ooze from the gap between the walls and ceiling, the staff panic as if it were a haemophiliac with a chest wound.

While it’s billed as a comedy, there are many elements that might be described as horror – and parts of the universe are as grotesque as any Cronenberg. The ringleader of the clinic, Dr Roberts, has USB ports crudely rammed into the backs of his hands, the wounds still weeping after what must, presumably, be a number of years. Drips hang from the ceiling exuding a thin black oil, and patients are anaesthetised suddenly, and against their will. 

In terms of format, the show’s half live-action sitcom (in the clinic), half rotoscoped-psychedelic-nightmare (in the poor unfortunate soul’s subconscious).  The roto segments are visually and conceptually stunning – baroque in the level of detail, to the extent that it’s almost too much to take in in one viewing. Characters fall into gaping maw of an oven (complete with teeth and tongue), ride a tangled Escher-web of escalators, hot air balloons expand above the clouds, and funerals and birthday parties merge into one. It’s not so much a visual feast as a visual all-you-can-eat buffet – the choice of what to focus on can leave you feeling overwhelmed.

To say the tone is dark is like saying 2020 has been ‘not nice’ – this is a world in which staff members casually lose their hands to exposed laser-beams, robot assistants commit suicide with such calendar regularity that the Doctor backs up their servers the day before, and it’s routine for patients to become staff, as their newly-gained phobias (courtesy of Doctor Roberts) prevent them from leaving the building. It excels in the sort of aggressive surrealism that I think of as Adult Swim’s hallmark; my favourite vignette, which takes all of three seconds, featured a colleague asking another colleague for the time. The operative looks at his watch. The face has no hands. No numbers. It’s a small cylinder filled with sand. Two ants crawl in aimless loops.

“Ants!” He replies, cheerfully.

It is, I acknowledge, not for everyone. I tried getting my brother to watch it, and he had to switch it off after four minutes, saying it made him “feel physically sick”. But if you think you might be interested in a mixture of nightmarish psychedelia and relentlessly dark humour, GO FOR IT. It only takes an hour to watch the first series and somehow Daniel Stessen has managed to cram each 10 minute episode with a story arc for the staff, a patient of the day, and fifty images that will stay with you for the week.

Short Story: Aaaaaaahnthology

To my enduring surprise, I have a story in The Best of British Science Fiction 2019. Gulp.

Short Story: Story Seed

I have a new piece of flash fiction up on Story Seed. I lack the creative energy to announce this with anything more exciting that the sentence 'I have a new piece of flash fiction up on 'Story Seed'.

Short Fiction: Shoreline of Infinity

The ever excellent Shoreline of Infinity have gone and published their 17th Issue. I may or may not have some flash fiction and poetry in it. It may or may not have been published in January. I may or may not have forgotten to post about it. I can confirm nothing. No, really, I can't. Stop looking at me like that.

Short story: RGB Colourscheme

RGB Colourscheme, a zine of literary fiction/art/poetry is now available to read online. I may or may not have a piece in it. It may or may not be on page eight. 

Short story: Troubleshooting your smart fridge

This is a link to a short story what I wrote, what was published on Daily Science Fiction. It was inspired, as so many stories are, by the arrival of unnecessarily smart household appliances.

New News

The current news is depressing and repetitive. I propose the following alternatives:

1. Reverse News
90% uplifting animal interest stories, end on 60 seconds of tragedy.

2. Excessively summarised News
Just a plus or minus sign to tell you whether yesterday was on average better or worse than the day before. 

3. Noirs
The news, but framed with film noir style narration. “I knew the dame would be trouble the minute she won the election, with a 54% majority”

4. Pasta News
Interspersing reports with instructions for cooking a lovely, comforting pasta dish. So by the end of it you feel harrowed and informed, but also have a carbonara. 

5. Increasingly distant news
The presenter takes a step away from the camera at the end of every sentence, until they are nothing more than a spec in the distance. Cons: the words become unintelligible. Pros: the words become unintelligible. 

6. Amateur Pottery News
A group of amateur potters are commissioned to illustrate the day’s events, painting them on the sides of vases like what Greeks did. The results are presented without comment. 

7. The View From the Gallery
Members of the production team stroke kittens. The news is being recorded elsewhere, but visible in a small monitor in the background. 

8. The View From the Gallery (Plus). 
Members of the production team stroke kittens. The news is being recorded elsewhere. It is not visible. 

Shall I compare thee?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate

And less filled with mosquitoes;

Thou contain fewer picnics

And thou art much sweatier.

Thou lookst better in swimwear

Although

In truth

I have not seen a summer’s day in swimwear.

For this to be a fair comparison

We shoulds’t deck nature in its kind.

Drape each darling bud of May

in lycra

Halter the necks of swaying blooms

With polka-dot triangles

And slather each ripen’ning bud

In Factor 50.

Glue tiny Raybans to the faces of wasps

And miniature flip-flops to the foot of each passing ant.

In truth

I think this sounds like quite a lot of work

And I have lost faith in the comparison.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

No.

No I shall not.

Quarter Past Curfew - Creativity

Good morning citizens, and welcome to Quarter Past Curfew – a series of vibrations that your mind translates into sounds that it translates into words that it translates into abstract concepts – good lord we’re computers made of meat.  

We start with the headlines: our glorious leader has announced a new raft of measures designed to feed people, starting in June, so just hold your breath until then. In economic news, it turns out that you are organised enough to have many spare batteries, but disorganised enough that they’re all triple a, when you don’t have a single appliance that takes them.

But first; I have a press release on my desk from our glorious leader – praised be his name, hallowed be his memory, reminding us that in these times when we do not leave the house, we may want to start exploring creative outlets. Many citizens have started drawing or finally getting round to finishing that novel, or starting a podcast to polish up their production skills and get over their fear of putting content on the internet without the filter of an actor between writer and audience.

And to be honest with you, I think the vast majority of the creative process is driven by fear. We procrastinate because we fear that the product wont be as good as the vision. We repeatedly edit because we fear the release, and we fear exposure because we fear both critique and indifference and praise and acclaim.

Here in Sector 17, I can hear through my wall that my neighbour has started writing a sitcom. I know this because he’s speaking all the parts aloud. It’s called ‘Three’s a Crowd’ and it’s a standard buddy cop prodcedural, but the twist is that there’s three of them, running a good cop bad cop moral relativist cop routine. Each car chase starts with a five minute argument about who has to sit in the back. 

I’m scared that one day he’ll ask me to ready the bloody thing.

But I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

Quarter Past Curfew - Neighbours

Good morning citizens, and welcome to Quarter Past Curfew – the blue green algae in the pond of silence.

We start with the headlines: citizens are reminded to stay at home, I repeat, stay at home. In economic news, it turns out that your father never loved you, and this will colour all subsequent relationships with men. More on this later.

But first; I have a press release on my desk from our glorious leader – praised be his name, hallowed be his memory, reminding us to look out for our neighbours. It’s in tough times like these that the government relies on us to play our part, and feed back any unmutual behaviour to the ministry of information. Here in sector seventeen, I know that we’re all looking out deeply for our neighbours – with binoculars, from our windows.

Talking of windows, here in sector 17 – with everyone home – the soundscape has changed. Gone is the howl of engines, the screaming of school-children, and the pitter-patter of tiny armed guards. Instead, for the first time in… what feels like years… I opened the window and listened to birds and insects. Croaking and groaning, reminding us that they are legion and they are strong.

I wonder what will happen when we re-emerge, blinking into the daylight. Will we have to chase the birds away, take machetes to the vines that cover our beautiful concrete.

But I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

Quarter Past Curfew - Video Meetings

Good morning citizens, and welcome to Quarter Past Curfew – putting the punk back into punctual updates on the end of the world.

We start with the headlines: citizens are being reminded to stay at home, in what is already being described as the second day of lockdown. In economic news, it turns out that history is just a sequence of unrelated events onto which we retrospectively impose a narrative. More on this later.

But first; with many citizens working from home, the video call is becoming something of a depressing staple in the working day. I have a press release here on my desk outlining some advice for successful video calls.

Tip number one: accept that you will look awful on camera. It’s just a fact that people on webcam look grey and flabby, and smaller than you expect, like the difference between advertised meat and actual meat. The angle of the camera will give you more chins than eyebrows and the way that you look at the screen will make you look either lost or confused. It’s best to accept this.

Tip number two: accept people will judge your house. Like renaissance portraiture, the colleague who’s carefully positioned their guitar in the back of the shot.

Tip number three: accept that your job is non-essential. You are non-essential. In the grand scheme of things you are replacable, fungible, The implicit message is that it doesn’t need to be happening. I’m not sure what will happen when this ends, but I guess

But I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

But until then, hope you stay well, stay complacent, stay happy, stay obedient.

This has been quarter past curfew, and you’ve been incredibly patient.

Quarter Past Curfew - Lockdown

Good morning citizens, and welcome to quarter past curfew – news, sport, opinion, and other meaningless social constructs. 

Today is of course the first day of the lockdown initiative launched by our glorious leader– praised be his name, hallowed be his memory – and we are of course not allowed to leave our houses. I, for one, welcome the changes. It’ll be nice to have a bit of time around the house. I can finally get around to a bit of DIY.. filling in that hole in the wall that the glorious regime left when they took my wife.  And the larger hole they left, when they returned her.

I have a couple of press releases on my desk. But let’s get started with the headlines. The mood of the day is sombre, the soup of the day is tomato, and the fear of the day is irrelevance. And remember – you can expect your rations to arrive some time between 9am and the setting of the cold, indifferent sun.

Erm, so, erm, I’ve got some press releases here.

The first one says remain calm. In all capitals. Underlined five times. It’s very important that we all just remember to keep breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t sort of think about the ramifications of what’s happening …. It’s very important not to confront your own mortality …  just keep forcing television into your eyes like grain down the gullet of a foix gras duck.

Press release number two: we’ve got some economic news: it turns out the entire system is just based on numbers drawn on bits of paper. It’s all made up. Who saw that coming? Not me. And there’s absolutely no reason to take me to a secure government facility. Praise the glorious leader, hallowed be his name, hallowed be his memory,

And finally – as of last night, all public buildings are closed until further notice. This includes all libraries, museums, and galleries – so I know that a lot of us were looking forward to the museum of accurately labelled art (where you can see the painting of the bored lady with the dog, and those watercolours of blurry gardens) but that’ll just have to wait.

And that brings us to the end of today’s update. Hope you’re keeping …well. And sort of managing to tamp down the feeling that we’re standing on the edge of history, a sort of vast lake, and watching a wave approach and in a couple of hundred years this’ll all be a question on a GCSE they’ll be watching all the daytime television hosts talking about how to make your own eggless pasta and shouting at each other across the studio like it’s a Chris Morris sketch.

 But I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

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Please rate the quality of your skype call

How was the overall quality of the call

1         2         3         4         5

Audio issues (tick all that apply)

[  ]     Distorted speech

[  ]     Electronic feedback

[  ]     Screen kept leaking cheese

[  ]     Every time you blinked an old man in a purple trench coat appeared at the window

[  ]     Keyboard began to smell of burning rubber.

[  ]     Keyboard screamed every time you pressed the space bar

[  ]     Keyboard began to extrude a thin, white tentacle

[  ]     Keyboard tentacle began to explore the desk, brushing gently against your hands

[  ]     Keyboard tentacle opened to reveal keratinous teeth

[  ]     Keyboard tentacle began scooping contents of the desk towards this orifice, reminding you of an underwater creature eating krill.

[  ]     The volume was too quiet

[  ]     Everyone had too many arms.

[  ]     Everyone had the right number of arms, but in the wrong places.

[  ]     The computer ran slowly

[  ]     The computer ran slowly towards the door on legs you didn’t know it had

[  ]     The computer ran slowly towards the door on legs you didn’t know it had, until it yanked its charger from the wall, dragging it like a tail behind it as it hobbled away. You chased it – it wasn't difficult, as it waddled uncertainly like a toddler, shifting its weight awkwardly from foot to foot. It teetered at the top of the stairs and fell and now your computer is dead and you think that you might have killed it.

 [  ]   You talked at each other rather than to each other.

[  ]     No-one spoke about anything of substance, instead preferring inane platitudes about the season and weather

[  ]     No-one laughed at your joke

[  ]     Everyone laughed at your joke, but at your joke, not at your joke.

[  ]     Everyone laughed at you. At the concept of you. when confronted they hissed and opened their mouth and didn’t stop opening it until it was the size and shape of a spacehopper.

 [  ]     The call disconnected.

Jonathan Rigby

Jonathan Rigby

Climbs up the stairs to the room where he isn’t allowed

Goes in there now.

Gets in the wardrobe.

Digging around in the dust and the dirt

Finds guitar.

And a face in a jar.

All the other secrets

Seem suddenly so small

All the other secrets

Hurt nobody at all.

Face is contorted

Screaming a plea no-one has, no-one ever will hear.

Howling with fear.

So Jonathan Rigby

Carefully sets back the jar and retreats

from the room.

Thoughts start to bloom.

All the other secrets

Seem suddenly so small

All the other secrets

Hurt nobody at all.

Jonathan Rigby

Forces his food to his mouth with a trembling hand

His mum watches, and

Silently wonders what in the world - on this earth - has got into her son

He’s normally fun.

All the other secrets

Seem suddenly so small

All the other secrets

Hurt nobody at all.