prose

Red Eyes

Andrew Leave a comment

“Be!” sounded the cry of The Shadow Men, stood in grid formation.

“All that you can be!” They raised their rifles over their shoulders and waved them in the air.

“In the arm-eee!”

It was a decidedly undisciplined show of loyalty, perhaps more proscribed to children at a water park. There were cheers, and a few shots went off. The Man in The Mask turned his head around, as if addressing The Steel Hyena. There were hundreds of men below him, but enough realised the next few seconds of their bosses whims were crucial and they made a show of marching to the craft. Each ship took a fourteen man crew, weighing towards the forward guns. It was not really strange to their leaders or his soldiers were in the shape of his heads. Yes, forty or fifty foot square heads. Inside eyeholes pilots sat, framed by blast shutters mimicking eyelids were the occasion called for it. This at least had a function. The nose was fairly superfluous. The grinning incisors were particularly ornate and served to intimidate their enemies.

Off the coast of Bermuda, U.S. Captain John Crenshaw engaged the red skull in his F-15 fighter jet. He and the co-pilot Mac called the crew up to see. The men laughed so hard that they slipped upon the controls and the plane ended up in the sea.

“Another successful mission for Count Cameron and the Agents of F.R.E.A.K.” the speakers boomed. The crowds eyes lit up red and they exploded into self-congratulatory cheering.

The Code Is This

Andrew 1 Comment

Hot brick shit-head hemmed tight smash and murder familiar with a live feed. Game children scream it. I have no cash, love, and plastic man on those walls. The code is this: 30 minutes walk, tops, in shade to work, or by the water (relaxation and other writing). Google Maps for me means Victoria Park, where Linda took me for recommends.

More directions on an alternate route. I tell her when we get there, “I haven’t been here since I was their size.”

Slowly, slabs inside canal, it’s mass, a special dirt through rails on this green path. It’s a fragment dream or memory on this day. A canal, stinking, maybe it goes back to the road. My first familiar is a club (a bowling club) but later new houses. On the other side, the empty canal shows up more  concrete slabs: illuminated grey topology rising to the railings and the old factories on the other side.

There’s an old grey bridge on the road like a tank.

By me, a thick forest hole I might have hid in. Did my grandfather take me here, my mother? There’s something…it’s like we lived around here.  This feeling lasts another five minutes and it’s all green and sun and it’s quiet. Everywhere it’s quiet, but for three harmless bugs that move like hornets. I remember, and not much has changed, besides the aeroplanes. They fly low over-head when they do. I saw the under-belly and the rotors and the whirls like primal wind-mills.

At the end of the path is love. As if several miles of walking among trees which walk shadows around the lake of the same length. Swans looking respectful, ducks and forty bobbing white little grey ones (pigeons), Larger birds line a branch which sticks it’s feet up over the cool ripples. Away there, It’s an island. There are five six of these, as big as my street.

A strong river over the bridge could take vehicles, but says none on this point. A memorial grey black tells it’s reach. The trees are thick and heavy, fifty, sixty foot. Oh, it’s love. The curl around the lake and out to a gap were a red concrete building, post-modern cabin sits by perfectly mowed grass. I’m noticing on the bridge there is a bench space and I sit and watch. There are small groups – mothers and kids, no screams. By me, a child plays around a tree.

“Aeroplanes aren’t yellow granny. That’s an old tree, and I love old, old trees.”

There is breeze.

159: Blog / Short story: No Evidence

Andrew Leave a comment

I didn’t blog here yesterday, first no-show in over three weeks. Of course, if the dole found out I had taken a day off advertising my creative talents, well now, unemployed people are not legally allowed holidays. Still, as long as I’m showing records of three applications a week I’m justifying my subsistence.

I was out tonight to hear comrade Patrick Brown perform musical voicery. I’ve known Paddy on and off for quite a while but hearing him rip out ‘My Girl’ was a bit Who, WTF, Another Person! Sadly, I’ve no tech captures, but it was a pleasure hearing Paddy get the guitar out for ‘My Lagan Love’ and his Rat Pack duet with matching hat wearer Gary in ‘Me and My Shadow’ was immense fun. Actually, the whole programme was distinctive and muscular, less associated with people graduating a singing class (that it was), than some stunning top-league singers. There was a lot of theatrical acting too, expressionism, performance: a very shapely singer named Geraldine even sat her bum on Paddy’s back while he was bent over on all fours on the stage.

Hey, you gotta have a hobby.

At the urging of Tim Pilcher, I’m coming off Facebook and Twitter for a week in protest at the NSA’s Operation Prism. (Clue: You can read about it in the news and millions of people are talking about it) Of course, my abstinence won’t make a jot in the same way yoga isn’t really exercise, but it is good for you.  It’s the practice and the principle. You’re here reading this, so you know exactly what I mean.  My contact details are here.

Okay, short story time.

No Evidence

It was the first snowfall of the year. Eliza watched from the bay window as her bikini she held tight in a ball. You can’t see this, shedding fir, sent from a whiter place. The snow gave no evidence but the sound, it was far away at first: crispier as it would have got closer but behind the double-glazing and reptilian central heating, Eliza heard nothng. There would be no lazy day applying creams in the elements, no commune with the space around her small but rich haven. It was not until, while focussing on the white-lands of the space were her drive-way lay that she saw Bob. Screaming, she dropped the dress, but remained rooted to the spot. China’s most expensive A.I. would be destroyed in that weather.
“My tin man, My tin man, My beloved tin man my tin man!”