Hey

 Well piss and vinegar look at the time, lets spend our time writing some lines! Will they be good? Who can say! Lets found out when we read them today!

Wilderbeast

Where do the wilderbeast roam? The moon or the darkened hole in the ground where they can spread their wings no more? No more pain for the wilderbeast wanderers, instead they live on in mind and song, legends of long ago landwalkers, without a time or place to call their own.

Couldn't be arsed

 

The sword was heavy in her grip, but she continued to heft it a little longer, trampling, and occasionally slashing, through the tangled undergrowth as she did so. The sun felt more like a furnace than it ever had, her leather armour boiling again under its eye, and the steam rising from the foliage around her added a more than uncomfortable humidity to the air. All in all, she was having a shite day.

But the light in front of her bopped on, welcoming her further into the jungle depths. It had been hours since the tavern and the mysterious mandolin player had directed her to follow the orb, but the pay was good enough that she wouldn’t complain when she eventually got back, not yet at least.

But hints of something beyond trees and fern life was starting to become apparent. Looming out from the tangled ruin of the forest was a collection of carved wood buildings adhered to the stripped trunks of the trees.

A figure appeared in the building’s doorway. It’s 5 arms circling the branches around him, pulling themdow

Ae

ds

John Smith (in Straitgate)

The world is not like a John Smith Strip. No dragons or psychological sexual asylums, no interdimensional agents managing the multiverse (take that Marvel you indigo scammers), nor even a gay Vatican vampire exorcising Judge Dredd for his sins. Instead, it’s a little blander, a little safer, a smidge more comfortable and a hint more horrible. Ah well, what can you do? John Smith is not yet dead, his 1994 heart attack sent him back instead to his comic career after a quick rest in bed.

Citylights

Architecture contracts around us as we walk. It dominates us psychologically, allowing us to weave our way along the walkways in its heart, projecting perfect pathways that we follow, guided by the lynchpins of churches or mosques or the great boxes of tower blocks.

Inside this walk we find the city, the land varying from one section to the next: here lies a business-suited someone, their hair matted with sweat as they run for the bus, late for a meeting; here a woman wanders lonely, talking to the baby perched on her shoulders.

A train rattles the mortar as it passes over the bridge above us, a few flakes tumble into out hair. This is the physical realisation of the city’s presence in our minds. The reminder that as we move through the city, the city moves through us, forming us, moulding us, in a newness of identity that couldn’t exist outside of the steel, the glass, and the concrete.

We wander further, lost in other’s creations.

Waterfall

One wonders where the walkers go once the find the waterfall. Do they stand awhile and watch it drip? Or trek on back with their walking stick? Or do they get lost along the way, only to find somewhere else to stay?

Bread

The women held out a bag of bread to the man she passed every other day. He sat in a puddle on the bench, alone but for the splinters, and stared at the grush-garnished ground under his Doc Martins, so the woman placed the bread on his lap. A single act of defiance.

The Deed

Anarchists set bombs in broom shop windows, making widowers of candlemakers and distillery tasters. The people tremble as bombs fly like rocks, dislodging slowly the reigning presidential monarchies of France, and watch silent as these throwers are taken quietly, by the shoulder, to the courtyard and their necks are cut straight through.

Library

The street curves gracefully, designed in such a way that it feels like walking in a straight line. Shops and services line its sides, the occasional rib of a side street jutting off between them, and then it passes over a viaduct and we look down to see a man bleeding out on a sofa below, red running into the leaf-litter by their side. Ah well, I guess that life can do that to people, sometimes anyway.

We carry on, the gait of a couple years experience showing the way up the stairs and into the room filled with plastic bound books and tacky tables and chairs. It smells fresh in here, newly cleaned. I settle down, taking a book off the nearest shelf and start to read.

Turtles

A conquest of worms. They live in festering wounds located under the shells of turtles and reside there for weeks on end, growing and shifting under the pressure. Sometimes, when the time is just right, you can see the heads of these worms peaking out from under the shell, squeezing their thickening bodies under its rim and out into the half-light world beyond. Flesh slips from their open maws, and it splatters against the dull sand at the watcher’s feet.

The turtles cannot leave the land when the worms nest themselves. They are bound to the beach, forced to wrestle their bulks across the sand for weeks on end before they can return to the ocean or, more often, they drop dead, worms wriggling from a few folds of exposed flesh.

The worms, free from their vessel, begin soon after to squeeze themselves beneath the sand. There they wait. They wait for the return of the turtles, the turtles that never do stop coming, no matter how many empty shells pile up on that beach. They’ve always come here, to this shore, and nested, waiting for the worms to rise and burrow deep into their flesh and lay.

Games of chance

Games of chance last longer on this side of the moon, further from the pool of Earthlight above. The dark side of humanity can bound free of any constraint. A dark side lost of a all time can wander further than any other, any other of the world at large above and below the city of death that resides, silent in the satellites heart, waiting for its release into the world at large, the world residing in the heart chamber of human wonderings.

Moonites live there, alone but for the clangers, the beasts of quick fit auto-repair and lost things. We wander over to the wilderness lands of empty moon rock, salute and you shall enter.

CBBC

Closures all around,

Closing in and closing down,

Where have all the channels gone,

That give kids a place to run?

 

Sarah Jane fighting monsters,

Tracy Beaker finding friends,

Dick and Dom lost in the forest,

Horrible Histories in the past again.

 

Something new is coming now,

A place where advertisers prowl,

Selling children plastic crap,

Filling the world with useless tat.

 

Closures all around,

Closing in and closing down,

Where have all the channels gone,

That give kids a place to run?