Ten Miles Beyond The City

2007-01-19T12:16:00.000Z

What's loyalty anyway? http://tenmiles.wordpress.com/

Words come crashing in....

2007-01-09T05:48:00.000Z

Yes, it's 2007. And that's all I have to say about that. Although I suppose there is both something ironic and perhaps also apt about using a challenge as the first post of a new year. Jason is at it again, and I have never been able to resist, so this is my effort. As always, comments and criticisms are more than welcome. And how the hell are you all!!!???

'Tis the season.....

2006-12-22T09:57:00.000Z

Lack of recent posts = a very hectic year-end at work + no leave for the wicked. But I will enjoy Monday and Tuesday, as I hope all of you will. Thanks for reading, commenting and emailing. Your input is the only reason I bother. Well, that and the occasional forum to rant. To you and yours, wishes for health, family and......okay......a little bit of materialism never hurt anybody, so hope you get what you wished for! I hope you stick around for 2007. Much love, FM, Mrs TenMiles and Cadence

2006-12-12T14:34:00.000Z

Is the internet truly the saviour of music? What is creativity? Or is the illusion of 2006 more subversive than you ever could have imagined...... This has to be one of the better articles I've read in a long while. If you find yourself wondering if 21st century music is any better than it was a decade ago, or any more original, you should be reading this.

More damn squirrels......

2006-12-08T08:19:00.000Z

Van Occupanther's generous frame flowed over the constraints of his recliner. A thin sheet of dust covered the bed to his far left, and though it was only a few paces from his current position of questionable comfort, the effort to reach it would kill him. His extremities seemed almost comical, afloat in an ocean of excess, but a quick glimpse of his dark eyes would freeze any hint of mirth like a dead bird in winter, eyes coloured with malice and trenchancy. Twistletwix sat on a small stool, gently manicuring the nails on Occupanther's right paw. His expression was precisely that of someone glad to be engaged in a task that appears mundane, yet pales in comparison to the horror of the preceding chore. As he began combing out the knotted fur, he stole a quick glance at the empty ablution buckets next to the front door. For a second, he allowed himself the luxury of a vision that involved sharp scissors and 'accidental' deaths, but he'd need a chainsaw to reach any of Occupanthers's vital organs. A chainsaw, and a pair of spit-shined steel balls.

He had neither.

"Twixie, dear......." Occupanther's voice oozed. Not like mud, or custard, but like puss from a festering wound. "Be a darling and fix me a drink."

Twistletwix obediently set down scissors and comb, and opened the small cabinet that doubled as Occupanther's footrest. He decanted a golden, pungent liquid into a tumbler, closed the cabinet door and brought the glass to Van's lips, allowing him three deep sips before taking it to the kitchen. By the time he returned, a strange rustling emanated from the now sleeping figure of Van Occupanther. He gathered his things, turned out the light, and left. Even the trees were now quiet, all that accompanied him home was the sound of his heart beating, each thump a step closer to change.

Sometimes you didn't need a chainsaw or balls of steel. Sometimes all you need was to leave a door unlocked, and someone else to do the job. ************** (with apologies to Midlake)

Necessity's bastard children......

2006-12-04T06:36:00.000Z

Just following through with an idea I had this morning. There are certain inventions, or re-inventions, so ingenious, so insidious, so ludicrous, that I stand awe-struck by their sheer redundancy. I want to meet their creators, congratulate them on having so little faith in the intelligence of humanity.

I'm guessing there are others who can appreciate the magnificence of these inventions, so I thought why not create a meme, and let's find out just how many of us there are.

So, I'll start the list, and you continue it by posting the list and adding your own entry(ies). Please leave a comment if you've added something, so I can keep track of the list, and don't forget comment moderation is enabled, so your comment won't appear instantly.

Here goes.......

1. Patterned toilet paper. There's nothing quite like wiping your arse with little fluffy clouds or butterflies......

Tryst

2006-11-29T08:52:00.000Z

My fierce, bright love,

Tonight will most likely pass by in a flurry of soiled nappies, last-minute washing and much zombie-like meandering from room to room. From the splashing of tiny hands in bath water to the aggrieved moans as a certain little lady's bottle takes a minute longer than she's prepared to wait, a state of reflection will be one that we cannot afford. No relaxed flipping of photo albums, or the swapping of anecdotes over a candle-lit dinner. Instead, we'll gulp down take-aways as we wait for the microwave to finish sterilising bottles, before collapsing into bed far earlier than we ever thought possible, only to end up falling asleep an hour later because we can't stop talking. And you'll stroke my hair whilst I drift off, as you always do.

And no expensive dinner in a trendy restaurant could possibly give me as much joy as sharing these 'simple' things with you.

Happy Anniversary.

Loving you is like breathing.

A week in pictures......

2006-11-24T08:14:00.000Z

Been staring at this all week.......(yes, those really are 894 unread emails from this morning...) Would much rather be staring at this...... And welcome little Morgan, who graced us with her presence on November 17th. D & W, may she bring as much joy to you as Cadence has brought us. Hopefully next week won't be as busy as this one has, so look forward to stories of torture, nanotech and just maybe, squirrels.

In a galaxy far, far away......

2006-11-16T08:31:00.000Z

Do you know what appeals to me about science fiction?

The size of the discrimination. You won't find humans bothered about issues like colour or sexual preference. Oh no, humans are too busy fighting off the invasion of an alien race bent on destroying them. Here, entire worlds are wiped out in the pursuit of galactic domination. Now that, I can respect. I don't like your entire species, so I shall destroy you. Or perhaps you stand in the way of my inter-galactic hyperspace freeway. Or something nifty like that. Prejudice on a scale we can't even measure.

In these futures, body modification has reached the point where we can change our skin colour at the flip of a switch, nothing more than a fashion accessory. And when one can fuck an android or have your deepest sexual perversion fulfilled in a way that would make even Howard Stern blush, somehow homosexuality seems as normal and non-threatening as tea and scones.

Yet in the year 2006, as South Africa stands on the verge of becoming only the 5th country in the world to legalise gay marriage, the issue remains as divisive as it was 50 years ago. When the leader of a political party can make a speech in parliament with the words "an abomination so terrible that only four countries in the world allow it", something is seriously wrong. Then you get those groups who try to dress the issue up in the garish clothes of a scapegoat. No, we're not against gay marriage, but the way in which the bill has been passed is undemocratic, because, like, 80% of the country is against it. Well, that's the problem with democracy. You can't always leave it up to the people, because the people are fucking idiots. But anyway, if you're going to oppose the bill, then at least be honest enough to admit your reasons for it. Don't hide behind some ridiculously pedantic argument about legislature and politics. The bill has been passed legally, through the proper channels, and when you've denied a minority group the same rights as everyone else for decades, I think you can make a few allowances here and there.

But let's look at the opposing view points shall we?

Homosexuality is evil in the eyes of God. Strange, that the Bible the Torah the Quran all spend a great deal more time on the evils of worshiping other gods and delving in other religions then they do about homosexuality, yet religious tolerance is like a demilitarised zone at the moment. Persecute based on sexuality, but don't dare exclude one or other religious group. I don't see Christians denouncing Muslims in any other forum then Sunday morning church, and vice versa. Let's deny the Jews the right to procreate, because then you're just making more little non-believers in whichever religion you believe is the true one. We all tread on eggshells around the issue of religious sensitivity, lest we piss off the wrong group of people. But hey! Gays seem like an easy target, let's go after them.

But what about the sanctity of marriage? That's the other argument being tossed around at the moment. That 'these people' are defiling the sanctity of marriage. Please, give me a break. Us 'heteros' were entrusted with arguably the most powerful statement of commitment between two people, and we've done a fine job of keeping it pure and unsullied. No spousal abuse here, no infidelity, no divorce, none of that here. Nope.

But the definition of marriage speaks of a man and a woman, as does the bible. These freaks of nature are even trying to redefine our language!!! The outrage!!! Well, let's see. "That is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one flesh." Don't see anything about the bouquet in there. Let's see...hmmm...nothing about rings, or garters, or brides maids, or cheesy reception disco music. Don't even see the word 'marriage'. So am I not married if I don't speak the vows, or wear a ring? And if we want to discuss definitions, let's talk about the definition of the word 'love'. Seems like that may be a better place to start from then 'marriage'.

love [luhv] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation noun, verb, loved, lov‧ing.

–noun

1.	a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

2.	a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

3.	sexual passion or desire.

4.	a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.

5.	(used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?

6.	a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.

7.	sexual intercourse; copulation.

8.	(initial capital letter) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.

9.	affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.

10.	strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.

11.	the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.

12.	the benevolent affection of God for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.

13.	Chiefly Tennis. a score of zero; nothing.

14.	a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.

–verb (used with object)

15.	to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.

16.	to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).

17.	to have a strong liking for; take great pleasure in: to love music.

18.	to need or require; benefit greatly from: Plants love sunlight.

19.	to embrace and kiss (someone), as a lover.

Interesting. I don't seem to see anything about 'a man and a woman'....let me check again. Nope. And for that matter, I don't see the word 'love' in the definition of marriage either. I won't state the fairly obvious deduction........

Please, someone, explain to me slowly, in small words so that I can understand, why it is so important that two men or two woman should not be allowed to marry in the law of their country, and go on to continue whatever role it was they fulfilled in society prior. Is it maybe a sign of the apocalypse? Will it empower gays and lesbians to suddenly control all aspects of our country and become rulers of the world?

And the biggest joke of all, is that this controversial bill, this evil, this whatever you want to call it, it STILL doesn't recognise gay marriage in the same way that a heterosexual marriage is accorded status within the constitution. Even after they emerge bloody and bruised from this battle victorious, equality is still many battles away.

I suppose they only have themselves to blame. If two lesbian supermodels had been championing the cause, I bet the outcry would've been far quieter.

Maybe not.

Cadence a week ago.....

2006-11-16T06:03:00.000Z

It's been a while, I'm sure much gasping will ensue as to how much she has grown.....

And Still Tales From The Machine, or, Hope Or An Exercise In Futility

2006-11-13T12:22:00.000Z

She knew his prison. The smoothness of it's high, mirrored walls. The absence of a ceiling, just walls that reached into a black nothingness. The whispers of a doorway to freedom lingering just around the next corner. All of these details were like the intimacies of an old lover. She had built this labyrinth, this maze, had polished every fragment of memory that formed the foundations. When she awoke, be it morning or midnight, she could see him. His intelligent eyes flickering just as she remembered, the palm of his left hand lightly guiding him along the walls, turn after turn. She would call out to him, reassure him that she was watching. But if he heard, he never acknowledged, his gaze always unflinching on the path before him. He was as diligent as always, often he'd walk for weeks with a tangible resolve. But it couldn't always be that way, and there were days when he would tear at his flesh, break his body against the glass, to let his blood mark his existence, to leave some trace of himself. Should he pass by that marker again, the madness would abate. Or perhaps not. Sometimes sanity exists in the not-knowing of things. Walking in circles without the realisation of such, is just walking, but to pass by the same spot, convinced that the outcome should have been otherwise, is that not the very definition of madness? Jocelyn would hold his hand, his warm fingers resting in her palm like a dying bird. She'd lean toward his ear, to be heard over the hiss and click of the machines, and she'd hum to him softly. Listen, my love. Patience, my love. You'll find it, my love. Return to me, my love. Sometimes she'd find him gazing at his reflection, tracing the contours of his face as if it were a stranger's. And in a way, it was. Every mirrored surface spat back an image of him, imperceptibly altered, increments summing to a whole that was truly another person. And Jocelyn feared that one day, she too would look upon a stranger. But this prison is not his, it never was and never will be. Eric died minutes after the impact flung his enervated body across the tarmac. Every future word unborn, every thought decimated, unmade. His flesh had cast him out, forgotten him on a cellular level. Blinked him out of existence like a grain of sand. This labyrinth belongs to Jocelyn, her only cellmate a husk in a hospital bed.

Further Tales From The Machine, or, Here's Your Damn Squirrel Story Now Piss Off

2006-11-10T10:30:00.000Z

Having had just about enough, thank you very much, Sally calmly set down her cup of tea and went outside to determine just what the commotion was about.

Her normally unflappable demeanor was all but trampled as a blurred figure bustled past her, screaming at the top of it's lungs.

She spotted a familiar face across the way, and checking left and right for any further furry explosions of motion, crossed the branch.

"Sammy," Sally questioned with just the slightest hint of exasperation, "just what the fuck is going on?"

"Brogan is back! The watch alerted us, but until I'd seen him with my own eyes....." His voice trailed off, replaced by a look of glazed admiration.

"Have the Dray summoned him yet?"

"He went in a few minutes ago."

Sally instinctively knew where Brogan would go once the Dray had finished with him, and so she scampered higher up the Great Oak to wait for him in a small alcove that provided an unobscured view of the park. The sun had sunk just low enough for a chill to infiltrate the late afternoon air, when a shadow fell across her. It belonged to a scarred, but powerfully built figure, with eyes the colour of dark soil and the remnants of a tail twitching unashamedly behind.

Brogan seemed indifferent to her presence, but as he opened a small door in the rough bark, he turned to look at her.

"Coming?"

The question hung like a ripe acorn and made Sally's fur bristle, but she nodded and followed Brogan into the dim light of his apartment. He indicated a chair, and she sat down, waiting patiently as he retrieved a small box from a chest of drawers. Brogan rolled with a quiet, confident ease, and soon the sweetly scented smell of smoke began to drift out a window. He offered the joint, and she took it, letting her guard down as the vapour filled her lungs and the tendrils of THC crept up the back of her head.

Sally spoke first. "Seven days."

"Not equable enough to wait for the reports tomorrow? Yes, I suppose seven days is longer than even I expected. But I thought it would lend a little more.....gravitas....to my story."

"And the Dray believed you without question?"

"Of course they did! It's not just the kids who wonder if I'm immortal these days."

Sally's gaze once again fell on Brogan's half-tail. They'd all seen the Talon take him years ago, and his reappearance five days later had firmly entrenched him within clan mythology.

"And they agreed? They are to go into hiding?"

"For their own safety, of course." Brogan laughed, the tone sharp as a blade. "Tomorrow, everything changes my dearest Sally. Everything changes."

************

You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan Designed and directed by his Red Right Hand

More Tales From The Machine, or, At Luke's Bidding

2006-11-09T11:14:00.000Z

Her tattoo was a slow, elegant waltz. It stirred languidly from the nape of her neck, and flowed over the curve of her shoulder, following her spine to the sacrum. As her sleeping form shifted, the ink caught the dawn light creeping through the shutters and shimmered like scales.

The intricacy of the design whispered of deliberate hours of pain, a masochistic bent that appealed to Luke. On some level, she must have been aware that he was watching; they all were. He exhaled softly onto the part of her ankle left exposed by the sable sheets, the taut skin prickling in response. Luke imagined the nervous system reacting as a glassy lake would a fallen feather, sending ripples through her. It may not have been enough to wake her, but he knew her dreams would take a sudden shift. Seconds later, he saw his thoughts echoed in the slight parting of her lips, and the sound of pale thighs rubbing beneath dusky cotton.

There was no logical reason why he should prefer titian to blonde, flawed to flawless. The outcome was always the same. And yet this figure roused him, as with the faint tingle of an amputated limb. Androgyny was certainly no blessing. Luke began pacing at the foot of the bed, the tips of his fingers touching in perfect geometry. Nubilous eyes took in the contents of the bedroom, strange trinkets and meanings that proved elusive. He was mildly puzzled at the lack of wall ornaments; a singular painting hung above the bed, a mess of colour that could have been a landscape, or perhaps a frustrated effort to mimic emotion. On the nightstand, a colourless photo of a city skyline like needles to space, a city that seemed somehow sad. She'd left the hi-fi on, the speakers efflorescing a low, throbbing beat into the silence between them. Luke moved toward the velvet shape of her head on the pillow, gliding his fingers along undeviating legs to her back, cupping her toward him.

He folded into her like water to a vessel, his lips on hers the rich, dark taste of coffee. Her skin burnt against his, and her eyes flashed open. But not startled; rapt. And though the sheets began to turn to ash, Luke could feel her legs lock around him.

After all, he was no Angel.

Tales From The Machine, or, Embellishments on a Theme

2006-11-08T12:55:00.000Z

Her name was Katrina.

Did I love her because she was the girl next door and I was 6 years old, or did I love her because all I can recall of her now is dark hair and dark eyes.

We lived on the most idyllic street you could possibly imagine, all perfect suburban houses and happy neighbours, blue skies and leafy avenues. I lived next to her, and she lived next to an open expanse of grass and trees and childhood dreams. It wasn't a field; not a park nor a meadow. It was wilder than that. At first, your feet may find short grass, perhaps a forlorn looking sapling, but then the ground would dip and curve and you'd now tread ground more Mythago Wood than Enid Blyton. It was the strangest of feelings to be amongst those trees, knowing that you were in a neighborhood as far removed from danger or darkness as blood is from stone, yet to feel that creeping sense of unease that doesn't so much scare us as it fuels our imaginations. The stronger the memory of it grows within my mind, the more difficult it is for me to describe. Perhaps I will take a photograph of it one day, and then you will understand.

Katrina was from that place. Or at least, her spirit was. In streets littered with successful businessmen, gleaming cars and trophy wives, it was as if she existed there as part of a time left behind, something feral and free. We were close, I think. I can no longer tell the difference between what was real and what I choose, or hope, to have been real. But I have vivid images of her house, her family, the bathroom window I jumped from, almost breaking my ankle..........why I jumped I have no idea, but she always had a way of making me take paths I would never have chosen alone. Yes, we were close.

And then my family moved, and I was 16 when I saw her again. Her family had been ripped apart by a truck that jumped a traffic light, killing her two sisters and putting her in hospital for a month. Our mothers had kept in contact, and a week or so after Katrina was released from hospital, I accompanied my mother on a visit to their house (they had also since moved). Not having spoken to her for almost ten years, I know my reasons for going with were not as noble as they should have been. As badly as I felt for the tragedy that befell them, I went not to join in mourning, but to see whether she might match the young woman that I had seen her grow into, in my mind. And outwardly, she did. Lithe and jagged, even now I remember the flutter of nerves that passed through me at the sight of her. She was everything I had been told was beautiful. And I nurtured the ridiculous notion that the bond we had once shared would be conjured again the second we locked eyes. We talked, and talked well. I did glimpse the remnants of that bond, but it was never the right time for anything to happen between us. Her hair was still dark, but her eyes were no longer lit by irreverence, only by the fragments of sunlight seeping through the patio doors. Whether that irreverence had been tamed by age or by circumstance, mattered not. What mattered was that I missed it. And it made me wonder, was it her, or the peculiarity of that wooded playground that bled into my thoughts. I have never seen her since.

I think I've stumbled across the best way of describing that place and that time. One of the few other recollections I have from back then, is a dream I had. In the dream, I awoke in my bed, slowly pressed back the covers and examined my bedroom. Against a wall at the foot of the bed was a wooden toy box, and standing in front of the box at almost the same height, was a creature. I remember being neither awe struck, nor racked with fear, just confused as to whether I was still dreaming or not. The creature looked like something from a Maurice Sendak book, and though the thought only just occurs to me now, it looked as if it might well have lived in the woods next-door.

Now, I sit with a riddle that I doubt I will ever solve. Was there something inside me that those woods awoke, something that made me happier playing beneath grey skies rather than blue? Was I engineered with an affinity for the parts of life that tend to hide under rocks or scurry through puddles when the rain thunders down? Or do I gravitate toward the kinds of music and literature that I do, simply because it returns me to a time shot through with that elusive combination of yearning, hope and filigree.

I drove past our old house on Sunday morning. I left home earlier than I realised, and was left with a few minutes before the grocery store opened. The house is on the way, so I took a slight detour, and saw it for the first time in many years. I still can't believe how little anything has changed. We live in a country that has changed more in ten years than many nations do in 100, and yet certain suburbs remain untouched. I drove past the woods, half expecting to see something wild spying out from the cover of my frondescent memories.

And you know what? I think I just might have.

Mr. Ten Miles

2006-11-07T19:41:00.000Z

Please would you write a story for us all now?

No one wants advice - only corroboration. ~John Steinbeck

2006-10-19T10:39:00.000Z

Let's talk advice for a spell. And by that I mean, let's talk about advice, I'm not actually requesting any for magical purposes, although I can think of a few spells that may come in handy right about now. Like one that converts crying into carefully worded archaic English. That would be both useful and rather amusing.

But I digress.

Advice first reared it's deceptively pretty head in the 9 months that preceded Cadence's birth. At that stage, it was more like catching a glimpse of Paris Hilton's face on People in the magazine rack of the local grocery store checkout. It's there, it's mildly irritating and you have no idea why, but everyone seems to think it's the best thing since sliced bread. And please don't erroneously deduce that I'm calling Ms Hilton pretty. I've had sandwiches that have satisfied me in ways Ms Hilton never could. Interpret that line any way you want!

And then, for the first few days of her young life, advice disappeared. Apparently, this was a pupation, a period in which advice was preparing for rebirth as a hydra-derivative; multi-headed and a lot more dangerous than you could ever imagine.

But I have studied, and learnt, and now I'd like to share with you the knowledge that I have acquired, so you may be able to see through it's many disguises.

Let's begin with the first head, that of good intentions. Despite all my extensive investigation, I am still unsure as to whether this is the most insidious of it's forms. Now, the problem with this kind of advice is the source. More often than not, it comes from family members and friends, and has a genuine interest in alleviating burdens. Yet somehow, the advice proves to be useless, and you are left with the unenviable task of explaining why you've chosen to ignore said advice. But I think I have discovered why this type of advice somehow becomes polluted. It starts out in the mind of the advisor as something pure, but at some point in the delivery process the memories of the experiences that equipped them with their stockpile of advice, become a little overwhelming, and they forget that the best advice should always be suited to the advisee. And so instead, the advice becomes simply a rehashing of the advisor's life story, and relevance does an Arthur Dent* out the window.

Example: "When X was born, we struggled with J,K & L. Maybe you should have Cadence checked out for those."

Well, thanks, but a) X is a boy, b)X was born 30 years ago and medical science has had a few developments here and there since then, and c) we're not struggling with J, K or yes, even L.

Next we have what I like to call VD** advice. This too is a rather nasty strain, as it somehow both manages to ignore relevance and identity. Lucifer himself could be minding his own business, shopping with his 3-week old son Bob, and he would be cornered somewhere between Fruit & Veg and Sanitary Wear by Mavis from No.32, dispensing her entire arsenal in one fell swoop. Lucifer's eyes could blaze with the tortured souls of a thousand damned serial killers, and Bob could shoot flames from his nostrils, yet Mavis would carry on oblivious. It's all about the opportunity to give advice, and nothing more.

The only positive is this; since this strain tends to manifest itself in complete strangers, churchgoers etc, it is possible to avoid encounters completely. Yay team.

I kind of admire the next type, as it must require a lot of hard work and skills in the art of gathering covert information that rival anything the CIA can come up with. What is it? Why, conflicting advice, that's what. This is characterised as follows: conflicting advice always comes after. When? After. And it must adhere to a very strict time period. It may seem to be conflicting a week later, but by then the original piece of advice has either proved to be of use or completely useless, so there is no conflict after all. Thus, the time period MUST be within 24 hours of the original advice. This allows for maximum confusion and exhaustive damage to any routine you may have established. It makes no difference whether you receive advice in front of a thousand people, or on a secure line in a bunker set 20 feet below the surface somewhere off the coast of Malawi, within minutes these people will not only have traced the conversation, but also developed their 'anti-virus virus'.....and most dangerously of all, managed to make it sound convincing and rational. Fortunately, this group too are easily identifiable, as they usually work in the medical profession, or have some association with it.

Then we have advice of the steamrolling variety. Any suggestions for a classificational name would be welcome. This is a fairly harmless strain, as long as one keeps in mind the following: if the person sounds extremely confident that the advice they are dispensing will work, it won't. They will repeat themselves to an excessive degree, and will stop just short of following you home to see if you put their words in to practice properly. Be strong, be firm, and you can see off this threat without diminishing your already shallow reserves of patience.

And finally, we have the rarest of guises. Good advice. Should you come across this at any stage of your life, count yourself lucky. You have witnessed something seen less often then Halley's Comet. It tends to be humble in nature, compassionate, relevant, measured....and seems to always come from the people you would expect. And always when it's actually asked for.

So to all of you who've allowed me to see Halley's Comet more than once in the last two months, you have my gratitude.

To the rest of you......leave me alone!

And thanks to Kyknoord for planting the seeds of this post, and who also happens to be a pretty damn reliable source of advice. Whether this is an indication of some sort of deep vein of wisdom, or the kind of 'accident of convenience' that birthed the earth, is anyone's guess!

* fly

** as in, a certain disease of the mouth......

Following the On-pack Guidelines....

2006-09-26T11:04:00.000Z

The night before is a very surreal sweep of dark skies and lamplight in my memory. The knowledge that morning will change everything is the perfect ingredient for a restless night, like taking your imagination on a trip to Disneyland. And talk of rollercoasters is perhaps apt for what was to come, as we checked in to the hospital at 6am on the morning of September 5th. Contractions had knocked politely the previous Sunday, but disliked the welcome we provided and so abated by the evening. That, coupled with the fact that she was now over her due date and that the amount of amniotic fluid was concerning, lead to a collective decision to induce. So a 6am check-in, a 7am induction, and by 8am contractions had started. And so we waited, her with a selection of numbing television channels, me with a copy of Stephenson's Quicksilver. We'd both decided fairly early on in the pregnancy that she would try to go as far as possible without pain relief; or more accurately, she'd decided and I'd agreed to support her. By the time we hit 2pm, contractions were frequent and increasing in strength, but she'd only dilated 1cm. So the gynae ruptured her membranes in an attempt to speed things up. We were warned that the whole process of induction does tend to produce a longer and more painful labour, and I had been preoccupied with wondering how I would cope seeing her in pain, and as much as she may say that I helped her to breathe through the pain and to keep her calm, it was seeing how she coped with the pain that kept me sane. I'd always known that she has a fairly high pain threshold and a singular determination, but those moments transcend words, and without being overly dramatic, it felt as if our whole relationship was being redefined. And I suppose it was. Four hours passed and 6pm loomed, and another examination revealed that she'd only dilated another cm, to make a total of 2 cm. And little madame had decided to put her hand on her head, a truly excellent means of blocking her path through the cervix, and to freedom. She seemed quite determined to stay right where she was. So now we were faced with the decision, to rather opt for a c-section, or to wait longer to see if anything changed. Our gynae and the nurses who had been attending to us advised that given another 3 or 4 hours, chances were slim that anything would change. We discussed it for 10 minutes or so, but admittedly for me the choice was an easy one. It may well have been inspiring to see how well she'd been coping with the pain, but it was still not pleasant. By 7:50 pm the theatre had been prepared and the various medical staff notified. I found myself in the changing room, and I'd like to say that changing into scrubs was in someway metaphorical for 'donning' the uniform of fatherhood, but by that stage I was too tired and overwhelmed to be thinking anything. We'd discussed the possibility of a c-section before, but I'd never quite decided whether I would watch at any point, or simply hide alongside Mrs Tenmiles behind the curtain, yet by the time I walked into the theatre, the only place to be was alongside her. As they were about to pull her out, the doctor asked if I wanted to see the head, and I did, but the strange thing is I have no recollection of that image. And so at 8:24pm, Cadence exercised her lungs, and that will no doubt be the one and only time I'll be glad to hear her wail! Was it a monumental moment, certainly. Was I struck by a wave of emotion? Truthfully, no. I was happy, yes, but I don't think the mind can properly conceive of what had just taken place. And there wasn't much time for that either, as a blur of measurements and tests were done. I only really 'came to' a few minutes later when I had this soft, warm life on my chest. And even then, I was trying to protect the integrity of my nipples more than anything else! I'm still not quite certain of the science behind the rooting instinct, but believe me, it's there and it's strong! Three weeks later, and I still haven't had that 'one, defining moment when tears can't be controlled' that I'm apparently supposed to have. There have, however, been a multitude of tiny moments, when I marvel at her, fall more in love with her, become more aware of her. And if you ask me, those moments seem to be the important ones to me. So what is she like? Well, for the most part she seems content, she sleeps well although feeding, though not difficult, has been problematic. She has the most beautiful blue eyes, and she likes to hear me sing from The Nightmare Before Christmas, and she falls asleep to Sigur Ros better than to Baby Mozart. And she's inquisitive and she stretches after a sleep like some lithe feline. And she smells better then I ever thought possible. And leaving her this morning for my first day back at work was as hard as everyone said it would be. We chose her names not only for their musical connotations, but also for their implication that she is an expression of our love. And I've caught myself so many times in the last week gazing at her mother in awe, and I know that various chemical and instinctive processes explain why I feel more in love with her now then ever before, but goddammit, I am. I don't quite know how I managed it, but I am blessed beyond the realms of what is possible to have these two women in my life.

2006-09-07T20:20:00.000Z

Joy unbound

2006-09-06T04:56:00.000Z

Will post pics and details a little later, but just to share with you all the wonderful news. At 8:24pm, September 5th, Cadence Madrigal was born. Mother and daughter are both healthy and doing very well. Thank you all for your encouragement and wishes over the past months, you have no idea how incredible it is to share this news with all of you, and how much it means to me to be able to share the experience with you. Much love from the three of us. (ps, comment moderation has been enabled, so don't panic if you don't see your message!)

Goings on

2006-08-28T10:41:00.000Z

An update or two, and a story. I know it's been a while since I've posted a baby update, and that's mainly as I did not want to flood you with baby-related tales as that's more than likely all that I'll be posting about when she's born. But just to let you know, she's due officially on Monday, but may arrive at any stage. It has been a frustrating few weeks as we both long to hold her, but as a good friend reminded me, she's "entering the world like so many good piano concertos -- long and slow." You'll all know as soon as I do! In other happenings, Jason is running another short fiction competition (here are the rules if you still want to enter). I've mailed my entry and will update this post as soon as he lists it, but I thought you may find it interesting to read the first draft, which was way over the word limitation, and compare it with the final version. I'd be interested in your feedback. **UPDATE** Here's the link to the story - Heads or Tales ********************** Heads or Tales It began, as these things often do, with the toss of a coin. Which led to the flow of drink. Which would normally be the scapegoat for a story like this, but in truth, the coin really is to blame. Not just any coin however, but a silver dollar that hung for what seemed an age at it's arc, and lit by the lanterned streets glistened as big as the moon in a moonless sky. Still, at some point all things revert to their true nature, and so the silver dollar tumbled back into the palm of it's owner. Strangely delicate fingers closed over it, a flick of the wrist, and an etched face leered up from the back of his left hand. "Heads." It should be impossible to guess as to the decision just made, but the lilting voice and roguish appearance suggested tomfoolery was the essence of it. Two hours later, Hellion Winters stood in the alley behind the hotel bar, pleasantly warmed by three recently consumed brandies, none of which seemed to take the edge off. A few paces away, the barrel of a gun was supported in midair by the arm of an anonymous man. Anonymous purely because his name has no relevance to this tale, only that his ears still rang with the laughter of his fellow dipsomaniacs, his embarrassment still flushed pale cheeks. He'd feel much improved as soon as he lodged a bullet in the forehead of this trickster. Trigger clicked, physics and chemistry performed their roles with aplomb, yet the satisfying trickle of blood he was hoping for was somehow, disastrously, missing. It never got old, that look of utter confusion. Hellion stepped over the crumpled figure with it's head at an impossible angle, and felt a slight tingle as his body broke down and absorbed the lead embedded in his skull. He really should remember that humans had not had 7000 years to formulate a sense of humour. If they'd told him that after millennia, immortality was only useful for the occasional cheap thrill, he may not have been so eager. He drew his coat tighter around him, whilst in its pocket, two silver faces broke into grins.

If I Were A Weapon

2006-08-21T08:46:00.000Z

It can take a lifetime to find love, joy, contentment. But it takes a heartbeat to feel beaten, disconsolate or without hope. These days we've been seeing the disfigured face of injustice and malfeasance so often, that it's difficult not to think of him as part of the family. We operate on standby, on autopilot; each day our lung capacity pushed to the limit as we struggle to breathe beneath the deluge. Sometimes the only thing giving us strength is the man saying "God will never place on your shoulders a burden you can't carry", and the many ways we imagine torturing the smug bastard with a bottle cap and an elastic band. Yes, there are good days. And some of us, for reasons we'll never understand, have more of them than we deserve. But for the most part, it's as if those days have been wandering in the desert, and by the time they finally reach their destination, they barely have the energy to hang around for longer than a few days. And whether it's the fallout of a relationship ended, the difficulties of being a single parent or the indentation in your forehead from a door that is constantly being slammed shut in your face, there is an endless supply of sage advice. Everyone who has never had to endure the same, has an answer. In the avalanche of self-help books and talk-show hosts, we lift our hands in supplication and cry out "Alright, alright! I'm cured! Whoopdedo!", not because we are, but because no one likes to fail and maybe it will get them to shut up for a few hours. Universal Truths and Spiritual Awakenings and Catchy Slogans. We're quick to point out that we are all individuals, yet our problems are generalized and dissected into neat little segments. It's our abusive fathers or our absent mothers; as soon as we can box the problem, we can then apply our neatly packaged answers. PYSCH101, if patient reveals having witnessed mother kill father after father hit mother, refer to Chapter 23, Subsection 2.3, Paragraph 4. Thank you, have a nice day. Universal Truths. Anyone able to give me an example of one not based in cynicism? How about Love Conquers All? Funny, all I seem to remember is that love hurts worse than a thousand fires from hell. But who the hell am I? What right do I have to disagree with doctors and psychiatrists and, well, let's throw Oprah in that list (we all know she's dying to be there) too? We are all unique, and so are the thousands of issues that we all have to deal with on a daily basis. And we all deserve to have our problems recognised on an individual basis. And perhaps, just maybe, if we take the time to deal with each other on a personal level, without expectations or ulterior motives, and above all things with compassion, we may find that the idiot going on about God and his burdens has left out one important piece of information. God will never place on your shoulders a burden that we can't carry, together. If you feel helpless in the travesty that is a Minister of Health engaged in a blind campaign that can only lead to the deaths of thousands. If you feel exasperated in the absurdity of governments and presidents insistent on bathing in the blood of their people. If you woke up this morning and the shadow of the day to come had its fingers around your throat. If you are facing anything that seems so much larger than you, I offer this as encouragement. Excuse me If I may Turn your attention My way One moment I won't plead It isn't much It's what I need And what's so small to you Is so large to me If it's the last thing I do I'll make you see If you turn from me You darken my sun You snap that thin thread I call my horizon And I'd like to remind you Of something small That the rock in this pocket Could cause your fall And what's so small to you Is so large to me If it's the last thing I do I'll make you see I might be out like a light Extinguished in the throw But I'll hit my mark And you'll know Because I'm really well acquainted With the span of your brow And if you didn't know me then You'll know me now You'll know me now So small to you And so large to me If it's the last thing I do I'll make you see Make you see Make you see Here's hoping your rock flies true. Suzanne Vega - Rock In This Pocket (Song of David)

Ping of death......

2006-08-16T06:15:00.000Z

So, Apple have directed their bottomless resources to trademark the word 'pod'. Or at least, that seems a reasonable deduction to make from various articles doing the rounds, such as this and this. There is even.......wait for it.....a letter! But I suggest, for reasons of maintaining acceptable levels of sanity, you don't read it. I'm guessing opposing forces are at this moment meeting in a secret location to discuss a retaliation. Heading up the rebellion I'm sure will be the Prince of Darkness, although he'll have to earn the respect of other members as his track record when it comes to uprisings is not too complimentary. I hear he's keen on using proper orthogonal decomposition as a basis for the attack, but the others prefer Plain Old Documentation. There have also been suggestions for the usage of Protective Oceanic Devices, since Apple do seem to have grown fins and razor sharp teeth. So now I'm wondering, how quickly will Branson follow suit and look to trademark 'virgin'? And when he does, because we all know if he does he'll succeed, what are we now to sacrifice to dragons and giants?

Algorhythms

2006-08-15T09:02:00.000Z

Tagged by Nome, feel free to tag yourselves. The rules are as follows: Post your top ten artists, the first song you heard by them, the one that made you fall in love with them, and your current favorite. This is an almost impossible meme to answer, so I'll change the criteria slightly by limiting the selection to say, favourite bands of the 90's of whom I own more than one album, with one or two contemporary bands thrown into the mix. So expect to see nothing out of the ordinary, and for those who know me, not many surprises. In no particular order: 1) Radiohead First song: Creep (kinda hard to miss at the time, don't you think?) Made me fall in love: Nice Dream (from The Bends. It's not the obvious choice, but there's something about the flow and the intro, something beyond magical) Current favourite: Harrowdown Hill (from Thom Yorke's sole album, but don't get technical, okay?) 2) Oceansize First song: Catalyst (It was playing on the radio as the house caught fire and burnt down around me, and I didn't even notice. Okay, that's not quite true, but it made me sit up and take note in a way that few songs have) Made me fall in love: Catalyst Current favourite: You Can't Keep A Bad Man Down (the best album closer ever. Except that it's not even the last song on the album) 3) Cocteau Twins First song: Wax & Wane Made me fall in love: Amelia (from the album Treasure. Bought in a small cd store in Port Elizabeth many years ago, and seems to have become imbued with the strange timelessness that, for anyone who's ever lived there, hangs over the town like a thick mist.) Current favourite: Anything from Victorialand. (I've gone on and on about this album before, but it really is a collection of the most exquisite music you will ever hear) 4) Curve First song: Missing Link (First track off the Cuckoo album. But probably my least favourite track on the album) Made me fall in love: Crystal (I remember listening to the album at the cd store, on a whim. The first track was interesting, but nothing special. Then the bassline in Crystal drilled through my head and that was it.) Current favourite: The Colour Hurts (Toni Halliday broods like no one else on earth) 5) Bauhaus First song: Hair of the Dog Made me fall in love: Bela Lugosi's Dead (yes, yes, I know. But I was young, so give me a break) Current favourite: Mask (although as I'm sure with other Bauhaus fans, this changes more often than for most other bands) 6) The Digable Planets First song: Rebirth of Slick Made me fall in love: Agent 7 Creamy Spy Theme: Dial 7 (Axioms Of Creamy Spies) Current favourite: None (since both my Planets albums were stolen, along with almost half of my cd collection, in the Great Lung Heist of 1996. I say 'Lung', because they may as well have stolen one.) 7) My Bloody Valentine First song: You Never Should Made me fall in love: Only Shallow Current favourite: Soon (my Loveless album was also nabbed in the '96 Heist, but I have sinced reclaimed it. MBV's music always affects me in a way that nothing else does, almost as if there is some hidden and undiscovered organ within me that only responds to that particular sound. Like Joy Division or Slowdive, and more recently Serena Maneesh or The Meeting Places) 8) Soundgarden First song: Rusty Cage Made me fall in love: Searching With My Good Eye Closed Current favourite: Fresh Tendrils (from Superunknown. As good as Badmotorfinger was, Superunknown changed the rules. I know Luke will slaughter me for passing over Bleach, although technically it was released in 1989, but Superunknown was for me THE album of the 90's. There were perhaps better songs, better bands, more original music; but nothing came together as well as that album did. It was like sending probes to Mars for years, and then suddenly within a month Mars is colonized and thriving.) 9) Suzanne Vega First song: Marlene on the Wall Made me fall in love: 99.9 Degrees Fahrenheit (from the album 99.9 F°, which is probably my favourite. There are few records whose cover art are perfect representations of what's inside., but this is one. Slightly cynical, experimental, smart and unpretentious) Current favourite: Tombstone 10) Future Sound of London/The Orb First song: first FSOL was Cascade , and first Orb song was Little Fluffy Clouds Made me fall in love: as above. Despite the fact that I tend to loathe the songs that make bands famous, as they tend to be the only songs that people will remember and in most instances have been played to death. Especially Little Fluffy Clouds. I could listen to that on endless repeat and never get bored.) Current favourite: FSOL - Her Face Forms In Summertime (from the album Dead Cities. If you are even just a smidge curious about electronica and the explosive potential it has, you MUST either own Dead Cities or Lifeforms. Besides, anyone smart enough to sample Diamanda Galas must be investigated ) The Orb - Oxbow Lakes (from the album Orbus Terrarum. Trippy. No, really.)

Weather with you.

2006-08-08T09:46:00.000Z

Had a particularly weird dream last night. You were in it. We were talking about S, and you said something that struck me at the time as being tragically honest. You said, "You know what? It's like we're living in different weather systems."

And I said, "That sounds like a story." And I wrote down three lines before the alarm woke me up. It was like listening to dying in reverse, a faint tinkling noise that hurried to a cacophony, and the light rushing in.

So anyway, here's the rest of the story.

********

Habit is folly's messenger boy. I wake up, stammer across the carpet to the window and part the curtains. It's raining. It has been for as long as I can remember, for so long that sunshine is only a myth. Like a golden fleece, or a fountain of youth. No one I know has seen it, no one alive, no one dead for a hundred years. So why do I look? Perhaps it is not so much habit as it is hope. And where hope arrives, madness is sure to follow. A loss of sanity seems the only explanation for my dreams, for the image of you. Could that truly be what it looks like? A light that catches your hair on fire, that makes your pale skin glimmer. I'm never sure if it's this light that warms me, of if it's your presence. You cannot be an invention, a delusion of my own mind. I lack the depths to conjure such a soul, such life and laughter and such fierce, bright love. I've asked a thousand times why you visit me, but the merest glimpse of sadness in your eyes is enough to make the question dissipate in the sunlight.

At least, I think it's sunlight. How would I know? As I make my way down the stairs of the apartment block, all I can see is this liquid tapestry, beating a tattoo against the dark asphalt that is my heart. ~~~~~~~~~

Why do dreams breach the bounds of time? Someone explained it to me once, but it's one of those explanations you forget as soon as you have heard it. We spoke again last night, though speaking is at once a miserable descriptive and a joy that seems not meant for us. Are words spoken in a dream spoken at all? Whatever it is or was, it consumed us and our chimeric days, and made me fear waking more than death. But I do wake, the fabric of the curtains finally acceding to an always victorious sun. There is a quiet rumble from outside as thousands of air conditioners kick into life; the noise seeps through concrete and steel and whispers relief. But nothing will cool me like your touch, the sun could never spread itself inside of me, like you do. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to recall where you kissed me, and how and was it the roughness of your hands or the rain that made my skin prickle and blaze. I see in the mirror, behind me and through the window, already the haze makes the city look nervous. The last vestiges or your visit wash away in the basin with the sleep from my eyes, replaced by questions of breakfast and traffic and paperwork. Habit is survival's forgotten lover.

It's always about me.....

2006-07-24T12:52:00.000Z

Fence tagged me, apparently for no reason other than that she could.

I am thinking about… whether the ease with which it is possible to make and record music, has left us in a decade where there will never be a band that shakes the foundation of the music it's built upon, as has occurred for the past 60 years.

I said… "Not today, thanks." On being asked if I wanted to play indoor soccer with some colleagues during lunch on one of the vacant floors in our building.

I want to… actually read all 6 of the books I borrowed from the library before the return date. This would be a substantial change from the norm.

I wish… for R20,000. Hey, winning the lotto would be great, but I figure if I wish for something a little less grandiose, there's a better chance it might happen. Besides, I wouldn't know what to do with millions, whereas R20,000..........

I hear… The Duke Spirit - Cuts Across The Land

I wonder… what we're going to deal with in antenatal classes tonight. And whether the instructor will break her current record of using the word 'f**k' 12 times in a session.

I regret… having eaten my last banana. I'm still hungry, it's an age until supper and the guy who sells junk food on the 7th floor must be putting 12 children through college for the amount he charges for a chocolate.

I am… trying to spend as much time possible answering this meme in the hope that the rather alarming pile of work to my left will somehow magically disappear.

I dance… rarely. To my wife's despair.

I sing… in the car. And sometimes backing vocals. But not in ages.

I cry… more than likely in about 6 weeks time.

I am not always… this good-looking.

I make with my hands… shadow creatures on the bedroom ceiling. Again, despairing wife.

I write… in the shower. Not with a water-proof pen or anything, but in my head. The idea for the novel I'm working on, the idea for Icarus Falls (hangs head in shame) and much of what makes an appearance here. Until the hot water runs out. Yep, you guessed it. Despairing wife.

I confuse… socks, rarely. Right from left, never. But pretty much everything else.

I need… A banana. Or R20,000. Or something to bribe the junk-food guy with. Like maybe a banana, or R20,000.

And finally… when you find yourself in the kitchen, with one foot on a counter, pregnancy guide in your left hand and your right hand attempting to indicate to your wife how one would massage the perineum, always ensure that the kitchen curtains are closed. This would negate all awkwardness the next time you bump in to your neighbour. And just for the record, I was clothed at the time. You bunch of sickos.

And I think I've done enough embarrassing for one day, so I won't tag anyone else.

Be careful what you wish for.....

2006-07-24T08:08:00.000Z

Do not read this book. It is a dangerous book. One that requires a steel gut and at least a lifetime's flirtation with the kind of humour that got Lenny locked up.

It flows in that particularly wicked way, like an anonymous look in a crowded bar that has your mind dragging on a post-coital cigarette before your eyes can even contemplate infidelity. You've read his previous novels, you think you know what to expect, but by page ten the waters are closing in over your head, and you've resigned yourself to the cool detachment that can only come with death. The words on the page, however, are clearly alive. They feed off the darkness inside of you, amplify your growing distrust for humanity. What love you may once have had is now only of the kind laced with pity. Like a child with 3rd degree burns. Everyone feels sorry for it, but no one wants anything to do with it.

A voice from the back of your mind keeps trying to convince you that this is satirical. These events are hyperbole in the extreme, a carefully fashioned blade to cut us from the depths of our slumber. This is hyper-real, it whispers. Nothing like this actually happens. These are urban myths, as dictated by a malevolent reincarnation of Poe. So you close the book and switch on the tv, desperately needing that brand of mindless respite that only television can bring.

And after only 20 minutes, you realise that the book is right. Its stories may not have happened yet, but they will. The absurdity of celebrity will create gods, pop will eat itself. The most quickly evolving human accomplishments originate not from technology or art, but from the depths of our perversion and depravity. Suddenly it's as if the only truth is staring up at you from where you left it on the floor. You start reading it again, and the hallucinations start. You see these characters embodied in those around you, and worse, embodied in yourself. You try to stop yourself from thinking, lest you betray that last notion of righteousness you cling to so tightly. You are a seal in an oil slick, a dolphin in a shark net. The more you struggle, the more entangled you become. The truth will not set you free, it will imprison you.

There is nothing clever about this book. No inspiring conclusion, no bright horizon, no triumph of the human spirit. No twist ending, nor break-through idea or debatable philosophy. It simply gives us a window through which to watch our own autopsy. Our bodies sliced expertly down the middle, every organ tagged and bagged. Can't you feel that? The cold from the slab reaching tendrils through your bones?

No, friends, this author is a madman. He is sick and twisted and must surely be alone. That must be it. And so I cannot reveal his indentity or his works. Should his words spread to any more eyes and ears, we run the risk of finding him sane.

Do not adjust your set ...

2006-07-21T10:40:00.000Z

People, I have been exhorting one FM for most of this week to write summat. I don't know about you lot but I'm tired of 'refreshing the page'. Anyway, hopefully this wee post will give him the impetus he so needs. (note: and ... I so needed an excuse to raid his space/blog) :) The ever-confused Luke

25 lines

2006-07-11T14:53:00.000Z

Saw Ninemoons, cursed for missing Fence's, and lastly saw that Alan had too. So I thought I might. Rules are as follows. Put your iPod (or variant thereof) on random play, then post the first line of the first 25 songs that pop up (discarding any really obvious ones where the title is in the first line, and only using the first one by each different artist), then everyone gets to guess what songs (and artists) they are. List is slightly edited, as there wouldn't be much point of listing completely obscure artists. The whole point is that you're supposed to get them, isn't it? So, here goes: 1. I hope that our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us 2. Who are you to wave your finger? 3. You are my sweetest downfall 4. Never stop the car on a drive in the dark 5. Everyone gather round now, sing us a song, just in case by tomorrow, it happens he's gone 6. Every time we do this, I fall for her 7. No one has said what the truth should be, and no one decided that I'd feel this way 8. Look at slow motion, asleep at the door 9. Why do I sense, benevolence (Alan's out of the blocks, with Skunk Anansie's Charity 10. We're rotten fruit, we're damaged goods (Alan again, Radiohead and Backdrifts 11. (love) love is a verb (Fence got Massive Attack's Teardrop 12. Hung up and bent on a stranger, just trying to swing a full-time ride 13. I felt the earth on Monday, it moved beneath my feet 14. She came all the way from America, she had a blind date with Destiny 15. With a wink from a starlet's eye, a string of pearls come to life 16. I'm gonna drink my whiskey, I'm gonna have my man, I know you got nothing to say 17. I hate to do this, but you're a pain in the neck (Cardboardjudas is right, Beck's Cancelled Cheque) 18. Do you recall its name as it suggested beck and call 19. [spoken] "Now let's you just drop them pants....." 20. My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde 21. Always looking for attention, always needs to be mentioned 22. Found a way to rid myself clean of pain and the fever that's been haunting me 23. Well it's about time, it's beginning to hurt 24. Are you, my lady, are you? 25. The more that we take, the paler we get Well then, have a go! (0h, and I've enabled comment moderation. Spam was becoming ridiculous)

Drawn!

2006-07-07T11:40:00.000Z

If you have never visited Drawn! before, please do. And you can sample such delicacies as this, famous movies drawn as Russian folk art (how many can you indentify?), or these chuckle-inducing cartoons, or this simple yet very cool idea, or this delightfully dark and surreal imagery or........ Well, you get the point. Carl, you might like this and this.

Reversals of Fortune

2006-07-06T06:08:00.000Z

This has been a hard week for me. Work has been punctured by mini-upheavals and a sudden influx of business that has seen me burning the midnight oil, a feeling of claustrophobia only exacerbated by the equally sudden illness of a very close friend. Fortunately, he was moved from ICU to the general ward yesterday afternoon, but he will more than likely be on medication now for the rest of his life. We're hoping that the hospital releases him tomorrow, but there are still a few worrying factors, so I would appreciate your keeping him in mind. The fact that his wife is almost 20 weeks pregnant didn't help matters, but she truly is an immensely strong person. I don't know many people who would have coped as well as she has, although she says it was the baby who really helped her. Yet things could have been so much worse, and that relief is accompanied by the slow restoration of sanity in the workplace and the not too distant sound of the weekend approaching at full steam. And then yesterday, the fickle forces of chance led me toward a new and unexpected musical discovery, something which always changes my mood for the better. So this morning I thought it may further improve my disposition to have a question answered, if you feel so inclined. What happy accidents have you experienced lately? Oh, and if you're curious as to the band, well, that's my happy accident. You go find your own. ;~) Or you could just email me........

Midnight Road

2006-06-28T06:36:00.000Z

Jason has been running another short fiction competition. My apologies, as I should have posted about it earlier, but I am quite sure he will run another one soon. There really are some startling, original, clever and well-written entries, so I suggest you take some time to read through them. For those curious, you can find my effort here.

If a quantum falls in the universe.....

2006-06-23T08:49:00.000Z

from Sagittarius and the Penguin, by jenn see

I started this blog for mostly self-serving reasons. That in and of itself is a imperfectly human thing to do. I hoped it would in some sense prove cathartic, and in another be a validation for the belief I had in my writing, which at that time was dangling by the shadow of a thread. If strangers visited and commented and perhaps even mentioned that they liked it, it would be an end to my doubt-tinged procrastination.

I never for one moment expected the remarkable people that I would encounter. Yet I did. And I would find an answer to a question that grows in relevance as the boundaries of the world shrink. Bonds of friendship can transcend the need for physical expression. Communities can rise up from seemingly random bits of binary code. One quickly grows used to the thought of being greeted every week by a smart turn of phrase, a delicious slice of wit, an achingly honest recollection of intensely personal events. If it is possible to laugh together whilst miles apart, I have done that. If it is possible to admire thoughts and ideas as a replication of a person, I have done that. If it is possible to draw inspiration from, hope from, passion from......no, not draw. Be injected with, imbued with, the joy of living of creating of being who we are meant to be, no disguises and no masks. If it is possible to find all these things within a world of pixels and bytes, then I have found that. And not just once, but many times over.

And I never, for one second, imagined that any of these people would one day not be there.

Jenn, I have no idea what made you linger here a moment longer then you might have, and I have no idea what made you return many times, but thank you.

I do know what made me follow some fish, and I know that as much as the truth to be found there, it was the welcome that made me return, and I thank you.

For Mysfit, for Oldben and for your family, I can find a sliver of hope in the knowledge that because you were such a....well, because you were, the ones you loved will find a way through this.

When I found out that my wife and I would be having a little girl, and as we find ourselves so close to seeing another life enter this world, I have a thought that passed through my mind months back, and that passes through my mind now. I don't know how appropriate a thought it is, just that it is a true one. And smiling when I think of your penchant for revealing yourself to us as a pair of eyes, the thought is this:

If my daughter grows up to have anything resembling the mind behind those eyes, their irrepressible spark and love for life, I would be thankful beyond measure.

I too, wish you peace.

Design flaws travel in groups.....

2006-06-08T12:06:00.000Z

This has been around for a while, and most of you have probably seen it before, but anything that keeps me clicking the refresh button for a solid half hour must be worth sharing.

Further Evil (Advice for the Evil Empress):: Sex is certainly a weapon at my disposal, but then so is a blaster. If it is not clear which weapon I should be using, I will opt for the blaster.

Advice for the Evil Overlord:

If the hero claims he wishes to confess in public or to me personally, I will remind him that a notarized deposition will serve just as well.

Advice for the Hero:

I will employ some manner of surveillance so that when I leave a room and a traitorous comrade gives me the Malicious Scowl or Wicked Leer to my back, I will have ample warning of his impending betrayal.

Advice for the Bad Auxiliary Character (Legion of Doom Troops):

Before performing guard duty, familiarize yourself with the sound of a tossed pebble, and learn to avoid being distracted by it.

Further Evil (Advice for the Evil Empress):

The internet is my friend. Using body doubles, I can inspire loyalty with www.EvilEmpress.boudoir. live.com, fear with www.EvilEmpress.pit-of-despair.live.com, and utter slavish obedience with www.EvilEmpress.strict-discipline.live.com. I can also sell t-shirts and other Evil Empress [tm] merchandise.

Thoughts of a dying atheist

2006-06-06T11:53:00.000Z

The weather did not change that quickly; not even during winter. When they'd started the trail shortly after 12am, the blazing March sun had left shadow's scurrying for cover. Now, a quiet chill had settled along the mountain. Grant hadn't expected to see more than a handful of hikers, as Thursday's were an odd time for hiking, but it was odd that they hadn't seen anyone for almost two hours now.

Granted, Skeleton Gorge wasn't for the faint of heart, yet still he couldn't shake a peculiar sensation, as if the witching hour had badly misjudged it's arrival. He'd read the Earthsea novels, was familiar with the concept of secret names and hidden power; and what a great fictional concept. But the mountain whispered gossamer words to the sea, and as she birthed a thick, swirling mist in answer, Grant found himself wondering just how imagined the concept was.

Thankfully, they were on the way down and he hoped the mist would only prove a hindrance in driving home. It seemed as if they'd barely walked another ten paces, when the mist claimed them both; a playful lover at first, but with intentions too alien to comprehend.

Then, the sound of feet slipping, a petrified scream, and desperate scrabbling as the safety rope attached to Keegan dragged Grant over the edge.

Moonlight prised unwilling eyelids apart. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, three things became numbingly apparent. A piece of his shin bone had sliced through his skin and something sticky pasted his shirt to his side, but he lay on something more sickening then either. Keegan had broken his fall. And his own neck. They...shit, he.....how does one describe two bodies, one alive and one dead? He..........he seemed to be in a deep fissure. Large enough to see a brightly lit sky, and large enough to swallow up his cries for help before they'd even left his lips. Grant should have been in agony, but a part of his brain was convinced this was all a dream, and pain didn't exist in dreams. At least, not the physical kind.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing ferocity, the pain did come. He'd been able to keep it at bay long enough to move away from the body, long enough to strip Keegan of his jacket....but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not the shame, but the fear that if he tried to, Keegan's cold hands would reach out for him. So instead he lay shivering in another corner, laughing at the broken pieces of the cellphone in his hand. Instinct almost got the better of him and he barely managed to stop himself from forming a prayer in his mind. Old habits did not die hard; they just loitered around, waiting to make fun of the weak.

He could hear his mother's voice, warning of a fiery place, happy to welcome him for eternity should he not repent. It wasn't that she'd been unkind or cruel, she genuinely believed she had his best interests at heart. What grated him far more then her constant insistence, was her blunt acceptance in damning the wicked to a ceaseless flame. Did she, did any of them have the slightest concept, a fraction of the ability to conceive of just what eternity meant? Without end. The entire span of history a loose pebble on a mountain.

He felt sleepy, but strangely no longer cold. He knew he should be fighting to stay awake, but could no longer remember why. Grant closed his eyes. After all, it was only forever.

A Pefect Match

2006-06-05T15:19:00.007Z

When she wasn't around, Alfred Grimmer liked to fantasize about the call. Ideally, he'd have passed a fretful hour or two wondering where she was, his nascent concern somewhat quelled by the flickering television.

He'd be scraping the last vestiges of supper(a lasagne or a cottage pie perhaps) into the dustbin, when the phone would ring.

"We're terribly sorry to inform you, Mr Grimmer, that your wife has been killed."

No, wait. He'd be sipping his nightly glass of Merlot, and then the phone. That seemed a better ambience for receiving the news.

So he'd politely thank them for informing him, and with a perfectly rehearsed quiver in his voice, the plan would unfurl. Alfred had been born to play the grieving husband. Where most could only dream of a life as devoid of sorrow as his, Alfred had convinced himself that he required but one, truly tragic moment to be set free. He couldn't be certain of the precise instant he'd decided that moment should revolve around the demise of his wife, as he loved her no less then when he'd first married her, yet somehow it seemed appropriate. It never occurred to him that loving someone and wanting them dead could be seen as a rather obvious conflict of interests; he'd even pronounced in his vows that she was his equal in every way, that she even thought like he did. That was precisely why it had to be her. No one would react in the way he hoped if it wasn't.

Alfred had lived her funeral a hundred times, who would be there, what he'd say to each one. He'd chosen flowers, endlessly debated the right time of day, though he was as yet undecided on the catering for the wake. His eulogy would be moving, tender; it would have just the right touch of humour, yet also conjure the image of a desolate, broken man. Friends would visit for weeks, just to make sure he was okay. Family would suddenly forget the fallouts of the past, and the pity of his enemies would extend for years to come. After seven months and four days (a date far less random then it might appear), he would reappear like a butterfly from a hurricane, stronger then ever before. The world would be at his feet, he would be irresistible. His was a power that could never run dry.....

The phone rang, and the future became as lucid as the black-and-white check of the kitchen floor. Could this be it? A thought that had been screaming at him for the past half-hour finally broke through. Why couldn't he move his legs? Or his arms for that matter? And more importantly, why could he not lift his cheek from the kitchen floor, a floor that now seemed far grayer then he'd thought a moment ago? A shattered glass bled wine a foot or so away from him, and still the phone rang. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt cold and dead. A pair of black high-heels moved across his vision, and the incessant ring was at last interrupted by a voice.

"Why yes Jillian, Alfie's feeling a little under the weather, so it will just be me joining you for drinks tonight."

She really did think like him.

So Dark the Con of Dan........

2006-05-24T16:05:00.000Z

It's ironic, is it not? A year ago, if you hadn't read The Da Vinci Code you were not in tune with the pulse of edgy fiction. Now, if you're not lambasting the film version, you are once again a member of the school chess club, wondering why your school thinks letting 30 boys trying to hit each other with sticks is a healthy example of Physical Education. But maybe that's just me. Except I was a member of the General Knowledge Quiz team. But I digress......

At least, this was the gist of a recent conversation I had with Anne. Of course, both statements are examples of the same disease Dan Brown seems to suffer from............ridiculous exaggeration. I am quite sure that literally millions of people have managed to pass that same year, some chess club members and others on the pulse of edgy fiction, without any knowledge of book or film.

Anyhow, I attempted to approach the film with as much objectivity as possible, but within the first ten minutes I was subjected to a violation so unacceptable, I had to shower three times once I got home. Next time, I'll rather ask a stranger to call me a complete idiot and save myself R20.

I will gladly admit that, having not read the novel, I am not in a position to label Brown as anything. And this is precisely why I decided to go and see the movie. I know that celluloid could never be an accurate yard stick for the quality of a novel it may be based upon, but the key issue for me was not the quality of writing (of which there is much debate), but the story. And, as my movie companion who has read the novel put it, the movie is like a tour of all the major plot points of the book. If you would look to the right, there is Major Exposition, and after tea we will pass by Pointless Character Flashback and Quizzical Female Expression. Everything in the film was pedantically faithful to the novel, yet somehow failed to resemble a coherent story. Ron Howard seems to have been put up on a pedestal as the architect of this horrendous failure. Fans of the novel seem to think he has failed them on some personal level, while detractors laugh at his failure to take what seemed like a sure-thing and somehow contrive to get it wrong.

I may have had one of two technical gripes with the film, but it was quite clear to me that the source matter was riddled with factual errors, gaping plot holes and logical knots that even Descartes could not untangle.

********SPOILER ALERT***********

The first few minutes were probably the best thing about the movie. Robert Langdon is conducting a lecture on the nature of symbols, or more specifically our very human inclinations to misinterpret them. Quite frankly, I could've happily listened to this lecture for an hour, but it was not to be. Instead, I have to witness a clunky murder scene in which a museum curator, separated from his assailant by a steel gate, somehow still manages to get himself shot. Yet the monstrous, hulking and scary albino who is the assailant (none of which Paul Bettany manages to pull off, through no fault of his own) only manages to shoot him in the stomach. This is the 'assassin' who has just offed four other members of the Priory of Scion, yet he doesn't finish off the job? Did he only have one bullet left? But that's not even the kicker. The curator, bleeding profusely from the stomach, through some heady sense of job dedication acquires an invisible marker, runs through the Louvre to write cryptic messages next to works of art, runs back to the scene of the shooting, writes more cryptic messages on the floor, strips naked, draws a pentacle on his torso and lies down to die in a position which recalls a famous Da Vinci sketch.

Now do you understand the need for three showers!?!?! I mean, surely it would have taken less effort to pick up a phone, call Robert Langdon and tell him "I've just been shot, but I've hidden a clue behind a Da Vinci painting..."? Not only does he write clues, but he still has the ability to use anagrams with a bullet in the gut!!!!!!!

This is followed by a few chase scenes, one of which is a result of the Paris police all but abandoning the scene of the crime to chase after a tracking device which our intrepid hero has dropped into a truck from the window of the Louvre, the other which sees Audrey Tatou's character (a police cryptographer) suddenly exhibit her ability to drive a Smart car, in reverse, like a veteran stunt performer. Perhaps I do the Paris Police Training Department a disservice, and all recruits learn how to drive like that when they first enlist.

If you haven't read the book or seen the movie, I apologise, but I'm not going to bore the hell out of you by explaining the 'Great Exposition' scene, deftly handled by Ian McKellan as the knowledgeable Teabing. Suffice to say that apparently, early Christians did not believe in Christ's divinity, Emperor Constantine was behind the manipulation of the Council of Nicea, the Gospel of Philip is evidence of the romantic relationship between Jesus and Mary, the Holy Grail is in fact the body of Mary and that (shockhorror) Mary and Jesus were married and had kids. We are shown Da Vinci's painting of the Last Supper, and are admonished for never noticing that there isn't a Grail on the table, and that one of the figures is clearly a woman. Silly us! How could we never have seen the obvious! I mean, how foolish were we to think that simply because the bible never mentions the Holy Grail and that Da Vinci's painting has nothing to do with the Grail, this means the Grail shouldn't be there? Shame on us for having believed most Da Vinci and fine art experts who say that the female figure is in fact John, and is depicted in a manner which was customary for that time! Thank you Teabing, for revealing to us the truth that the church included the biblical gospels as we know them to manipulate our image of Christ and to further their evil ends, and that thousands of other manuscripts...er...gospels existed that were simply cast aside! The fact that these 'forgotten' gospels number only a handful and that most contradict each other (Gospel of Thomas, anyone?) is irrelevant. Oh, and 2000 odd years is only enough to have one last surviving member of Christ's bloodline. The Holy family obviously didn't like sex much.

But what do I know? Dan Brown must have spent years engaged in serious scholarly research, and I don't even have a degree in Theology or anything.

Oh, shit, that's right. He didn't, and I do.

You've been patient with me thus far, and I thank you, but I won't subject you to this rant for much longer. The rest of the film winds its way through supposedly clever puzzles (APPLE, I mean, for crying out loud), a few more chase scenes (I really needed that extra scene that shows us how they escaped from the police after the plane landed. No, really, the whole time I was wondering 'How'd they do it!'). a close shave with our S&M albino (who perishes in a scene that makes no sense whatsoever) and an empty, safe and wonderfully PC ending. I'd also like to thank the writer for conveniently making all the puzzles in English.

But it's only fiction! Oh really, then what the bloody hell is all the fuss about!?!?!?! But it encourages us to not blindly believe what we're told, to question religion and the nature of things. It does? Oh, so by stating that your book is based on fact is actually a clever ruse and is the very essence of irony. I mean, there are no better sources to base our crisis of faith upon......

I have a theory, a theory as to why so many people who loved the book, hate the movie. All the movie truly does is this; it strips from us the ability to use our imaginations, it reveals the 'barebones' of the story, no fluff, no excess fat or embellishment. People are beginning to realise just how badly they were duped, and now they're pissed off. No one wants to be shown how easily they were taken in.

Why do we have no clues as to what Jesus did with almost 20 years of his life? The most enigmatic, most important historical figure and supposed Son of God, and we only know about a third of his life? Now THERE is an opening for all you Dan Brown wannabes!!!! (and yes, I know those points are debatable, I'm being sarcastic. No, I only have that form of wit.)

Okay, rant finished.

Quick update

2006-05-03T06:13:00.000Z

I know pickings have been slim here of late, thanks for being patient. The next part of Icarus Falls is almost underway, but with exams looming dread on the horizon, things may be quiet here for a little longer. Thanks to a Friday Favourite for mentioning that I've been rather miserly with info concerning a certain arrival, so here's the latest: We went for our 22 week scan yesterday and it was incredible. The scan confirmed what we'd suspected for a while.........it's a girl! Her growth is on track, everything seems to fit where it should, and all fingers and toes are accounted for. Flaming 'eck! What happened to counting fingers and toes after after the birth!?!?! Modern technology, scary stuff. And my wife felt baby move for the first time on Saturday, and everyday since. It's still too early for me to feel anything, but to see the look of pure joy on my wife's face more then makes up for that. Besides, I'll get my chance soon enough. Hang on a sec.....wait just one minute.....a girl? Shopping? Dolls? BOYFRIENDS!?!?!?! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Two Lights

2006-04-24T09:32:00.004Z

Just a short post to mention that Jason over at The Clarity of Night is running a short fiction competition. And with real prizes, no less!!! Read here for details. You can have a read of my effort here, but I would love to see any Ten Miles regulars send in something of their very own. So get to it!

Cancel me not - for what then shall remain?

2006-04-19T12:06:00.000Z

It's almost been a month since the passing of Stanislaw Lem. I'm not even close to scratching the surface of his work, and I've been a follower since 1994. So if the following quote makes you even the slightest bit curious, I suggest you do some further investigation..... "American science fiction, exploiting its exceptional status, lays claim to occupy the pinnacles of art and thought. One is annoyed by the pretentiousness of a genre that fends off accusations of primitivism by pleading its entertainment character and then, once such accusations have been silenced, renews its overweening claims." (from his essay "Philip K. Dick: A Visionary Among the Charlatans" - Lem was once a member of the Science Fiction Writers of America, but was expelled in 1976 because of comments like this) And here is an excerpt from the scathingly funny The Cyberiad. "On the second moon of the third planet....was a garbage dump....It so happened that Trurl, the Fabulous Constructor, while flying in the vicinity,....[threw out] an old earthenware jug with a crack down the middle. This jug, accelerating in accordance with the laws of gravity and boosted by the comet's tail, crashed into a mountainside above the dump, fell, clattered down a slope of junk toward a puddle, skittered across some mud, and finally smacked into an old tin can; this impact bent the metal around a copper wire, also knocked some pieces of mica between the edges, and that made a condenser, while the wire, twisted by the can, formed the beginnings of a solenoid, and a stone, set in motion by the jug, moved in turn a hunk of rusty iron, which happened to be a magnet, and this gave rise to a current, and that current passed through sixteen other cans and snips of wire, releasing a number of sulfides and chlorides, whose atoms linked with other atoms, and the ensuing molecules latched onto other molecules, until, in the very center of the dump, there came into being a Logic Circuit, and five more, and another eighteen in the spot where the jug finally shattered into bits. That evening, something emerged at the edge of the dump,....and this something, a creature of pure accident, was Mymosh the Selfbegotten, who had neither mother nor father, but was son unto himself, for his father was Coincidence, and his mother - Entropy. And Mymosh rose up from the garbage dump, totally oblivious of the fact that he had about one chance in a hundred billion jillion raised to the zillionth power of ever existing....and was moved to exclaim, 'Truly, I am beautiful, nay, perfect, which clearly implies the Perfection of All Created Things!! Ah, and how good must be the One Who fashioned me!'........"

Funhouse Mirrors.....

2006-04-12T06:28:00.000Z

I woke the same as any other day Except a voice was in my head It said seize the day, pull the trigger Drop the blade, and watch the rolling heads The day I tried to live I stole a thousand beggar's change And gave it to the rich The day I tried to win I dangled from the power lines And let the martyrs stretch Singing One more time around might do it One more time around might make it One more time around might do it One more time around The day I tried to live Ever had one of those days where, for a moment, you catch a glimpse of yourself and wonder just how close you are to becoming the type of person you promised yourself you would never become? You catch yourself laughing at something that really isn't funny, just to put the person at ease. You smile at someone whose putrescent heart poisons their every interaction. You smile, because it makes the working day more bearable. You smile, as their vitriol strips away the dignity of a co-worker. You bear witness to 'questionable' business practices, all precipitated by men who claim virtue and righteousness when it comes to matters of a more obvious moral nature, yet deem it appropriate to dispense minimum wages without the slightest twinge of guilt. You watch and listen, but do nothing, say nothing; convincing yourself that it would make little difference to say anything. These are men of power, because we have given it to them freely. They drive an expensive car, they live in an expensive house; they must have power to possess these things, so we give them more power. This is not about disdain. This is not about the notion that I am somehow 'better', that I see things more clearly or that my acknowledgment of the dark underbelly of society enables me to be seperate from it. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is about leaving a legacy of impotence for my child. Teaching her that everybody knows you have to live behind a mask to operate in this world. That it's okay to be someone you are not, because it keeps you sane, or it allows you to minimise the conflict between who you are and what you do. Should I take pride from the fact that no one at work has the faintest clue that they deal, on a daily basis, with an imposter? Words you say never seem To live up to the ones inside your head The lives we make never seem To ever get us anywhere but dead The day I tried to live I wallowed in the blood and mud with All the other pigs I woke the same as any other day you know I should have stayed in bed The day I tried to win I wallowed in the blood and mud with All the other pigs Dearest daughter, take the air into your lungs until it hurts. Stare at the sky until you think you can see the universe beyond. This life leads to far more then death, and to live it as someone else is perhaps a far greater sin then to not live it well. Do not mistake kindness for indifference, nor indifference for tolerance. You are of this world, not it's supposed masters. You can redefine power, and what it means to wield it. I have learnt a different lesson, one harder to accept and even harder to fight. But I will try. And I learned that I was a liar Just like you Soundgarden - The Day I Tried To Live

Yes, it is a lazy offering, but i have to post something....

2006-04-10T07:12:00.000Z

Via Fence, who caught it from Banzai.

Go to Wikipedia and look up your birth day (excluding the year).

List three neat facts, two births and one death in your journal, including the year.

May 3rd

Three facts

1997 - In Dublin, Ireland, Katrina and the Waves win the forty-second Eurovision Song Contest for the United Kingdom singing "Love Shine a Light". (For Fence and NM)

1937 - Gone with the Wind, a novel by Margaret Mitchell, wins the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.

2004 - In an open letter to George W. Bush more than 50 former high-ranking United States diplomats (including former ambassadors to Saudi Arabia and Qatar) complain about the Bush administration's policy towards the Middle East claiming that the President's approach, and specifically his endorsement of Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's disengagement plan, is losing the U.S. "credibility, prestige and friends". The letter follows a similar one written by 52 former British diplomats sent to Tony Blair a few days ago. (BBC)

Two births

1469 - Niccolò Machiavelli, Italian historian and political author

1959 - Ben Elton, British comedian and author

One death

1704 - Heinrich Ignaz Biber, Bohemian composer

Manipulation, comedy and music. A trinity of sorts?

Doorways...

2006-03-31T09:15:00.000Z

Kelly Parra, webmistress sublime over at Fictional Musings, is hosting a flash fiction contest. You have until midnight (PST) Friday, March 31st to email your 80 word flash fiction exploring the theme "doorway." There are already some wicked entries. Have submitted mine, so keep an eye out for it! *****Update***** You can read my entry here.

The Great Pretender.....

2006-03-30T08:53:00.000Z

Robbie Williams kicks off his first SA tour in less then two weeks. Please will you all be patient with me in this dark time. Your support and words of comfort will be greatly needed. I suppose I should just use this time to be reflective. Every now and then, life will force you to endure horrid and unspeakable things; but these are the things that shape us. I hope I will come out of this a better person, but I can't be sure. This will be a test of my resilience, patience and ability to endure extreme pain. I may not be strong enough. Wish me luck.

F*** God........

2006-03-23T08:30:00.000Z

So, the abridged version of the story is this: Fokofpolisiekar are a local punk band, who as a result of hard-work and a unique voice have established a loyal following and a great deal of critical acclaim. One night, after a performance, the band are hanging around with some fans (imagine that!!!), enjoying a few shooters and whatnot. "It was 5am. We were drinking shooters. I was having a discussion with a guy about religion. I jokingly wrote 'F*k God' on his wallet," explained guitarist Wynand Myburgh. Fan goes home, only for his mother to see the wallet the next morning. She starts a chain letter that stirs up an outcry in the Afrikaans Christian community. Christian action media group Jesus Project take out a full page advert in a local newspaper, to the tune of R40,000, slating the band for their 'half-hearted' apology and calling on the community to boycott the group. Oh, and they also happened to ask for donations of R10 for the cause. Persecution has always been an expensive business........ Reverend Jannie Pelser, head of Jesus Project said: "There can be no regeneration of morality if you don't respect God." Hmmmm. Regeneration of morality. So let me get this clear. When an 18yr old gets involved in a religious discussion, of his own volition, in the privacy of a bar and allows his wallet to be 'defaced', the correct course of action does not involve having a discussion with your son and asking him whether a)he agrees with what's written on it, and b)how he actually feels about religion and providing him with an environment in which he feels encouraged to express and formulate his own identify. No no no. One must take the course of morality regeneration. This is a difficult concept to define, but even trickier to put into practice. You must choose your cause carefully. For example, when a young woman is raped and falls pregnant, a full page advert calling for greater protection of woman, and a collection to aid her with paying for a safe abortion are not required. The chain letter is also an extremely efficient means of spreading morality regeneration. But again, this technique must be used sparingly. For instance, it is only suitable for decrying movies or books 'slandering' your beliefs. I'm sure you all know by heart the passage in the bible where Jesus says, "Above all things, protect my name and reputation. Oh, and if you have time, help your neighbour." Meanwhile, a group of ministers from Oudsthoorn have put pressure on the Klein Karoo Nationale Kunstefees (KKNK) organisers and sponsors Absa to retract Fokofpolisiekar's invitation to perform in the country's biggest Afrikaans Arts festival starting April 1. Before there is any further outrage, I would publically like to apologise for the fact that I do not believe in the Easter Bunny. I know it is a contentious issue, so I will endeavor to re-examine my feelings on this. I am sorry for any harm I have caused the Bunny Acolytes. In future, I will be sure to provide you with an outline of my actions and deeds, so that you may approve of that which does not endanger your sensibilities. KN, I apologise for writing 'F*** the Bunny' on your helmet. I will be happy to buy you a new one. Yes yes yes. I KNOW that within every system of religious belief, there are intelligent, caring and other-centered people who do far more then I to uplift those who need it the most, to raise issues that need attending and who devote their lives to the benefit of others. I also know that as much as I am calling for tolerance, the above rant was rather devoid of that. As alien or illogical as another's beliefs may be, public debate is needed, not public humiliation. That said, where two people engage in a private discussion, it is beyond ridiculous to allow things to escalate in the manner in which they did for Fokofpolisiekar. When religious groups turn to bullies, we're headed in a scary direction. And what does God make of this whole debacle? I'm not sure, but I'll ask Him when I see Him at this year's Witchfest..... Click here for the full article. ***** Disclaimer: The views expressed on this website are fully supported by the owner. Any offensive material published IS intended to offend closed-minded religious fanatics or other bi-pedal, lobotomised earth-dwellers. Full page adverts will not instill in me any feelings of remorse, nor can I be blackmailed into contrition. Come and get me, motherfuckers.

And the winner is......

2006-03-22T11:57:00.000Z

Thanks everyone for taking part, what a great response! I think I'll have to make competitions a regular occurence at Ten Miles....... But at the same time, I'm regretting having done this, as now I'm left with the god-forsaken task of picking a winner. With no hair left in my head, I still could not decide between two stories, so I've been left with no choice but to declare two winners. **** "Still raining. Mark watched those grey skies with no hope of spotting the sun. No hint of blue. He looked nonetheless. Everywhere the sky was filled with the one grey cloud. Everywhere the rain fell. Nonstop. So soft you wouldn't feel anything, not til a gust of wind whipped water in your face. But always falling. Had been falling for four years now. Bloody long-term low-grade psychological weather warfare." by Fence **** The clambering dishes from our favorite diner, black coffee and the smoke swirling from the clove cigarettes of our miserable youth, what an unfortunate backdrop. Your thick mascara starting to run before the words can escape my trembling lips. How does one approach this arduous task of saying goodbye? I blow a smoke ring into the tense air; it’s inappropriate, but so is my leaving you for your sister. by Vamprun **** So, if the two of you would be so kind as to pass on your mailing details to forgottenmachine@yahoo.com, your prizes will be sent asap.

Bribery and corruption....

2006-03-14T14:55:00.000Z

No, this won't be a rant about the local elections (you may well get one of those tomorrow), this is in fact a rather superficial attempt at getting attention. Er....I mean....this is an awesome chance to win big! Following on from the 69 words challenge, I was rather disappointed to see nobody take up the challenge ('cept Fence, and forgive me if I missed anyone else). Why did JA Konrath receive such an avalanche of responses? Aha! Prizes!!! (it obviously has nothing to do with him being a damn good writer....er...cough....) So, since I am not (yet) a published author....hey, stop giggling in the back there, it could happen! Where was I...oh yes.....my offer needs to be a little different. So I came up with this: The winning 69 word story, as judged by me, will receive a unique 700 word story, hand-written and never to be printed or posted anywhere else, so that when I do make it big, you can sell it on Ebay for thousands. (Rupees? Yen?) Oh, and the accompanying soundtrack to the story. The catch? A winner can only be declared at a minimum of 20 entries. But you can enter more than once. Closing date? Ah....heck....I dunno. Saturday midnight GMT? Will this work? Does anybody care? Time will tell......... *****UPDATE****** Deadline extended to Monday 12pm GMT. Thanks to everyone who has contributed, I was seriously expecting around three stories.......

69 Ways to leave a lover....

2006-03-10T12:56:00.000Z

Found via Kelly, JA Konrath has issued this challenge: Write a 69 word story. Simple? Well, give it a shot and see! Here's mine: * * * * * There are bodies in the Garden. I watched from the shadows, where shadows should never be. Watched as two of my brothers fell. Watched as they spat words at each other, as words should never be. “We dally too long with them….” “But they make music!” Something is there, under the blood and crumpled wings. It glitters, sickly, humanity’s last gift to Heaven. There are bodies at the Gate. * * * * * Took a lot longer then I thought it would!

Linkage

2006-03-09T15:35:00.000Z

From Bookslut, I'm not sure how I feel about this casting. Also via Bookslut, a recipe for disaster? If you've never been introduced to largehearted boy, well, now you have. Via Screenhead, Peter Stormare is very, very scary.

Icarus Falls - Part Six

2006-03-07T13:43:00.000Z

(Just starting? Part One is here....)

The music swells; an effusive language threading its way through the gallery, just beneath its ebb and flow a whisper of something equivocal. Anticipation, certainly, but as a cello starts to float above the rising drone, there is also a hint of anxiety.

Twenty rows of chairs curve along two sides of the auditorium like smiling teeth; the back row sloping downward toward the first, whose lucky occupants could reach forward and touch the stage should the inclination take them. Every seat is taken, every pair of eyes drawn toward a ceiling that towers as high as the sky and seems to thrust ever higher.

Sheldon Haywood was particularly proud of the lighting effect responsible for that special brand of vertigo. He peered though a slit in the dark velvet curtain, eager to gauge the mood of this latest audience. He could immediately pick out those who had been to a performance before; they seemed a little less relaxed, yet despite themselves completely engaged with the reality of what could go wrong. Sheldon understood what most in his audience would never admit. They did not return because the skills of his performers were inconceivable, they came back because with every successful show, the chances of something going wrong at the next were escalated. It was the same part of them that, for one fading moment, found disappointment in a bloodless car accident. On posters in some of the more stygian clubs across the city, it wasn't the picture of an acrobat in mid-flight that caught the attention, but those small, black letters emblazoned across it.

Performed without safety nets!!!

* * * * * * *

Cloris shuffled along behind her mother, trying not to step on toes or knock over popcorn, until they located their seats. Most of the adults were squeezed into chairs that seemed more acceptant of her eight-year old frame, but the intermission had rejuvenated tired limbs and replaced stiff joints with a fresh sense of wonder. Cloris had struggled to take it all in; the colour and the smell, how everything seemed more real than real, yet utterly fantastical. Her list of favourites had been rapidly revised with every performance, so it was not unexpected that it was currently topped by the richly costumed acrobats whose trampoline-aided spectacle had concluded the first part of the show.

The house-lights went dim and a beam of light illuminated the Ringmaster. But as he began his embellished introduction of the next act, Cloris was distracted by a figure making its way up a steel ladder. The figure was clearly a man, and as her eyes adjusted to the shadows, Cloris gasped at the size of him. His powerful arms seemed sketched from a comic book, rippling with the exertion of climbing, as if something were alive beneath the skin, yet his face appeared smooth, unnerving.

The Ringmaster's voice gave way to a sudden surge of applause, and suddenly the Trapeze was revealed, bathed in a glow of red and blue lights. A smaller, older man had joined the first on a platform to the left, whilst the platform to the right was now occupied by two woman and a third man. Cloris could see now why she had found the man's face so unusual. They were all wearing masks. White masks, to finish the white of their outfits. There seemed to be strange designs in a dark red along the legs, and the women both had dark hair tied-up in an intricate weave. They were the most beautiful people Cloris had ever seen.

* * * * * * *

Constance sat on the high bar, one hand keeping him balanced whilst the other adjusted his mask. He searched for any kind of detail in the crowd, but the glare from the spotlights made it difficult. Far below, Sheldon was hyping up the last trick. Constance could only admire how effortlessly he took them into his confidence, his hands as animated as his voice, almost as if he were conjuring a spell. And it was a spell Constance knew well; had it not made him leave the circus? Leave his family?

At least he could still draw comfort from the sight of Aurelia standing on the platform opposite. She was breathtaking, enigmatic. He knew the mask was a big part of why they adored her, why they packed the auditorium for every performance; yet she had as much need for them as a dying man for poison. Her reasons were hidden behind a mask of her own choosing.

* * * * * * *

The noise from around her seemed to fade to a dull rumble. Cloris could not bear to look away, her every sense enthralled at the events unfolding 30 feet above. She'd quickly flipped through the programme and discovered that this was a family of aerialists. The father had acted as catcher for the first few tricks, the most exciting of which had been one of the sons performing a double-somersault. But Cloris found herself drawn to the daughter. She wasn't sure if their outfits were threaded with silver, for with every pirouette the girl shimmered as she spun, as if she were covered in pixie dust.

And now, the eldest son took up position as catcher. At least, Claris guessed he was the oldest, as he was taller and stronger then the others. The daughter took up position on the opposite platform, and as quick as the audience had been to applaud, now all were silent. Drummers took up the beat of her heart, quickened its pace and built to a crescendo. Bar held firmly in her grip, the silvery angel stepped off........

* * * * * * *

Aurelia signalled her readiness, and like a pendulum Constance began a high, arching swing. He cleared his mind of everything, but for the growing realisation that perhaps he no longer did this for the thrill or the acclaim. Perhaps it was as simple as the need for greater concentration, that 40 feet in the air he could hide from the guilt and anger, dark twins that shadowed him constantly.

He gave himself over to the motion of his body, making slight adjustments to keep at the right speed. At the apex of his swing, Aurelia began hers. To those looking on, they must have appeared as mechanised parts of some great machine, their movements so precise, so perfect.

Constance focused every fibre toward the next four seconds, allowing everything around him to blink out of existence. His fingers twitched, anticipating the touch of her hand, but as she released the bar he felt his blood turn to ice.

Oh god, she's too early..........

* * * * * * *

Cloris watched her angel twist in the air, trying to count every turn. When it seemed as if the girl might spin forever, she finally extended her body and dropped toward her brother. A woman in the front row could not hold back a scream, as another covered her eyes with both hands. But the brother barely flinched as he caught her forearms, ushering forth a collective gasp of delight that grew to thunderous applause. He let her slide from his arms into the safety net, and as the girl dismounted into the centre ring, Cloris heard a singular thought repeat in her mind; a prayer, a wish, a desire stronger then anything she'd felt before. I want to be her........

* * * * * * *

As quick as thought, Constance let the bar slide from under his knees, letting his feet catch the sideropes. He willed himself to defy gravity, to delay swinging backward as long as he could. But as her third spin flattened out, he felt the gentlest of tugs, pulling him away from her. For a second, she was above him, her eyes aflame, her mind lost to the sky.

A fingertip. The most precious of fingertips, and he clutched instinctively. But nothing. Just the rush of air as she plummeted past him.

Constance hung there, eyes closed. He would keep them closed, until the muscles in his calves finally gave in, allowing his feet to unhook, his body to fall. Or perhaps the flow of blood to his head would flood his mind, casting him into darkness. Bitterly, he opened his eyes, as far below him chaos surrounded a body. Aurelia. Broken.

2006-03-02T14:05:00.000Z

Hi everyone, I know it's been a while since the last part of Icarus Falls, but with the power crisis facing the Western Cape and constant blackouts becoming part of everyday life, finding the time to get Part Six written and posted is proving troublesome. But I do have it finished in my head. Promise. So instead, I will attempt to placate you with the news that today we had our first ultrasound, at 13 weeks and 3 days. Baby is growing well, and the test for abnormalities and downes syndrome showed nothing to be concerned with. To see that tiny life in such detail for the first time, words can never be enough. But you know how they say when you fall in love, everything seems a little clearer, music even more powerful....almost as if you see how everything is connected..... Well, it's truer then I'd ever imagined.

Whoever was blasting Whitney in the office today.....

2006-02-27T16:16:00.000Z

Via here

A kind of ultimatum note....

2006-02-27T08:48:00.000Z

Luke tagged, and since I owe her and various others answers from way back when, I'd better respond before I'm banished.... Seven Things

Seven dreams before death:

Does

Voicing

Them

Bring

Them

Within

Reach? Seven things I can't do in this lifetime: Believe without question

Watch Hendrix play live

Be the person my father wants me to be

Be a stand-up comic

Excel at anything that requires good hand-eye coordination

Make peace with dying. Or growing old for that matter....

Answer a meme properly

Seven things that attract me: I see most people went with 'attracted to the opposite sex', so I'll interpret this slightly differently.

The smell of the sea, the night before it rains

A really good black & white photograph

The feel of new guitar strings

Forests Ingenuous conversation

Tattoos

Dusk

Seven things I say: Anyways

But I digress

No worries

FFS (you'll know what this is if you say it too!)

Ja right (an Africanised version of, Yeah right.)

WTF?

I just don't get it.......

Seven books that I love: Snowcrash - Neal Stephenson

Ash - Mary Gentle

Perdido Street Station - China Mieville

Shampoo Planet - Douglas Coupland

Blindness - Jose Saramago

Light - M John Harrison

Choke - Chuck Palahniuk

Seven movies that I've loved:

The Big Lebowski

Amelie

Blade Runner (The Director's Cut)

High Fidelity

Mysterious Skin

and for fun

Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens

Shadow of the Vampire Oh, and since everyone's been tagged by now, tag yourselves if you haven't.

Holy Encephedigital Conversions, Batman....

2006-02-22T14:54:00.000Z

Going through my stats this afternoon, I noticed a few visits from the SA Blog Awards. Strange, I thought to myself, and clicked through to bring my confusion to an end. Imagine my surprise when nestled under Best writing on a South African blog, I find the words Ten Miles. Hey! Someone stole my blog title! And then slowly I begin to understand.... How the hell did that happen!?!?!?!?!?!?! Anyway, the Chitster and Kyknoord are both there as well, so please go and vote for them. I know it's a relatively small competition, so one nomination could have seen me there, but I know there were more of you, so I demand an explanation! Now! And if you're wondering, yes, this is just a ruse to get you to vote for me instead of anyone else. You were smart enough to work that out, so you're obviously smart enough to know who to vote for..........

Icarus Falls - Part Five

2006-02-20T14:25:00.000Z

There is an old circus saying that goes, "The day you don't think about falling, you will fall."

********

In 1962, Horvath Ambrus set foot on the Pionir, his family in tow, and twelve creased and grimy notes comprising his former life's savings, now held snugly in the hands of the ship's First Mate. Ambrus ushered them gently toward a cabin at the stern, thankful that the last of his fame had managed to secure a place of relative comfort for the long journey. They had left Budapest days earlier, but it was only once he felt the streets of Rijeka beneath him, that Ambrus let the months of worry drift away in the offshore winds. Estzi held two-year old Aurelia close, and Gabor refused to leave his father's side. Even at six, he was already developing Ambrus's lithe frame. Konstanz conducted himself as if he were the oldest; taller then Gabor and seemingly less desperate for the comforting presence of his parents, no one would have guessed that he was only five.

They are strange, these things, these reasons that compel us to sacrifice comfort and security, to choose the undiscovered above the familiar. Love is the artisan behind many of these new directions, but greed also drives men to forsake title and stature. So too ambition and survival, which are more closely linked then might be guessed.

Whilst love was certainly a part of it, for Ambrus the reason was as simple as two faces.

Jens and the others had already taken the tent down, leaving Ambrus to collect the last of the ropes. An uneventful week had passed in Tokaj, attendance figures were dwindling and after three long months, he was looking forward to a week's respite. As he finished with the ropes and went to hook up the last trailer, Ambrus noticed a misshapen figure just beyond the edge of the clearing. Parts of its body seemed to bulge and undulate in unnatural ways, but as it drew closer and the moonlight brighter, Ambrus could see his mistake. This was no shape-shifting creature formed from shadow; this was a small child, a boy, clutching a baby in a threadbare blanket. Ambrus gestured for the boy to approach, close enough for him to lift the blanket and look upon the face of a baby girl. And though they would fade as Aurelia grew older, it was the flecks of purple in those dark, entrancing eyes that first whispered to Ambrus, you will never come home again.

Strange too is the existence of a world where men are heralded for their explorations into unchartered territories, yet entire communities can be victimized for simply being different. In much of Eastern Europe, 'gypsy' was just another term for outcast, and in certain areas the hatred ran so deeply, that a young brother and sister may well find themselves orphaned. And when Horvath Ambrus made these two outcasts a part of his family, rather then gifting his legacy to them, it was brother and sister whose tainted heritage became his own.

"Taking your dogs for a walk?" For months Ambrus had tried to ignore the insults, but he knew that they only signified worse was to come. An inexorable ice age, that would snuff them from this earth should they choose to remain.

Standing on the Pionir's port deck, Ambrus allowed himself to hear the exuberant applause, to feel his body soar through the air. But the applause slowly quietened to the sound of keel through water; there was no audience to thrill, and there may never be again. Under the light of the stars, the ocean seemed as vast as the Carpathians, with no end in sight.

Ambrus was falling, and he hoped to God that the new country would be a net to catch him.

Lessons learnt......

2006-02-20T09:18:00.000Z

Just thought I would share with you two 'guidelines' that were made clear to me this weekend past, in varying degrees of pain. Firstly, simply because it may APPEAR that the row of spikes mounted on an electric gate are about as sharp as George Bush at a Mensa convention, does NOT mean that this is the case. Secondly, when you have narrowly avoided impaling a foot on aforementioned spike due to your cat-like reflexes which slammed on anchors seconds after spike had sliced through sole of shoe, does NOT mean that said cat-like reflexes will aid your rapidly aging, no-longer-a-teenager ass from transferring the weight-you-promised-yourself-you-would-never-gain-after-marriage to your ankle as you hurl yourself over the gate, only to hit the tarmac in your first and only performance as the creation of a Gepetto on LSD in the hit broadway show, Stringless Base Jumping for Rebellious Puppets. This public service announcement may or may not have been mildly embellished for blogging purposes.......

Better late than never....

2006-02-16T08:07:00.000Z

So......you like? Does it work? Anyone spot any irregularities?

Bloggies

2006-02-15T05:57:00.000Z

The South African Blog Awards 2006 are well and truly upon us, so if you have not yet visited the only man in Cape Town who loves a play on words more then I do, please go and vote for him. There are a variety of categories, I'm sure you will find one that fits. And no, he's not paying me for this. At least, not in monetary terms.........

Fictional Musings

2006-02-14T14:15:00.000Z

The prolific and always inventive Jason, led me to the talented and infectious Kelly, who runs a side project called Fictional Musings. She welcomes short fiction contributions, so hop along if you're curious. Oh, and you might just see a familiar face......

Icarus Falls - Part Four

2006-02-14T13:54:00.000Z

His eyes shimmered green to blue; not like the passing of clouds across the surface of an ocean, but more the constantly shifting, always unsettled scales of a lizard in the sun.

And pressing herself tightly against a wall, they were all Cloris could see.

She had been running for more than an hour, weaving in and out of dark alleys and derelict buildings, hoping beyond all hope that every step brought her closer to losing her pursuer. Cloris paused for a moment to catch her breath, her lungs heaving tiny nebulous galaxies into the frigid night air.

Tonight. Tonight I will outrun him. Any second now, I will wake and this chain of nightmares will be broken.

She waited desperately for the sound of the alarm to stir her; closed her eyes and knew that the instant she opened them, it would be accompanied by the light spilling from behind curtains, the stabbing pain of blood flowing to newly wakened limbs.

But when she opened them, the sky was still empty above her, the concrete still cool beneath her bare feet. And he was approaching from three feet away, those eyes locked onto hers, that face like an ancient forest, like a ceaseless crashing of wave upon rock. Slowly, those silvery wings unfurled......

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

A shape flailed frantically beneath a red sheet, before emerging in the shape of an arm and, finally, resolving into a hand. The hand fidgeted with a few dials and switches, and after a few threats of static, settled on a local station. They were broadcasting some pre-recorded interview with some forgotten writer. Tenebrous? God, why can't anyone talk in simple English anymore.

Cloris lay there for a few minutes, just thinking. One more night of this, and sanity would slip from her fingers like a child's balloon at a fairground. She made her way to the bathroom, glad at the soft feel of the carpet underfoot. The windows seemed to be promising a temperate day, the smell of something sweet drifting on the air. A faded orange towel hung over the mirror, and Cloris carefully lifted a corner, peering at the reflective surface beneath.

A strand of silver hair glared back.

She reached for the container of hair dye on the sink, checking to make sure that it had been opened. She'd used twice the directed amount last night, but as with the four previous attempts, the morning had washed away all traces. At least she hadn't been hallucinating.

Today held little hope for her either; she was already running late for work, it was a ten hour shift, and she'd probably have to grab her first meal from the diner on her way home. As she laced up her boots, a song from the radio faded, a sultry voice whispering the closing lines.

"I'm anything but your kind...."

Cloris grabbed her apartment keys from the hall table, a sardonic smile playing across her lips. If only you knew how right you are.

Icarus Falls - Part Three

2006-02-07T16:36:00.000Z

There was something about the glowing tip of a cigarette that spoke to Constance. Perhaps it was that the glow became more furious the closer it burnt to the filter. Or that last, curling wisp of smoke; that last, eyes-closed drag. Bliss from the ephemeral; is that not the meaning of life, as advertised?

Well, not at this particular moment. The neon signs flashing in the window of the diner were drumming a rather different definition, finding it somewhere between Budweiser and No Vacancy.

He tried one last time to divine a star from somewhere beyond the omnipresent smoke, failed, and made his way to the diner entrance. Had anyone been bothering to pay attention, they may have blanched at the sight of Constance closing his hand over the cigarette. He tossed the dead butt onto the pavement, smoothed an ashen hand through his dark hair, and slipped into the welcoming light.

A few inquiring glances were tossed his way, but none of the patrons seemed too anxious, and so returned to their edible oddities. Most assumed the waning concern was as a result of an astute assessment of a non-threatening visitor, but as Constance stood 6'5" and had eyes to sever beat from heart, an intelligent observation would conclude that something else was responsible for putting them at ease.

He spied the coffee-machine toward the back of the diner, checked to see that a fresh pot was brewing, and strode toward an open booth.

As he sat down, a woman lurched from the table opposite and darted for the bathroom, leaving a trail of broken crockery and flustered waitresses in her wake. Constance made a mental note not to order the Lasagne Surprise, and spent the next three minutes meditating on the strand of silver hair that had just scurried past him.

Icarus Falls - Part Two

2006-02-01T15:53:00.000Z

If you're only just visiting, it starts here. **********************************************

Cloris was huddled underneath the third basin on the left. An incipient new species of funghi was slowly spreading on the tiled wall behind her, and if she had been capable of lucid thought, she would have guessed by the smell coming from the second stall that the bathroom hadn't been cleaned since last week. But at this moment in time, huddling definitely seemed to be better then trying to figure out the chemical make-up of the liquid pooling toward her from a cracked pipe. When the man of your dreams strolls into a gas-stop diner and sits at the table next to you, wires are bound to get crossed, synapses to misfire, and if you're not careful you may just end up under a basin in the bathroom.

This is, however, not the man that you have been hoping for since you first noticed this alien and wholly entertaining opposite sex; the man who effortlessly matches your top ten, will not compromise on, painstakingly selected and hopelessly unrealistic list of traits. He is, in actuality, the man who has been appearing in Cloris's dreams for the last two months, with a rather unnerving regularity. Unnerving, mainly due to the fact that she has never met him before. And perhaps the foremost reason for Claris's current location, is that in the dream, seconds before she wakes up, he spreads his wings and slips through her eyes, into her skull.

Fiction Challenge

2006-01-31T11:39:00.000Z

Fence has challenged, and I have attempted to answer. Find a piece of artwork you like, a painting or sculpture, somethng visual. Link to an image and write a story inspired by it. 500 words or less. Write it in one go, no going back and revising.

A month before a condemned man is set to die, it is customary to ask him who he wants present at his execution. The theory is that the prisoner, in the unforgiving grip of contrition, will want to see the faces of the ones he loves, that it would make the 'transition' easier. But the truth is, the fear of death blinds you. And even if you were the most fearless son of a bitch to ever grace this earth, it would matter little. Once you pass over, you can't see a living soul.

Am I condemned you ask?

Only in the same way as everyone else. But I have not taken another life, I am not caged.

Then how do I know?

Is it not obvious? I am dead. And I am alone.

I do not care to convince you of this fact, just as I did not scream when I became aware of my utter desolation. Something inside me, not a voice, not a thought; somehow I simply knew. How can I scream if I cannot recall the sound of my voice? And whether you believe me or not is of no consequence.

I do remember the heat, the violent incalescence and smoke and desperation. I remember a figure, reaching in, and flashing lights and industrious hands. And then I remember nothing. Just waking up, although that's misleading. Not waking up, but returning to your thoughts after a daydream. And finding myself in this place. Or outside looking in. Outside the cast-iron fence of Cullcass Cemetery.

Behind me, a traffic light turns from amber to red. The air is cool, and ever-darkening clouds are reflected sharply in shop windows. Everything is here, everything goes on, yet there is no one. As if every person alive slipped politely out of view.

Almost everyone. Inside the cemetery, only a few yards away from me, there is a figure swaddled in bandages and prostrate upon a small wooden board. Without question or thought, I know that it's me.

Is this what I have been brought here to see? That my death is but a pinprick of light in a distant sun? Why has no one come? Is this my torment, my hell? There are no demons, no wails or shrieks, only the bitter realisation that all relationships mean nothing.

It starts raining, as if someone has taken a knife to the clouds. I gaze upward, wishing the droplets were shards of glass, to pierce my eyes, to blind me. But as I look upon that pathetic figure one last time, something changes. Off to the side, barely a foot from my corpse, an umbrella opens. And then another. And in the slowest of heartbeats, twenty more.

Before I am even aware that I have fallen to my knees, there are opened umbrellas as far as I can see.

A roof of hope, a curved defiance. Painting by Edger Ende

Icarus Falls - Part One

2006-01-30T11:32:00.000Z

Tenebrous. Eight hours ago, a caller had asked Constance what it was like living in Icarus Falls. He'd fumbled his way around a few descriptives, but the word he was really looking for had strayed somewhere between his cortex and his larynx. Yet now, with the sickly green LED flashing 4:20 at him from the bedroom floor, it seemed the prodigal word had returned. It had better not expect some sort of welcoming feast.

A casual observer might question how he could see the time if the clock was on the floor, but this would be based on the assumption that Constance he been stirred from sleep. The unfortunate truth is that tonight, and for the last four nights, he had been battling insomnia from a variety of positions, the latest of which saw his feet dangling from one side of the bed, whilst his head hung languidly from the other.

Constance had come to Icarus Falls as an exercise in reanimation. It was both enough of a city to make him feel comfortable, and enough of a small town to provide his jaded soul with some much needed rest. Most days, the sun was consumed by the smoke from the industrial quarter, leaving the corpses of shadows strewn across streets and pavements. At least, that's what it looked like the day Constance had arrived, but he soon learned that most of the locals just called it gloom. There was something about the light, something about its saturation that mirrored what he felt; an intoxicating bittersweet. Perhaps that was where the town got its name from. There were certainly no waterfalls that he knew of, nor any association with the myth that he could deduce; it must have been named by someone with a sense of humour. Icarus Falls, a city forgotten by the sun.

A final twist of irony had not escaped him; Icarus Falls, the city where he would remember how to fly.

2006-01-26T11:05:00.000Z

Stolen from Fence when she wasn't watching....

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Fm!

Reindeer like to eat fm.
Fm is actually a fruit, not a vegetable!
Fm once lost a Dolly Parton lookalike contest!
Ninety-six percent of all candles sold are purchased by fm.
During the reign of Peter the Great, any Russian nobleman who chose to wear fm had to pay a special fm tax.
Carnivorous animals will not eat another animal that has been hit by fm.
Fm is incapable of sleep.
Antarctica is the only continent without fm.
The pigment Indian Yellow was manufactured from the urine of cows fed only on fm.
Over 2000 people have now climbed fm, with roughly ten percent dying on the way down.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions, shall I?

2006-01-19T13:50:00.000Z

When it comes to dreams, aspirations; when it comes to completing the more creative tasks I've set for myself in my life, I would be lying if I told you I had a great track record. I started piano lessons when I was 13, but after two years I let it slip through my fingers. When the guitar whispered of future glories, I answered. And although I still play, I do regret not having seen my then guitar teacher for more than but a handle of lessons. I finished school,and eagerly flung myself into theological studies, only to find myself at this present time further away from those things I once believed then I ever dreamt I might be. Photography, started not finished. Numerous bands, started not finished. I have more 'bits' of songs then I know what to do with, and enough half-finished lyrics to write a book. Which incidentally is yet another endeavour, begun with great gusto and honourable intent, yet now fading in the half-light of dusk. And deep inside of me, there is a yearning to ignore the screams of past failures, tramp excuses into the ground, lower my head into the wind and finish something which, in time, will be an indication of what I am, what I'm made of. My faults and my glories. And I know that my lament is purely what it is to be human, and is a burden shared by more people then I can ever imagine. I know too that I do have successes. I only need look at my wife's face, or wonder at the natures of those I can call friends to see that. Yet I still choose to listen to the inhuman voices muttering in the back of my mind. Will I ever finish anything worthwhile? This afternoon, as I saw a seven-week old heartbeat, everything else faded. And I realised that I may yet finish a novel, or perform a song, or achieve something I have not yet conceived of. But whether I do or do not is no longer a burden, or a taunt. It is no longer some ill conceived measure of who I am. The mutterings have been silenced by something smaller then my thumb. I am to be a father.

Fear my pink line.......

2006-01-19T06:41:00.000Z

This had me both laughing and feeling a little Jurassic. Continues here. I'd like to meet this Tim kid.

2006-01-19T05:58:00.000Z

I should never have met with Kyknoord for coffee last night. Being seen in public with someone smarter and cooler is not a clever move. Oh well, at least I'm better-looking.

Scarecrow rules in Oz........

2006-01-16T06:36:00.000Z

Something Kelly said in her latest post made room for a subversive thought to slip in unnoticed. She was talking about Diane Lane in the film Must Love Dogs, which is apparently horrendous, but which I have not had the misfortune of watching. She used the rather perfect 'rumpled gorgeousness' to describe Lane, who makes no attempt to hide her age behind surgery or reams of make-up. Anyway, I'm not here to debate Ms Lane or whether or not Must Love Dogs did suck eggs completely, rather, I'd like to ask my learned readers for their opinion as to when the moment was, that we mutated and perverted the definition of beauty to include the scarecrows that grace magazine covers and fashion ramps, where every blemish is digitally removed. Is there some secret Taiwanese factory that churns out these creatures? When did the Mona Lisa become Paris Hilton?

In Motion

2006-01-13T11:24:00.000Z

Haven't written anything in three weeks, so this is just a small something to get the cogs turning, to clear the cobwebs. This may mean more to some than others.

Mother

You taught me well, taught me to look past the colour of a man’s skin. When I asked you how to discern between right and wrong, you showed me that answers lay not in scriptures or words from antiquity, but that I should look to the rain.

The rain keeps men honest, it cleanses the earth of all the ridiculous notions we would thrust upon it, reminds us to tread carefully, forces us to rely on each other more than we would prefer to.

I was not as mischievous a boy as the others, was I? While they were smoking behind the school gymnasium, discovering the image of a woman’s virtue on dog-eared, glossy pages; I was more enraptured by the ridges on the spine of a book then I was at the imagined smoothness of a woman’s legs. They were put to war with cricket bats and rugby balls, while I battled Minotaurs and Leviathans.

I know you were proud of me, mama. That’s the only thing that keeps me going sometimes. But I don’t live in that world anymore. This place is too dark for your wisdom; but I have been patient, I have become wise in my own way. You were right; I should look to the rain. The clouds that roam across the sky like wildebeest on the Serengeti; they turn the sunlight to grey, everything to grey. What colour is the rain, mama? The colour of survival.

A man jogged past me this morning, on my way to collect magazines. I think he was perhaps 40, or 45, but I have never been good at guessing age. He looked so relaxed, in his blue running shorts and white t-shirt. It must have been around 7:30, and I wondered how it was he didn’t even need to get ready for work yet. Imagine that, mama. To run for pleasure, to not have anything to run from.

I know it’s wrong, but I envy him. I envy his delusions, every muted thud of his running shoes on the pavement. And as survival fell from the sky, I found solace in the arched doorway of a clothing store. I checked the opening times on the small sign in the corner of the window, and prayed to God that the rain would stop by 9:30.

Oh mama, I no longer have any books to read, only people. But I read well, and of all the faces that pass me by, those who glance at me from their car windows are all of the same author, the same words. They assume me a victim of circumstance, that as the rain spatters off walls and thrums against glass, I hear in it a profession of my innocence.

How I would love to tell you they are right, that I act as I do because I know no better. Yet I know something they don’t. I live with it each day. It’s the last thing I see before sleep grants me a reprieve. I’ve wanted to tell you so many times, tempted by the hope of a mother’s fathomless love, her mythical capacity for forgiveness.

But I can’t. I lack the words, the courage; or perhaps it is my last gift of love to you, I have no desire to see your heart shattered.

To tell you why. Why I can never come home again.

Miss me?

2006-01-10T13:32:00.000Z

No overlong exposition today, just checking in after a much-needed three weeks off work. Hoping to post something relevant this week, but for now, its good to be back. For reasons which are still somewhat opaque, I missed all of you.

For relaxing times........

2005-12-09T07:44:00.000Z

Another mixed bag. If you don't know the rules, check here. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Rorschach or bust......

2005-12-07T06:25:00.000Z

This is very clever, very cool and very unnerving......... If you do try it, I'd be interested to know what your keyword is.

Knotted knickers...

2005-12-06T06:06:00.000Z

Only in South Africa..........

Forgotten NaNo

2005-12-01T06:04:00.000Z

Well, the NaNoWriMo deadline has come and gone, and I join the ranks of those swept aside by this unforgiving juggernaut. But, and I pause here just for emphasis, I am continuing on. I'm happy with the concept and the characters, and I have written the last chapter in my head more times then I care to remember. So, as a declaration of sorts, I'm posting an excerpt from Chapter Two as an undertaking to myself that, unlike countless other endeavours, I will finish this. As we hurtle toward the end of the year, I'm hoping to increase the frequency of my posts in an effort to start 2006 on Ten Miles with a head of steam. So, keep them eyes peeled for a second movie quiz (since the first one seems to have gone down well), and the return of an old, somewhat vitriolic favourite (D, I think you may know to what I refer). Grass Kings Chapter Two Jacob could hear the pounding of his heart through the pillow. He was failing miserably to clear his mind, but succeeding in letting the perceived irregular beat confuse him. He shifted an arm to elevate his head, but instead of being relieved at this new silence, it only made him wonder whether it was still beating at all. This was it, he was dying, and unless he focused all his energy into willing his heart to keep pumping, he would slip away. It would be over; no mess, no fuss. He sat bolt upright, as if that final act of defiance would keep death at bay. Next to him, Thandi stirred from an enviably fitful sleep and murmured a word of concern. “Just getting some water, go back to sleep.” Hearing his own words aloud, the ridiculousness of his paranoia made him want to laugh. How often did this have to happen before he could pummel that quiet voice into oblivion? He’d like to see it whisper its insidious words through a bloody mouth. Who’s the one with the fickle mortality now, fucker. Oh god, now one voice was threatening the other. He needed sleep, needed to blackmail, threaten, seduce; anything just to have it welcome him again. When sleep finally relented, Jacob dreamt the end of the world. It was like looking at a postcard of Table Mountain on New Year’s Eve, like looking down from 500 feet in the air while all around fireworks exploded, shards of red and blue, fragments of stars. But he wasn’t up on high, and those weren’t fireworks. He was standing on a long stretch of road, watching the Northern Lights leaving, their purpose never understood and now no longer needed. People were screaming; some on their knees with tears of joy streaming down their faces, others in terror. Jacob held out both hands, fingers apart, letting the breeze curl around his arms and brush against his palms. He wasn’t scared, wasn’t delirious or even sad. The last thing he thought before he woke up was this: I’ll miss the wind. The apartment block would be finished in a few more weeks. Fixtures and fittings were still needed, paint, glass and buyers. Jacob had worked in construction long enough to know pride didn’t come from the satisfaction of seeing an architects dream come true. Nor from being able to stand back and marvel at the perfect mesh of steel and concrete. Satisfaction was an illusion, something used to distract from what was really like hammering a nail into a piece of flesh. He took pride from doing his job well, as a means to an end, nothing more. But without the distraction, he was left open and reeling from the sight of what had been done to Long Street. Still, progress is a juggernaut. If corner bookshops and bohemian clothing stores had to pack up and leave, then clearly no one important wanted them around anymore. With the price of petrol soaring every month, executives wanted to live close to work, and Long Street was in the heart of the city. At least, when the city still had heart. Jacob shuddered as he recalled the previous night. Don’t worry, I know exactly how you feel. He remembered seeing Sheraton Hotels on CNN, years and years ago. Here’s one in Dubai, and one in India, and one in France. They were like a stamp of approval. The Powers That Be have decided that your city has adequately met our list of requirements, here’s your Sheraton. It reminded him of a joke he’d once made up. What’s the only good thing about the end of the world? You won’t have to watch it on CNN. Cape Town had received Her stamp of approval four years ago, and Jacob had fingerprints on every steel support. What was with this damn apocalyptic head space he seemed to have lost himself in? He’d once been in an office where a huge picture hung in the reception. It was a picture from an early America, a few workers sitting on a steel girder eating lunch with the city as flat as a map miles below them. It wasn’t like that at all. No one wanted to spend any more time up there then they had to. His thigh started tingling, and it took him a few seconds to realize his cell phone was ringing. He hated the bloody things, despised the invasion of privacy. If the man who composed those ringtones ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with Jacob, he would experience an agony far beyond anything an evil blend of tones and beeps could conjure. It was more than likely a woman anyway. Only a woman could devise a torture so subtle and infuriating. He was the ultimate cell phone grouch, dispensing withering stares to any who dared let it ring for longer than a second. Naturally, Thandi found this endlessly amusing. And naturally, it was her name blinking on the caller ID. “Hey babes….” “Jay, my parents want us around for dinner tonight.” Vernacular economy. That was one of the things he loved about her. Straight to the chase, no unnecessary pauses, no wasted words. He respected someone who didn’t have to butter him up first to get his attention. Small talk is the opiate of the common man. “And what did your mom give as a reason?” It also meant that more than five words from her would make him feel invincible. If she deemed him worthy of risking that asceticism, then she must see in him something worthwhile. “She didn’t. My father phoned.” Of course, sometimes it just irritated the hell out of him. “Oh. Any guesses what’s up?” “Yes.” “And is there a chance you’d care to share that information?” “But that would spoil the surprise!” She savoured the words as if each was a burst of exquisite flavour, clearly enjoying this small display of power. “What time?” Jacob tried to sound nonchalant, but she had always been better at this game then he was “Seven thirty.” “And what if the site needs me ‘til late? We do only have four weeks to finish this, you know.” One last Hail Mary, for the hell of it. “You don’t. I do actually listen when you talk in the mornings.” Damn. A quick reference of this morning’s breakfast conversation. She had three interviews and a story due; he’d relayed with some relief how they’d be finished by six tonight, at the developers request. “Shall I pick up a bottle of wine on the way home?” She laughed, and the sound of it was not victorious. Rather, it was the gentle musical ripple of someone who had clearly loved every second of the conversation. “Thanks Jay. I know this is hard for you, but never forget that I’m yours. God himself would need to look me in the eyes and tell me we’re not meant to be together.” God, he loved this woman more than he’d ever thought possible. Thandi was an atheist. “So Jacob, how is the construction business?” They stood outside on the balcony of the Ndzimande house, the lush green of Constantia lay like a dark sea spread out before them. Thandi and her mother were inside making coffee, an uninspired ruse so that Thandi could answer questions about why Jacob had still not proposed after four years. If only they knew that he’d done so after only six months. And again after two years. She had told him two things that last day, as he knelt in the sand, the sun flatlining behind them; she would never marry, and she would never love any other. He believed her, but he was still scared. Jacob lit the cigarette he’d been craving for the last hour, and looked up at the imposing figure of Thandi’s father. “Well, the Phaythe development is almost finished. We’re actually ahead of schedule. Then I just have to oversee some additions to the Convention Centre, before the season ends.” He hesitated slightly before adding, “How do you do it? How do you get up every morning knowing that at best, maybe twenty percent of your day will be positive?” He wasn’t trying to be difficult; he’d just sensed an opportunity to delve behind that impassive facade. The Deputy Minister of Safety and Security took a slow sip of his Scotch. If the question had surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I don’t. I get up every morning thinking that five percent of my day will be positive. That way, I’m rarely ever disappointed.” If Jacob hadn’t noticed the slight curl in the corners of the Minister’s mouth, the joke would have dissipated in the crisp night air. This was not normally a man intimately acquainted with humour. “Do you know what I say to myself as I wake up? Before I have even opened my eyes?” He spoke with such control, a measured confidence that had your attention before you’d remembered giving it. It wasn’t difficult to see why he was one of the most respected and popular Ministers in the cabinet. “Jacob, this is a country gripped by the most devastating epidemic in its history. Yes, there are those who remain unaffected, suburbs where life continues on as it has for the last decade. But this will change.” He faltered for a moment, the misstep by no means an indication of weakness. “I say to myself, what kind of world do I want to see when I open my eyes? And then I remind myself that I am in a position to bring it about. That I had better see that same world when I close my eyes at night, or I have failed.” The Minister turned to go inside, but paused against the rich wood of the French doors. He glanced back at Jacob and chuckled sadly. “That may explain why I’ve been struggling to sleep lately.” Dinner had been a pleasant enough affair, but the expected revelations were never voiced. Jacob had tormented himself on the drive home from work, theorizing a dozen reasons why they’d been invited to dinner, none of them good. And he’d forgotten the wine. But conversation had not just been the polite yet curt sentences he had become accustomed to; he’d actually made Mrs Ndzimande laugh on more than one occasion, and not just the gracious laugh of a seasoned hostess, but a genuine, infectious giggle that left little doubt as to whom Thandi had inherited her warmth from. About halfway through dinner, work had called him and Jacob had excused himself to take the call in the study. He was sure he’d heard raised voices in his absence, but when he joined them again at the table, nothing seemed out of place. As the car hurtled past reflectors on the freeway, Jacob contemplated the exchange on the balcony. Thandi’s father had always been pleasant toward him, but whether his disposition was authentic, or a guise he slipped easily into, was a more cryptic question. Whatever the nature of their relationship, it certainly did not explain that unexpected flash of candor. Jacob hoped it indicated sincerity, or perhaps the first step in acceptance, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that it was something born of guilt. “What happened back there?” The amber light from the car stereo made her skin appear luminescent; her head nestled against the headrest, swaying imperceptibly with the motion of the car. “You mean because things seemed almost normal?” “No, I mean because things seemed a little heated when I left the room.” He’d tried to convince himself it had been laughter, or not shouting at all, but he knew what Thandi’s voice sounded like when she was distraught. It wasn’t something that happened often, and when it did it was the kind of sound he’d rather forget, but couldn’t. “Politics. My father saw the article I did on Zandikele.” At least he could empathise with her father there. It was one thing to have a daughter carving out a career as a journalist; astute, intelligent and principled. But when she directed that sagacity toward the Minister’s colleagues, well, this was the fire season, and the grass was drying out faster each day. “And the secret reason behind tonight’s gathering?” “Oh, that! Nothing, love. I was just stirring. Hazard of the job, remember?” Her smile should have set him at ease, yet on this hushed Thursday night, with the moon seeking solace behind a nearby line of trees, she had never felt more distant.

2005-11-29T06:04:00.000Z

Two years ago, you spoke words of the simplest magic.
Happy Anniversary, love.






somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near



your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose



or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing



(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e e cummings

A forest

2005-11-24T23:10:00.000Z

Picket Fences......

2005-11-23T01:03:00.000Z

A meme stolen from Pretty Cunning. 1. Pick 10-20 films you loved/thoroughly enjoyed. 2. Find screen captures (stills) for each film. If you can’t find a still, pick a new movie. 3. Post the pictures with the rules; let your readers guess from what movie each still is 4. NO GOOGLING! This includes using IMDB if you recognise an actor Okay then, a mixed bag.......... 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

2005-11-21T16:39:00.000Z

You know its going to be one of those days when you're stirred from a restful night's slumber by the sound of the neighbours performing an exorcism...........

2005-11-17T22:23:00.000Z

My right foot is itching. On the underside, in the middle of the arch. I try to stick my finger down the side, but my glove is too thick and the gap between sock and shoe too narrow. I rub my foot against the grass, hoping that the sole of my shoe will press against it and provide me with a measure of relief, but it does nothing. It has been itching for a while, but thus far I have been able to ignore it. Not anymore; it is now the only thing I can think about. My existence revolves around the alleviation of this affliction. Perhaps if I try distraction, convince myself that the itch is insignificant......so I think about her. Her slight build, her diaphanous skin, that delicate smell that lingers all around her. And still, this itch pierces through everything, makes me want to peel away every layer of skin until there is only sinew and bone. The flesh is weak and sickly; it succumbs so easily to infirmity, to misery.

I reach for a nearby twig and snap it with both hands. The sound is pleasing, it quells for a moment my growing distress. I am briefly struck by the absurdity of my situation; surely I can just untie my shoe and be released from this ordeal? But that would signal defeat, and defeat is for the weak. I am not weak.

So I slide the broken twig into my shoe, and after a few slight adjustments I can feel the roughness of the stick against my skin. I jiggle it back and forth, lost to the wave of deliverance that washes over me.

No longer fettered, I continue dragging the body toward the lagoon. I carefully slip it into the water, pausing only to watch a nimbus of dark hair snake toward the surface.

She is too fragile for this world, and there are those with impure, violent thoughts who would only seek to damage her. I have saved her from that fate, I have set her free.

I wait for the water to fill her lungs, wait to watch it claim her. Then, with the stars echoed in the lights of the houses on the shore, I turn and make my way back to the trees.

The more I stay in here The more it's not so clear The more I stay in here The more I disappear As far as I have gone I knew what side I'm on But now I'm not so sure The line begins to blur

As I lie here and stare the fabric starts to tear It's far beyond repair And I don't really care As far as I have gone I knew what side I'm on But now I'm not so sure The line begins to blur **************************************** This in this morning's paper. Lyrics from The Line Begins to Blur - NIN

NaNoWriMo

2005-11-10T19:03:00.000Z

Not nearly as far as I'd like to be, but happy with where its going. May have to take off work 'sick' and lock myself away from the world to get it done, so just so you know where I am if you don't here from me ;~) For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. And for those who do, and are perhaps even the slightest bit curious about where I'm headed, here's a short extract: Oh, and its called Grass Kings Chapter One Cape Town is a city on the move; not upward, but outward. It sprawls, like an oil slick across tarmac, until the ocean blocks its path. Freeways coil themselves around islands of tin and corrugated iron, a circus-tent of cable darting in and out of roofs. But it’s not water that separates these islands from the mainland. For most who live in these townships, their birth legacy is the rain that turns their floors to mud. Their inheritance fire, a thief in the night, dancing as their possessions turn to ash. This ash is their message in a bottle, swept up by the South-Easter as it gusts and swirls toward the mountain. It falls on castles and palaces, kings and queens who wear no crowns and fly no banners. Camelot is the DVD on the bookshelf, a sword is the toy forgotten in a child’s cupboard, under a pile of tiny plastic warriors. Yet servants still scurry behind moats of steel and barbed-wire, surrogate mothers to the children of the New South Africa. Chivalry is dead, but the Golden Rule is still emblazoned on their hearts. Those who have the gold, make the rules. They call Cape Town the Mother City, but does she love all her children equally? One could forgive Her for this; never has a mother been tasked with the care of so many unruly offspring. Sarah gazed out the window of the train, comforted by the knowledge that on a day like today, Kalk Bay seemed to carry Mother’s favour. As the train held tightly to the coast, the sea spread out like a bejeweled garment, the sky was impossibly blue. Sarah closed her eyes and let herself drift off in the wash of nostalgia coming from the buildings clustered together a stone’s throw from the shore. Her feet could recall every side street, every inch of cracked pavement. Her fingers could trace the fractured patterns of flaking paint on the walls of antique stores and tiny coffee shops. Childhood may not have had much tangible to give her, no doll houses or gleaming bicycles, but her memories were happy ones. The smell of vinyl as Graham would tell her where to catalogue Billie Holiday, the raging debates that would eventually leave him and his customers breathless with laughter. He had owned the second-hand record store for as long as she could remember, wedged in the corner of a building that included the local café and Mrs. Kensington’s curio shop. She loved the music the wind chimes would make whenever the door opened, she loved Mrs. Kensington’s accent and her mock anger whenever Sarah tried to imitate her. The sound of the sea, as her father and Uncle Robby would leave on the fishing trawler from Kalk Bay Harbour in the mornings. It always seemed to be whispering to her, reassuring her that those men would return safely. She found comfort in the waves, serenity in that liquid thunder. And mostly, she found a sibling, with sea shells in her hair and salt on her lips. At thirteen, she hadn’t quite understood why Graham had died, and why his friend David had wept like she had never seen one man weep for another. Sarah understood now, which is why as soon as the train pulled into Kenilworth Station, she would begin the ten-minute walk that would take her to St Josephs. Nursing had not been an easy path to follow, but her father seemed reinvigorated by the image of his daughter rubbing elbows with doctors, and had thrown himself into his work, determined that money would not be a reason for her to fail. Even her secret sister expressed the desire for Sarah to succeed by offering up more of herself then she had for many years. Every week, the crew of that trawler would shake their heads in amazement, as nets overflowing were dragged on board. In the morning, as the dawn mists obscured the harbour lights, they would all sit quietly, fearing that today would mark the end of the ocean’s generosity. For two years, that day never came. And when it did, Sarah could never have guessed that her sister would take something in return. She’d never know where she found the strength to finish her final year. Her mother had been hysterical for weeks, then struck down by a grim lethargy that banished her to days of sleep and nights of harrowing shivers. His body had never been found; for Sarah there had been no grief, no tears, she’d felt hollow. As if the merest gust of wind would carry her away. Her sister, her betrayer. She could only hope that somewhere within that vast, blue coldness, answers lay like wrecked ships, waiting for her to discover them.

2005-11-04T10:08:00.000Z

The background: Sin City was released locally about three weeks or so ago. Before the movie starts, instead of the heady mix of mindless advertising and movie trailers that cinema-goers are usually obliged to sit through, it was decided that a locally made, five-minute long film would be screened instead. Certain cinemas advertised this fairly clearly, others not at all, which meant that a large group of unsuspecting viewers would no doubt have an opinion on this. Now, the tricky part of this is the subject matter of this short film. Rape, or more specifically, baby rape. Something which occurs with a frequency that should leave your bones cold. Something which is reported on in both television news and printed media, and if you live in South Africa and are not fully aware of the horror of this reality, then somewhere there is a rock with a man-shaped hole underneath. I saw Sin City last Friday night, and was unaware that this film was going to be shown beforehand. I was both highly impressed with the style of the film as well as the way the subject matter was handled. It used symbolism in an original and quite brilliant way, and the abstract style conveyed a powerful impact without resorting to overtly graphic images. (for example, the baby of the story is sometimes portrayed by a pile of bandaids or breadcrumbs) Fast forward to this afternoon, driving to a client and listening to the local (only) talk-radio station. This film and the way it was presented has clearly ruffled more than a few feathers, and so they have as a guest one of the creators as well as inviting people to phone in. Letters had been written and phonecalls made, complaining about being 'sideswiped' or 'tricked' into seeing something they were not in the mood for, some even going as far as to demand their money back. Fortunately, these opinions seem to be in the minority. Now, I agree that it was perhaps not the most ideal way to screen this movie, and that people should be able to choose what they see, but is anyone else struck by the same sledgehammer of irony that I am? This is freakin' Sin City people! Probably the most violent movie of the year, a movie in which young girls are raped and brutally mutilated by one of the main villains! Yet your sensibilities are offended by a five-minute movie where the only violence is implied? Sanity seems to prevail for the first ten minutes or so of the interview, until some moron phones in and poses these two questions to the creator. Where do most of these crimes take place? And where was this film shown? The implication was this. Most child rapes occur in poverty-stricken areas, and this film would have been shown in mostly upmarket centres. So why is it shown here when clearly the problem is elsewhere? Can you believe this guy!?!?!?! There was about a 30 second silence as both the guest and host were trying to figure out if this guy really did ask what they thought he asked. Well....er....I dunno.....maybe because if we live in a society where baby rapes occur on a regular basis ITS EVERYFUCKINGBODIES PROBLEM! That the key to solving poverty lies in the hands of those very people sitting on their lazy asses on the nicely cushioned cinema seats. So let me get this straight, it is acceptable to bitch about having to sit through a short but very relevant film about life in this country, but if I rant and rave about why I should sit through 15 adverts telling me to drive a Land Rover and use Revlon and Gillette and drink J&B and how pathetic my life is if I don't have a cellphone with both camera and mp3 player, then I get stared at like I should be in a straightjacket. I can take a few minutes to write a letter of complaint about how my movie-going experience was ruined, but I can't write a letter to the local government telling them that ONE baby rape is unacceptable, let alone FOUR in the space of two weeks. But I'm misunderstanding, I hear a voice from the back pipe up. It's not about the subject matter of the movie, its about choice. The choice to switch off the news if I don't want to see what's happening, to turn to the sports page instead of the frontpage. My apologies. Clearly I must be wrong. I mean, look at the wonderful Utopia that attitude has provided us with so far............

The Commission

2005-10-28T18:58:00.001Z

There's a clock tower in the left-hand corner. It's painted a red the colour of blood, which might seem an overly dramatic colour and may hint at grisly revelations to come, but were you to cut your finger and observe the colour beginning to bead, it would be that of the clock tower. Off to the right, a ten-foot penguin is framed by a sky so blue it burns. But don't let this conjure a sky that invokes in you a wanderlust, it is nothing that isn't seen in summer five days out of seven. Nothing special and something completely taken for granted. A ten-foot penguin might be slightly more unusual, but its only a billboard for the latest IMAX documentary.

In the center of the photograph, a couple are locked in a kiss. But its the composition that at first intrigues me more than the subjects. The couple are clearly meant to be the focal point, but they are dwarfed by their surroundings; the clock tower, the billboard, the yacht masts and glinting glass and all the finery of this waterfront tourist mecca. I find myself preoccupied more at the thought of who the photographer was then I am with the couple. Was it simply the unversed eye of a stranger? Someone who with the click of a shutter fulfilled a simple request for a couple they would never see again? Or was it someone connected to them, someone who's unspoken secrets may have been revealed by aperture and lens.

Blood, burning skies, unsettling compositions; I'm not sure which of these contributed to my initial unease, but I accepted the commission anyway. I'm not an artist who can afford to turn down what should be easy money. Mark and Jenny were as much the couple in love sitting here in my lounge as they were in the photo. Their wedding was a month away, and a friend of a friend of a friend had told them I was someone who worked quickly and reliably. Once the honeymoon was over and they'd moved into their new place, my painting would be hanging above their bed.

So I left the photo clipped above a clean canvas for a few days, a process I normally follow while I create those first few brush strokes in my mind. It was something I did just to ensure a completed vision; more often than not, when I committed that first stroke to canvas, time tended to fold like one of those origami sculptures I hated so much, and the work would be finished before I'd even had the chance to reappraise progression.

I had become rather entranced by the Cerulean Blue Hue I had selected for the edges of the sky, when a shadow flitted behind me. You know exactly what I speak of. When you're alone, and from beyond the edge of your vision you swear there was motion. No matter how quickly you turn, nothing is ever there. So you convince yourself that perhaps it was a lock of your own hair that strayed in front of your vision, or a trick of the light.

But that never happens to me. When I turn around, I always see something. Sometimes its soft, warm and smells of beach sand and apple blossoms. Or it's the mist that settles over a lake at sunrise, the sound of the moon reflected by the rain. But not this time. The shadow was shredded human flesh, the smell of trenches the night after battle, the sound of an avalanche, the burnt bronze of rusted metal. It was cold and jagged and screeching.

Later that evening, I complete the sky. A few buildings have begun to take shape in the background, the slightly misshapen figures of Mark and Jenny in the foreground. There's a sudden flash of desolate emptiness behind my eyes and my hand jerks involuntarily, the brush striking a line of Mars Black across the canvas. Defeated, I collapse on a nearby sofa, willing sleep to claim me forever.

I barely have time for self-pity. Two days later, I am informed by the friend of a friend that the wedding is off. The reasons are unknown, but rumour whispers that Mark has hurt Jenny beyond any hope of redemption. The shadow was right, again.

* * *

It should be a happy photo. A mother and her two children, dressed in outfits that would never be seen outside of the photograph. The girl, who looks four but is probably older, has her hand on the mothers lap. The younger boy is smiling, but there is no trace of impudence or mischief in that smile. I try to glean from the mothers eyes a hint of anything that would make her transformation onto canvas easier, but whatever is there is hidden from me.

I mix some Ivory Black for her cascading hair and reach for a round bristle brush. Behind me, like the last breath of a dying man, a shadow flickers.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know this particular theme has been dealt with many times before, and by far more skilled writers. But mine has something the others didn't. Mine is based on a true story.

Are we there yet?

2005-10-27T15:40:00.000Z

Hurry up with that promised post, already, Mr. Ten Miles ... else I'm NOT going to make waffles in the morning, for sure. Dumdedumdum ... (I'm going to get such a good clap on the back of the head, now) hee hee

2005-10-21T11:53:00.000Z

Don’t know about you lot but I’m very fed up that my Cape Town connection is currently on his “sabbatical” whatever thingie-ma-jiggy but I do hope that he is enjoying his exams – if that is at all possible. I’m having withdrawals. October saw the beginning of the Christmas marketing swindle – odd stuff started appearing on shelves, things that vaguely resembled Christmas cards and baubles for Kersfees booms. I thought I was having a flashback. But then, this week I also saw Christmas crackers in abundance all over the place and today, the whole marketing behemoth got into full capitalist swing as the bombardment of ads began in earnest on TV. Because I am terminally feeling like the Grinch, I will not say anything at all about it on here, cos I will just swear a lot.

I remember Winter, now.

2005-10-13T23:40:00.000Z

Even the rain refuses to collide with the house, droplets on the window pane fleeing upward, bustling past each other in the effort to escape. The sun mumbles an unconvincing protest at the presence of clouds, no doubt more than happy at their timely obstruction. The snow should melt at this onslaught from the heavens, but there is no snow. People think Winter is about snow, but there is no joy to be had from Winter. I know, I've tried to prise it from Her cold dead fingers. All She did was laugh.

Have you ever heard the dead laugh? I'm sure you have. At 3am, when you're two hours from home and it feels like the only heat in the world is coming from the lights of passing cars. When you're switching off the bedside lamp and it only goads the wind into screaming louder, and the shifting figure beside you is one you no longer know. That's not a scream, its a laugh. Ah, but the house. Strange. I have tried in vain to find a moment free from it's imprint on my mind, yet now as I hope for a release through these words, it hides from me.

And the rain, fighting to find a more direct route through my jacket, clinging to the branches above me with an inhuman ferocity. I feel safe on this side of the street, but I still shudder involuntarily at the thought of putting my foot on the tarmac. The light in the upstairs window is on. The irony of it should be funny. A light. A window. Yet everything around it is darker because of it. As dark as an abyss. But the abyss doesn't scare me. I've stared into it so many times, its like looking at my face in the mirror. Not the abyss, no. It's the window that scares me.

I imagine floating up, peering in from the refuge of shadow. Hearing the stumbling footsteps, as he makes his way up the stairs. The slurred voice whispering a name, as a young girl gathers her duvet tighter around her. I can hear what she's thinking. Its louder then the rain, louder then Winter's laugh. If I'm quiet enough, maybe I can be invisible, maybe he won't see me. Again, he breathes the name, makes it sound like it belongs to him. But it doesn't, it belongs to me.

And I'm not in that room anymore, not for a long time. I'm standing across the street, trying to steal strength from somewhere, anywhere. Hand in pocket, my fingers curl around the handle. It tells me my next step, but doesn't give me the strength to take it. I close my eyes, smell the gin on his breath, feel those calloused hands stripping me away one night at a time, his cloying breath on my neck; and take a step forward.

Tarmac. Sidewalk. Grass. Porch. Front door. And I'm home.

But Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack pours himself another, something with a kick.

And this, this is the house that Jack built.

My heart

2005-10-07T13:22:00.000Z

In about 15 years from now, you will meet a young man. He is a strange young man, who keeps an intricately carved chest under his bed. You will learn the contents of that chest, as he wears a different one each day. Masks. Each one carefully crafted, every contour a response to years of sharp observation. Whorled patterns cover almost every inch of smooth wood, even concealing the eyes. Most importantly, the eyes. Daedal spirals, designed to elicit a specific response. Masks for a different kind of masquerade, everyone else the unsuspecting guest. Should any of the masks be removed, you would perhaps be taken aback, the pristine exterior a subtle misdirection. For on the inside, sweat has hewn thin grooves, flecks of blood have merged with the grain. But no-one has ever taken off the mask. He shows no outward signs of this hidden toll, why would they? Slowly, the young man will become confused, You do not react as he anticipates, almost as if you do not see the masks. But that is not possible; even he cannot recall the curve of his mouth, the colour of his eyes. So he draws from deep within himself, he constructs a performance worthy of the masks. He forgets himself in it, every minute inflection has but one purpose. To make you see him as the rest do. That too, fails. For the first time, he will understand the nature of grace, as your fingers reach toward him. Your touch will startle him, like a sliver of glass. The first touch always does, on a skin that has been indifferent for so long. Your finger will trace the curve of his mouth. His eyes are blue. But you know that, you've known for as long as you've known him. They were never hidden from you. What you see in those eyes will remain a riddle to him, even after you marry him. He will not waste time in the attempt to solve it, rather, he is thankful every day. Thankful for what it is to wake up next to you. For what it means to love you. To know you. He is giddy at the sound of your laughter, brought to his knees every time you smile. You will both fetch that chest from beneath his bed. You will carry it to the shore, to the rocks where he spoke those words that bound you forever. He will hesitate as you hand him a match, but one glance from you brings him peace. And you will stand together and watch the flames rise into the air, the smoke dancing whorls and spirals. ********************* It's Mrs TenMiles birthday today, and I try to clutch at the words and meaning to convey what it is she means to me. And what is a facetted meaning, is perhaps best expressed simply. My heart, my lover, my wife and best friend. Happy Birthday. Loving you is like breathing.

2005-10-06T18:26:00.000Z

It's strange, isn't it. How and why and in what manner we form bonds with people. Is it similar interests? Is it that we recognise in them parts of ourselves? Or at least the way we long to be, if we didn't feel so broken most of the time. Or perhaps it is something beyond any attempt at explanation. And sometimes, if we are lucky enough, we manage to find a thread amongst this weave of human interaction, a thread that if we follow it patiently enough, brings us a rare gift: friends who make us better people just by knowing them. Today, I'd like to celebrate the birthday of one such gift. So please hop across to LekkerKwaiKiff, and wish Luke the merriest and jolliest of Happy Birthdays. Because she deserves it, and we could all do with being a little merrier and jollier. Lucretia, with all the affection I've been mustering all morning (and let me tell you this affection stuff is darned heavy, I think I've already put out my back...).. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! You are a true and wonderful friend, advisor, confidant and an angel. If angels were cooler and had an edge, that is.......

"Well maybe the real God uses tricks. Maybe He's not omnipotent, He's just been around so long, He knows everything!"

2005-10-04T22:22:00.000Z

The footsteps should echo off the sides of the brambled path, but they don't. A hand reaches up to gently tug aside a sliver of branch, lest it should snag the flowing, white beard. He hates it when that happens.

He stops to allow a procession of ants to complete their journey across the sloping terrain, the economy of movement, the uniform tap of a thousand tiny legs skittering across the grass and sand. He likes those; particularly proud of them in fact. A slight pause before continuing on allows an emerald-green lizard to crawl across his sandaled foot. It stops for just a moment, black eyes quiescent, before darting off again into the thick grass bordering the path.

The path bends to the left, opening out onto a breathless vista. An immense lake stretches out the span of a few miles. On its far bank, a forest of regal pines have taken up watch, sheltered by a brooding mountain, its solitary peak grasping up at the sky. The surface of the lake is mirror-like, reflecting the outrageous shapes of the late afternoon clouds, every delicate shade of blue finding in it a twin. He waves an outstretched hand over the surface, which shimmers in response, and suddenly its as if a million pinpricks of light are blinking in and out of existence, a noise like static rushing out in a billowing discharge.

"Bloody reception!" The voice drowns out the noise of the static, seems to take possession of the air, a heavy and tangible reverberation.

He closes his eyes, the stirring of a slight breeze the only indication that something is changing. Then, imperceptibly at first, that lonely peak starts to shift. A little to the left, a little more, and then at a slight angle. Although to look at the scene again, the peak could have been jutting out like that since the beginning of time.

The hand hovers across the lake again, and again it shimmers. This time, however, a clear picture begins to take shape.

"Much better..." The voice is almost a grumble, if such a thing were possible.

The image in the lake appears to be part of a city. A man in a suit sits on the stairs of an important looking building, eating a sandwich as steam rises from the polystyrene cup next to him. The incessant hooting of a car horn finally stops when a burly man gets out of his car and begins to gesture wildly at no-one in particular. On every sidewalk, people are in constant motion. Some look up, others down. After a while, its confusing as to whether the chaos is governed by the traffic lights, or the lights above the storefronts.

"Gabriel!" The voice seems to tremor between octaves. "Where's my freakin' Maj Jong?"

A snap of the fingers, and the mountain, forest and sky are once more reflected in the surface of the lake. He settles down on a nearby bench, spots a golden figure materialize in the corner of his eye, and sighs.

"God, I hate reality tv......"

For Luke, an armchair vacation.......

2005-09-27T23:30:00.000Z

photo by Rob Millenaar

2005-09-27T23:28:00.000Z

photo by Rob Millenaar

2005-09-27T23:26:00.000Z

photo by Rob Millenaar

"Can't sleep, clown will eat me"

2005-09-23T23:06:00.000Z

Luke and I both have a......how shall I put it......severe 'dislike' of clowns. In trying to find the source of this phobia, I have tried to remember any 'incidents' in my past which may explain why they freak the livin' bejesus out of me, but I can't recall any bizarre encounters. So do I look deeper? Perhaps some of these links will offer up an answer....... Where do these twisted psychos come from anyway? They set this up just to torment me, didn't they? Well no bloody wonder!!! The man with a plan

Seasons of the year.

2005-09-20T20:50:00.000Z

It's a late spring afternoon as you watch her back, the length of her hair, the perceived hesitancy in her walk; all of her, slip into the crowd and disappear. For a moment, you clutch at the smell of salted butter, candyfloss and dead grass, as if it is the only thing that will keep you from falling. A ten-foot tall man strides past you while a small girl giggles at the weight of a giant panda, her laughter lost in the cacophony of fairground music.

Dusk settles, and the lights of the ferris wheel find their voice against the darkening sky. And it sounds like this.

It's a summer Sunday, the journey home begins. Speckles of sand cling to the hair on your legs, your towel is damp and slightly uncomfortable but you don't care. Traffic is moving at a crawl, the usual 20 minute drive is going to take at least an hour. So slow, in fact, that passengers are climbing out of cars to buy ice creams from the roadside stall. Behind you, a friend slides open the door of the van and you all gaze at the ocean, trying to come up with names for a blue you've never seen before. The heat is slowly dying, its last breath ushering forth the gentlest of breezes. It skitters an empty wrapper across the tarmac then, bored, it wisps its way toward the van. The wind sees what none of your friends do, and as if to say I know, it conjures a last gust that catches a few strands of her hair and lays them tenderly on your arm. She reaches to brush them off, but hesitates for a second, holds your gaze and smiles.

And you can sense every sweaty car, as this procession winds its way along the coast, every occupant echoing your thoughts. There will never be a day this perfect again. And it sounds like this.

It's an autumn morning. The rays of a harvest sun surge through a gap in the curtains, but the tepid smattering of light on your face betrays a waning strength. Ironic, as you too feel burnt out. His hands, last night. The hands of a god, creating a supernova, coaxing from you an explosion so coruscating, so white hot, that Time must have been consumed, it's ashes flaking the bedroom floor. Gravity seems particularly cruel this morning, or is it the weight of your heart that constrains you to this moment? Your arm, dangling from the edge of the bed, finds your dress but no trace of his shoes.

And it's resignation that finally raises you from the dead. And it sounds like this.

It's winter. And winter has no sound.

Our happiest days slowly begin to turn into dust....

2005-09-14T16:17:00.000Z

I have never felt the sun on my back like this before. How can anything live beneath a gaze this unforgiving? I'd hoped the heat would sear through me, spear-like, gifting an end to this numbness that I have been feeling for days. But I still feel so cold. That word is strange, the meaning of it hidden from me for so long, yet now apparent and as inescapable as this ocean. Cold, arctic, bleak, frore.

Why have you abandoned me? Left me to feel that which goes against my nature? It is not the separation that has left me stranded, you have often journeyed thousands of miles away. But the current would always bring to me the sound of your heartbeat, a sound as old as the earth itself, a cadence I thought eternal.

I know you would not leave me of your own free will, I am as sure of that as I am of what I do now. But you have still left me; I can no longer sing for you.

I will lie here in this strangeness, unmoved. I can feel the sun still blazing, yet why does it grow darker? No matter, at least that word still hides its meaning from me. Darkness, twilight, eclipse, obscurity.

I am coming, my love. Together we shall swim the last of the hidden oceans.

*********************************

This Southern Right whale was killed by local police, after having been stranded since Tuesday. Some said it had made a navigational error, others that it had been sick. Scientists and oceanographers are still at a loss to account for this tragic phenomenon.

Violent ... my ass.

2005-09-12T12:42:00.000Z

So the Violent Femmes are coming to play in Jo’burg at the beginning of November. Whoopy dah for us, hey? FM and I were having a chat about this today and I absolutely dig this remark of his: “why is SA like the retirement complex of world music? Haven't toured or recorded anything for a decade? Re-ignite your international career! Come to SA!” This observation is so spot on - all we get are the has beens or no hopers. The Femmes were “bursting with curiosity” when I spoke to Brian Ritchie back in July ’94 … some people’s concept of bursting aint the same as mine. July 1994! This is the article as it appeared in the Saturday Star back then: In that same year, I must have interviewed or done profile/hack pieces on over a hundred different “alternative” music acts that were all seemingly raring to jump at the opportunity to come to South Africa. What happens though, is they all wait until their fortunes are waning or they are on the artistic scrap heap and nobody is interested in them anymore, then “Hello!” out of the corner steps a desperate and musically ignorant South African promoter, who is willing to flash a couple of bucks up their nose and Simsalabim they are here and aren’t we so lucky?! Fuck off. (Sorry to swear on FM’s blog, I’ll wash my mouth out with soap and water later). I could rant on about this for half a century – I practically have done – considering I’ve been banging this same old drum for nigh on thirty years. I just know Ministry will eventually hit Jo’burg, it’s just a question of time …. Ho hum … and I’ll probably be in a retirement village of my own by then,

New Old Beginnings

2005-08-31T00:36:00.000Z

The office move is almost at an end, and posting frequency should hopefully return to normal by next week. But as you've all be so patient....er.....you are still there, aren't you? So, started by the one and only Luke, the history of which can be followed here (along with various contributors), and snatched and dusted off by Fence from a shelf I'd begun to fear would be forgotten............it's the return of Story Crossing. If you're new to this, read on from the beginning or click here for my addition. And when you're finished, take the story wherever you want it to go! *****************

It was hot and sticky inside the club, the air hung thick with smoke. Overhead lights threw a sickly, seedy pink hue over everything. Mike was stoned. Way too stoned. And now he was drunk. Very drunk. He leant heavily against the grimy bar counter, the stench of stale urine from the nearby public toilet hung in the air and clung to the walls, insidiously working its way into his nostrils. He grimaced and attempted to focus on anything in his immediate vicinity, anything that wasn’t moving. It was hard. People crushed and crowded against him, all trying to catch the barmaid’s attention. Faces became distorted and stupid looking. He sniggered to himself at the grotesque images around him, he hated it here, he loved it here. The noise and heat engulfed him and for a few moments he felt almost happy, blanketed in the common bond he shared with all the other restless, lonely, souls. Then he remembered where he was and almost immediately, the blackness came rushing back into his head.

He gave up trying to focus on the people and stared instead at the brown bottle in his hand. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” throbbed suggestively from somewhere deeper in the club and a bunch of Goth chicks began gyrating in time to the beat, behind him. They were all drunk as skunks and teetering crazily all over the place. One of them lost her balance and crashed into the bulk of Mike’s slouching body, half rolling off his leather jacket. He wasn’t sure if it was deliberate on her part, he was past caring. He turned slowly and gave her an icy stare.

“Oops, sorry!” She blurted, giggling at herself. “My mistake.” She stopped abruptly, taking in his violent gaze. “Chill, dude.’ She said casually.

She looked about eighteen, so Mike reckoned she was probably fourteen or younger. Her face was plastered with thick white makeup; her eyes, heavily black from the Kohl eyeliner, looked like piss holes in the snow. She was wearing a black mesh top and no bra, her nipples poked through the strands of black string. He sneered at her.

”Fuck off.” He said in a menacing tone. He was so sick of adolescent girls. They were all so full of shit. Cock teasers and sluts. The last thing he needed tonight was a potential statutory rape probability

“Fuck you too, shit head!” she spat at him and swaggered off unsteadily back to her mates. Her friends gasped in unison when she told them what he’d said to her. A chorus of “arsehole!” and “dickface!” assaulted his ears; they made gestures with their middle fingers.

He shrugged and went back to his beer, glowering at the faces around him. The place was starting to close in, he felt claustrophobic. ‘Fucking bitches,’ he seethed inside. ‘I fucking hate them all. Only good for one thing.’ He continued to drink heavily and ordered another beer from the frazzled bar lady.

‘Geez, Mike,” she said, eyeing him warily. ‘You’re sure as hell putting them away tonight, hey? Slow down, dude.” She was fond of Mike, he was a regular Thursday Ladies’ Night patron at the club but she hadn’t ever seen him this tanked up, or as surly before.

“Just give me a goddam beer, Claire and leave me the fuck alone with the lectures, okay?!” His voice was heavy with booze, yet even in his inebriated state, he managed to speak clearly.

“I’m not lecturing you, Mike.” Claire said, uncapping the beer and slamming it down hard on the counter next to his outstretched hand. “Just take it easy, okay?” She tossed his loose change close to the beer bottle. “Give me any shit and I’ll get Bruce to throw you out.” She glared at him threateningly and then spun around, before he could say anything abusive. A crowd of people on the opposite side of the bar were clamouring for refills. She didn’t have time for arguments.

Fatigue pulled at Mike, dragging him down. He tried to shake it off with a few gulps of the fresh, cold beer but it wasn’t helping. Bruce, the massive bouncer, had always been friendly but Mike knew that it wouldn’t be impossible to overstretch the boundaries and get turfed out into the street. Bruce didn’t take crap from anyone – friend or otherwise.

Mike was getting sick of the place, sick of the babies, the endless parade of schoolgirls. ‘Why the fuck do I come here?’ He mulled to himself. ‘It’s not like I even enjoy it anymore. Always the same bunch of losers and wannabees. They all think they are so cool but they’re just a load of posers, trendies.’ Vivid images erupted in his head – he was striding through the crowded club, gun in hand, taking pot shots at whoever put a face in front of him. Graphic pictures of bloodied bodies and screaming teenagers, flooded through his mind. He was enjoying this day dream; a deep secret smile in his eyes, when he saw her standing across from him. His heart almost stopped beating.

She’d been dead all of three years, but it was still a breathless fall to sobriety every time he saw her. Well, not dead three years, but died three years ago……..shit, he couldn’t even wrap his head around it in the cold, clear light of day, let alone with the fog that was currently loitering in his mind.

He watched her walk toward the bar, a clinical stride that didn’t seem to belong to her; or maybe it did, maybe the warmth he had always associated with that movement was the real illusion. As always, she was dressed plainly in a black garment that shifted unnaturally, almost as if the touch of her skin would leave some dread taint.

“Michael.”

How could he bear to hear that voice speak his name, that as it had been stripped of any notion of intimacy, so was he stripped of the last vestiges of sanity every time he heard it.

“You’re looking well.” She could have at least made an effort at candidness, but Mike reckoned once you’d been to the other side, sincerity was an expendable commodity.

Who would have guessed that science would beat Christ to the resurrection? When they successfully brought that boy back 10 years ago, Mike had not an inkling of the impact it would have on his life. Why had she just not told him? He could understand the right of every individual to request the procedure, if it were possible, yet it angered him that she’d concealed her decision. She should’ve been mangled by a train, not that fucking pussy of an aneurysm that left her in such ‘pristine’ condition.

R.E.S.C.O.R. He couldn’t even think the word without feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat. You thinking of donating your organs when you kick it? Fuck that! Resurrection is the way to go, provided you have enough cash and have managed to keep yourself from splattering all over the pavement. Why no-one seemed to be bothered about the secrecy surrounding the procedure was beyond him. Could the joy of being re-united with a loved one truly blind you for so long? Surely they could see that what came back was like an image in a mirror, that something was lost in the transition? Perhaps that was why he hung out at the club so often; it was as close as he could get to the sheer desolation, the intoxicating loneliness of death. Here, he could worship at the feet of his beloved Mistress. He was sure that She would whisper to him Her design for vengeance against those who would dare defy Her will and encroach on Her domain. For a moment he again saw himself, gun in hand, blowing away these pathetic freaks. Rescor would have a bloody field day.

He tried to straighten up, to stare the true freak in the eyes.

“Kira, my darling wife.” The sarcasm peeled from his voice like burnt skin. “What do you need this time?”

Kira slid onto the barstool next to him like it was a well worn saddle. She was totally comfortable in her surroundings whatever they may be, a characteristic that was completely foreign to Mike, in his own life and in the life of the woman he once knew as his own. Once she was brought back, it seemed she was made into some sort of chameleon as well.

As she edged closer to him he noticed the pleasant effects of his alcohol induced haze retreating into a mild numbness of his senses. However, his eyesight was on alert and he noticed the standard Rescor barcode tattooed on the inside of her right wrist when she reached for his bottle of beer.

“I’m just a bit parched my love, mind if I have a sip?” She said as she took his beer and downed what was left in one fluid motion. Kira motioned for Claire to bring Mike another bottle. Claire stepped over to the pair, aware of their history and of the potential for disaster whenever the two were together after Kira’s transformation. They were both as volatile as gun powder next to a grease fire and Claire wanted no part of the fireworks.

Claire set Mike’s new bottle of beer down in front of him and retreated quickly as Kira swiped it and took a long pull, placing it back in front of Mike with a teeth-jarring thud.

To think of putting his mouth to the same place this thing beside him had just touched her lips to, made the acid in Mike’s gut rise. He eyed Kira warily and said with great disdain, “Keep it sweetie.”

He couldn’t stand this back and forth banter she insisted on every time they were in the same zip code. It was almost like she had some sort of tracking device on him and she knew when he was vulnerable and when his soul was raw from life.

She found him. She taunted him. She made his life hell showing him that he could never have it the way it used to be.

It tore Mike’s heart out to think of the love he once knew with Kira and that it all was boiled away when the mad scientist bastards at R.E.S.C.O.R. woke her from what should have been death.

Kira swung towards him on her barstool, seeming to almost float in her supernatural way of moving, and Mike; lost in his thoughts; inadvertently flinched. She laughed low and throaty and sprung from her perch, rabbit punching Mike in the back of the head and leapt away to taunt, tease and harass a group of burly bikers in a darkened corner.

‘Those guys have no idea what they are getting into.’ Mike thought to himself as he rubbed the back of his head. Claire stepped over to him to ask if he was ok. “I’m fine Claire, thanks for asking.”

Claire thrust out her chin determinedly and said, “Mike, I don’t know why you let her do that to you. It is like she hurts you on purpose every time she sees you. Either she hurts your feelings or hurts you physically or both. She is just a cruel woman, no… scratch that… She’s a Monster! I don’t know why you don’t turn her into that group of Blade Runners that have popped up over in Dallas. I mean, man… I know she used to be your wife and all… but dude… that thing ain’t nobody’s wife!”

Mike thought for a second and then replied, “I guess I just feel a little responsible for her Claire.” He shook his head sadly and walked out of the bar.

If only he had read the fine print on the medical release form at the hospital.

But he had always thought he was better than the rest of them, hadn’t he? That no one could ever screw him over because he had all bases covered. Well, screwed him over she had, good and proper.

The day she… died, it had all started with a headache. He’d thought nothing of it at first, she was tired from working all hours at the office, and her father’s heart scare had kept them on edge for a few days. The worry had only come later. Much later. Too late. By then, Kira was weeping from the pain, and her skin looked taut, stretched across the cheekbones, and glistening with sweat. Very unhealthy. Very worrying. That’s when he’d realised that she needed the ER.

Every time he’d thought about that drive to the hospital, inevitably the words ‘movie clichés’ came to his mind although, it had definitely not felt that way at the time. He had driven like he’d never driven before, clutching the wheel with both hands, aware that if he took Kira’s hand, he might crush it with the sheer strength of his worry. He lifted her gently from the passenger seat after a screeching halt right in front of the entrance, and run to the first nurse he’d seen. He was nearly incoherent. They’d thankfully taken over from there.

“You OK, Mike?” Claire inquired, snapping Mike out of his memories. It took him a second to actually remember where he was – in the bar’s parking lot, absently standing in front of his car, dangling car keys in hand – and it came crashing down. Kira was back. Again. Yet, somehow, this time, he had a nagging suspicion that she very much wanted to outstay her welcome. “Yeah, just, y’know, had a few too many, I guess”. Claire didn’t insist. She’d told him that Kira was bad news. There was nothing else she could do. And she couldn’t afford to get tangled up in the lives of her patrons, however nice the patron. Not that Mike would listen anyway. She threw the stub of her cigarette, and went back in.

“Sir, hi, I’m Dr. Edwardes. I’m going to have to skip the niceties, here, time’s running fast. You are aware that your wife signed up for Rescor procedure?” “Er, n… no…?” He’d hated the sound of his voice at that moment. Whiny, scared, choking. He wasn’t like that. “We found the acceptance card in her purse. Unfortunately, she was in a coma on arrival, so we couldn’t get her formal confirmation.” Dr. Edwardes proceeded to brief him on what exactly the resurrection entailed. Mike hadn’t even paused to consider the consequences: Kira was dead, Kira could live again, the answer shot out of his mouth like a hot breath. “Yes, go on, do it.” Just like that, he’d allowed his wife to live again. She’d stayed at the hospital for a couple of days, and he took her back home with the same kind of feeling he’d had on their wedding day. The trouble became apparent fairly rapidly. He’d first noticed the mood swings. And it escalated fairly rapidly; she needed more and more time on her own, locked up in the bathroom, or out, just out, he’d never known where. Up until the point when she’d simply vanished. She’d even kissed him goodbye that day.

“Hey, Michael.” Kira caught up with him sitting in his car. Not surprising considering that the old piece of shit he used for transport usually required a few minutes warming. Fuck. “Kira. I’ve asked you before. What do you want?” She was bending low to his level, showing more cleavage than he cared to see. It made his skin crawl that at some point he’d loved making love to her. She was so alien to him now. “Michael, darling, don’t do this. What do I want? I want my husband back.” She started toying with the buttons on his shirt. The way her nails would grate the fabric against his skin used to drive him insane with desire for her. With love. That’s what it was then. “I want children. A home. A fa-mi-ly.”, she sing-songed. “Oh Kira, give me a break. You don’t want a family, you want new toys. What? That bunch of apes in there didn’t perform? I have to go.” He gunned the car. He felt sober. He felt scared

A slow smile played across Kira’s face as she watched Michael flee, the tyres squealed and spun, sending dirt and dust flying into the air. She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the wall, plenty of time to catch up with him again. She inhaled deeply, loving the feel of the smoke and the nicotine rush. No more worries about lung cancer, yet another reason to thank Rescor - to thank Michael for bringing her back. She glanced at her reflection in the bar’s darkened window. Not a hair out of place, since Rescor she always looked pristine.

She thought about his earlier question. What do I want? ”Just to be happy”, Kira’s lips curled mockingly as she spoke softly to herself, practicing her reply, saccharine sweet, for next time he asked. And yet, in a way, it was the truth. But she knew he couldn’t understand. No one could. Not unless they’d seen what she had. Not unless they too had been brought back from death. As she dropped her cigarette she noticed a frown on the Kira in the window, marring her smooth forehead. Kira summoned a cold smile, she didn’t want to be upset by anything anymore. Nothing was worth getting upset over. Life was for living, she knew that now. No more wondering about what other people wanted, what they needed from her. No more thinking she owed anyone anything. She’d been dead. She had died. It still sounded strange to her.

”I was dead,” she whispered to the empty car park. ”I know what happens next, I’ve seen the other side.” Her voice had turned bitter, the frown had returned.

Kira could still remember the feelings that had swamped her the moment Rescor had brought her back. At first she had merely been slightly confused, but as the hours had passed and she realised that she hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t even been unconscious, or in a coma, but had been dead!

Yet it hadn’t been a shock. In a strange way it actually made sense to her. If what she had experienced was true, was the ”afterlife”, well, it explained why she didn’t care that she was upsetting Michael. At first she had tried to at least act troubled. To pretend it bothered her that he was upset, but in the end it really didn’t matter, she decided not to waste time on pretense. All that mattered to Kira was Kira.

She slipped another cigarette from its packet, her reflection flickering as she lit it. For a moment she stared at the red glimmer, as it deepened when she inhaled. The only thing that should matter to anyone was themselves. She knew that now. Before Rescor, before death, she had worried about so many insignificant details. About other people, about their feelings, or what they thought of her. Not any more. Death had freed her of guilt and remorse. No more shame or disgrace, no fault or failing. Now she could divide the world into what she wanted, and everything else.

And that was the reason she still trailed after Michael. Memories of how happy he had made her. She didn’t care that she had once made him happy, that it had been a mutual joy. The important thing was how she felt. Besides, it amused her to see how uncomfortable she made him. Seeing him squirm was as good a result as anything else. If death had taught her anything it was that you only get one life.

She laughed at that, dropped the butt of her cigarette on the ground, turned and headed back into the bar. Michael may not have wanted to play tonight, but Kira knew she could always find some entertainment.

Brian Cane watched the car speed away, tires squealing and grinned. Soon the case would come to a head; soon it would be his time. He watched the woman, the sweet apple of his eye, his target, with that look of cruelty and the attitude of distain in her stance, adjust the moot perfection of her looks, finish her smoke and go back inside the club. He ached for her, as he ached for all his targets, but this one pulled at him more than any of the others, and he wanted to know why.

Brian Cane was one of the new breed of bounty hunters. For centuries the title “bounty hunter” had graced many heads, changing in definition as the time demanded, yes, but always meaning killer-for-hire, no matter what language you spoke. The only language Brian understood was money: he heard in money and spoke in blood. Some of the citizens referred to his kind as “Blade Runners”, an allusion to some movie or other Brian only vaguely remembered as a kid and from what he remembered, he didn’t mind the name. Now was the perfect time to be a killer-for-hire.

Since the advent of R.E.S.C.O.R. and the announcement of their revolutionary technique, Brian Cane had sat on the edge of his seat, awaiting the inevitable. In his head, the world was full of zombie flicks and now, heavens be praised, those fools who called themselves scientists had brought zombies into the real world, big as life and twice as colorful. He knew there’d be problems -dying changed people. Society wasn’t prepared for an influx of people who knew what it was like to die, of people knowing that death wasn’t the end any more. Religious groups were up-in-arms over the scientific and therefore sacrilegious resurrections and the courts didn’t know what rights to award the growing minority of people who were essentially the property of R.E.S.C.O.R.

Oh yes, there would be problems, and then, there would be him.

***

He felt sober. He felt scared.

Mike could feel his sobriety, a sharp white feeling lodged in the center of his brain. The car hummed and shook at the speed he forced it to go. That Bitch, he thought, and then liking the taste of the thought he said it out loud: “That Bitch.”

Ever since her reincarnation, for that was what it was not a resurrection. Sure she looked and sounded like his wife but that was not her. The woman he had lived with and loved was dead and he just had come to grips with that.

“My wife is dead.” he said to the universe in general and his voice sounded shaky, unsure like he was fighting back tears, like he didn’t want to and couldn’t believe it. So he tried again. “My wife is dead!”

This time the words came out the way he wanted them to, like the way he wanted to face her: sure, steady and above all, in control of himself. But he wasn’t in control, not of anything. Damn R.E.S.C.O.R. and their need to defy death, life and God. Damn them for what they did to her, to him. If she was gone, dead and buried, then he could move on with his life, move onto mourning and get out of this slump he was in. If she was gone!

Mike shook his head to clear it. The anger was leaving him, draining away and all the alcohol he had downed at the club was coming back to him, a red mist threatening to totally overthrow his composure. He tried to disgorge thoughts of Kira, to focus on where he was going and what he had to do. But he didn’t care where he was going. It was enough that he was going away from her.

That bitch masquerading in his beloved wife’s visage, pretending that they still had a connection. It was fine for him to think these thoughts when she was not around, but the constant reminder of her presence, when she sought him out to torment him, did nothing but make him feel guilty. Guilty for letting her die, for not seeing the signs before, for not loving her anymore. What could he do? Every time he saw her, his heart thumped and for a minute wanted to throw his arms around her and … but then he’d see that look in those lovely eyes. The look that told him this wasn’t Kira, not his Kira anyways. That look hungered for his pain for the world’s pain, said the world owed her something and that she was going to take it, one way or another. A stranger parading as his dead wife, a zombie. Damn R.E.S.C.O.R.. Mike reached over, opened his glove compartment and took out the small bottle of whiskey he hid there for emergencies. He took a swig.

If she was gone, dead and buried, he could move on with his life.

Edgar Bersford, vice-president of Onyx Unlimited and head of R.E.S.C.O.R. subsidiary, was fretting again.

Edgar looked at a number of files before him. He sighed. Ever since they started their public operations, there had been no end to problems. And now reports submitted by the company investigators were threatening to get his ulcers going again.

He looked at the files again one by one.

Somehow, after their resurrection, some of the R.E.S.C.O.R. clients had been showing unsettling behavioral changes. The percentage was still small– around fourteen percent– but the numbers were slowly growing and Edgar was a realist enough to know that the problem wouldn’t just go away.

Bzzzt!

Edgar looked up as the intercom buzzed and Mari, his secretary, said in a voice made electronically inhuman, “Sir, Dr. Witt wishes to inform you that the A.I. platform has become unstable again after the last insertion. Likewise, the Vatican investigator wants another appointment to visit the lab again.”

He shook his head and realized that Mari wouldn’t have seen the gesture.

He pushed an intercom button and replied, “Ah, tell Dr. Witt to start the program but to pass the confirmation sequence to me. I’ll be the one to welcome the personality. As for the priest… give him the usual run-around.”

He ground his teeth. If not for the benefits, he hated his job. Not only did he have to deal with settling in the new A.I. personality every time it went insane– always a disturbing process– but he also had to deal with people like Father Ambrose Callow, the Vatican representative sent to check R.E.S.C.O.R.’s resurrection pogram.

Callow: now he was a cold fish. If not for the fact that the priest was a Jesuit scientist and extremely curious, Edgar could have sworn Callow was jealous in behalf of the Roman Catholic Church. Like it or not, the Church had never been happy with R.E.S.C.O.R.’s promise of ‘eternal life’ for its clients. Bad for their business, Dr. Witt had once joked.

Edgar wouldn’t have told that to Callow’s face. The priest looked dangerous.

“By the way, Mari,” Edgar said, thumbing the intercom, “Tell Dr. Witt to prep the A.I. for another dimensional insertion. We’re way behind in resurrecting clients as it is. I’ll talk to the A.I. before it’s sent out.”

“Alright sir.”

He pitied the A.I. personality that would be facing the omnivorous beings that ruled behind the dimensional gate in the lab. But between facing the chairman of the Onyx board on why they were behind schedule and over costs, and making deals with demons even older the world, Edgar knew what choice he’d make

***

“I know you.” “What did you say?” Kira spun on her heel. Her voice was a low hiss. She floated across the room, went down on one knee in front of him, so her eyes were level with his. Those blazing eyes the only real indication of her temper. Her face, her body language all gave the impression of her being utterly at ease.

“I know you.” Brian repeated the words, not allowing himself to look away from that gaze. “I know what you are.”

“You know me.” Her voice was still low, but there was an incredulous note to the tone. “Know me” she repeated his words as she walked away. Brian half expected to see an angry tail swish behind her, she had the grace of a cat. “How the fuck can you know me!” The low hiss was gone. Kira was shouting now. “I don’t even know me.” In a heartbeat she crossed the room again, a slap burned his cheek. “Know me!” She stood staring down at him, anger and tension visible in every move, every muscle.

And then suddenly, with a toss of her head, and one deep breath, it was gone. She was virtually emotionless again. “You keep making me frown and I’ll get wrinkles,” she smiled at Brian, playfully, and he shivered. This was not how it was supposed to be.

He was good at his job, he knew that. So did countless previous targets, although none of them would be able to provide references. So how had this happened? He had been careful. Trailed her for days to learn about her. Kept his distance, never broken any of his rules. He’d always been successful in the past. But now, here he was, tied to a chair, helpless, a prisoner. Powerless where always before he’d been in command.

He didn’t even know how he’d gotten here. One minute he’d been watching for the target, she had escaped his surveillance in a crowd. She had only been out of his sight for a few moments, he’d been so confident of picking her up again that the blow to the head had been a total surprise. And the shock had been even greater when he opened his eyes again to see her, his target, watching him.

”So who am I then? Brian hadn’t expected the question, he blinked at her, uncertainly. “You said that you know me. Well go on, reveal all.” She slid a leg over a chair and sat, resting her chin on its back, waiting for a response. Brian stayed silent. He knew he shouldn’t have spoken in the first place, or at least he should have pleaded ignorance. Pretend he hadn’t been trailing her. But his head was throbbing, and he’d just spouted the first thing that he could think of. Mentally he cursed his stupidity.

Kira sat, unmoving, eyes fixed on him. The minutes ticked by, silence filled the room, pressing on Brian. Urging him to speak up. He resisted, he knew all about that little trick. Slowly Kira’s expression changed. The slightest of smiles, and then a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. For a moment she seemed almost normal, almost human.

Then she stood up, walked to a counter and her movement marked her out as what she was; different, other. Brian watched her as she picked up a sharp, shiny knife. One hand on the hilt, the other stroked the blade as she turned back towards Brian. “I’ve never tortured anyone before. You’ll have to give me some pointers” her voice was calm as, with the slightest hint of anticipation in her eyes, she smiled at him.

Brian tensed, he couldn’t help it, as she trailed the point across his stomach. Kira increased the pressure, watching intensely as his shirt and the muscle below shrank away from the metal, but without the force necessary to slice through anything. Where should I start” she whispered the words into his ear, her mouth brushing his skin as she spoke. The knife moved, sliding up until it reached his neck, tracing his jaw line, then moving further up and reached the corner of his eye. “They say you can pop an eye out with a sharp jab… I wonder…” Brian’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding, very carefully he remained absolutely still. “But I do like the idea of gutting someone.” As she spoke the knife returned to his stomach, paused and then slowly inched lower. If Brian had been unmoving before, now he was a statue. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like, to slice someone open.” The blade pressed a little harder. “Curiosity killed the cat,” her eyes sparkled, “but mine might just do away with you.”

Kira laughed suddenly and moved away, tapping the blade against her leg. “You were going to kill me, weren’t you Mr. Blade Runner,” her voice was mocking. She left the knife down and picked up a pack of cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply. “God says that the intent is still sin doesn’t he? And let us not forget an eye for an eye. A death for a death.”

The smoke floated around her, hazy patterns that moved as she approached Brian, the knife back in her hand. “I guess my lack of faith means this is your lucky day.”

2005-08-31T00:26:00.000Z

Expecting the end of his shift to politely knock on his window and tell him to go home and get some rest, Mike had parked the car at Stinger's Point. The temptation to get out and stroll along the pier was deafening, but he knew he couldn't leave the CB. Something about the ocean calmed him; if he could just be close enough to feel the breeze sauntering in from the north, to be lulled by this infinite expanse....

As if to remind him of his intrusion in this picture postcard, the CB crackled to life. It took Mike a few seconds to realise dispatch was indeed speaking English, like repeating the word 'chicken' over and over until it sounds ridiculous, almost alien. Still dreaming of white horses and coral reefs, Mike sparked the ignition, flicked on the siren and gunned down the road, a dismal cascade of gravel the only indications of his fleeting presence. Mike took a left at Picton Avenue, the snarl on his face mirroring that of the engine as the affluence of each passing neighbourhood became hard to ignore. Finally, the hallowed streets of Rosedale stretched out before him, allowing him about as much welcome as Kira had these last few nights. Couldn't she see that he was powerless to do anything about it? Paramedics had little room for debating the fairness of double-shifts; gun shots and car wrecks kept their own working hours, leaving the rest of humanity playing catch-up. His first instinct as he pulled into the driveway of No. 67 was OD. Rich party, rich kids and the designer drug of choice, perhaps a little too rich. The small coterie outside the front door did nothing to change that perception; an hour ago, he'd have been surprised if anyone saw past the hairstyles and the shoes, now all he could see was the fear and uncertainty in their eyes. They'd moved the kid to a corner of the lounge where a flustered girl sat sobbing, stroking his hair and whispering in his ear. Kid was probably not the most accurate of words, he was more likely around 23, but no one looks old when the life is draining from their body. Ten minutes after he first received the call, Mike was checking for vital signs. The boy had dusty blonde hair, plastered to his face by the sweat of his initial convulsions, which according to his girlfriend had stopped abruptly minutes before Mike arrived. As he reached for the limp wrist to take a pulse, he saw the unmistakable sheen of a RESCOR bracelet. The key to life in a simple, translucent band.

Mike had no idea where the thought originated, but it came lurching through his mind like a freight train. Exhausted, running on adrenaline and with no clear recollection of anything earlier than three hours ago, it was the only thing he could hear. The kid’s dead. Contact RESCOR, they'll be here in a matter of minutes and then it’s their problem. Not even much of a problem. Probably bump into the kid in the breakfast aisle of the local supermarket next week. It was amazing how easily he gave in. And when one of the onlookers asked him why he hadn’t even bothered starting CPR, Mike simply replied, “No point. Nothing more I can do.”

Mike greeted the two Reclaimants at the door. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to call RESCOR’s collection agents, but the efficacy and fluidity with which they conducted themselves always made him uncomfortable, like being trapped in a room full of tele-evangelists. All neon smiles and crisp white suits on the outside, but beneath the surface shimmers a darkness malevolent enough to turn an angels heart to coal.

“Male, 23, suspected overdose of Methylmonoferoxide resulting in massive heart failure.” One of the Reclaimants dipped his chin in acknowledgment and made his way over to the body. Methylmonoferoxide. Moonfox. Didn’t get you high, just made you feel like a part of your life mattered. Heroin was the poor mans poison these days. If you could afford it, nothing beat feeling relevant.

“Excuse me…”. The Reclaimants voice was measured, firm. “We appear to have a problem.

Mike cautiously approached the three figures. There was an edge to the statement he did not find reassuring.

“And what exactly is this problem?”

The second Reclaimant indicated the bracelet and slowly passed a small device across its surface. “The scanner cannot retrieve any information.” Both looked at Mike, revealing no trace of emotion. There was something deeply unsettling about their synchronicity.

“Surely you can clear this up once you’ve taken him back to the treatment facility?” As soon as he’d spoken the words, Mike knew it was the wrong question.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand.” That measured tone again, as if this were a university lecture. “This band is fake.”

“Yes.” The second Reclaimant, who had up until know remained quiet, spoke with a lilting falsetto. “We’ve only recently become aware of the problem, but due to the status afforded our clients, these bands have become the latest desirables, and we all know that's an open invitation for forgeries. This is one of the best we've seen, in fact. But the outside is so much easier to fake then what's on the inside."

"So...what you're saying is........" Mike failed to coax the rest of the words from his throat.

"We are saying that this is not a client." The Reclaimant tried to sound sympathetic, but it was a pathetic attempt. "Save the intervention of some religious icon, this body is indeed lifeless and should be taken to the morgue at St Gabriel's."

"It's a pity you couldn't initiate CPR just a few minutes earlier." That disarming fasletto again. Courteous, but always indifferent. And as quickly as they had arrived, the two Reclaimants melted away into the now thinning crowd.

The disbelief seemed to seep up from the ground, penetrating his feet, coarsing through his legs and exploding in his chest. Mike suddenly realised, the one rule he prided himself in sticking to, the one tenet which had pulled him through countless medical emergencies. He hadn't even asked the boy's name. Where was Kira, she would understand, she would forgive him. As he stood in the doorway, the flashing lights of the arriving ambulance seemed to be screaming with him.

Kira.......Kira.......Kira........

Three days later, the aneurysm would change both their lives forever.

Dreamy stuff

2005-08-19T06:18:00.000Z

While I wait patiently for Mr. FM to do his thing ... No pun intended but yeah, I was reading the Banzai Cat’s latest post about his nightmare and the trouble he was having with a shower curtain and feces - and I was thinking that loads of people pooh pooh the idea of interpreting dreams and nightmares – saying it’s a load of old bollox and impossible to garner anything from it of any use – but is there anything in it, really? There are many people on the other end of the spectrum who attach great store to dream analysis – it is very Big in Africa. There is definitely something in it, I‘m sure – and it’s often been said that similar images seen in dreams by people from differing cultural backgrounds, seem to have a common meaning – this has given rise to all those superficial and downright misleading Dream Dictionaries you get in bookstores and all over the ‘Net. I think it gets complicated when there is a lot of symbolism and imagery in a dream or nightmare because we tend to concentrate on those individual icons, rather than the mood and texture of the whole dream. Can the interpretation of your wanderings through sleep really help you, though? I hate pseudo-science and all it stands for, I have no patience with the wishy washy stuff that comes out of so-called “paranormal” research but I have doubts that serious science will ever catch up, to the point where it can explain what all the stuff we dream about actually means. It’s just one facet of our lives that is mostly overlooked and ignored – we only really ever discuss dreams with people when we have been deeply, emotionally affected by that dream and it has woken us up, or the dream-movie has stayed with us throughout the day, lingering in the sub-conscious and nagging us to think about it at some greater inner level. I go for months, sometimes years and don’t ever remember a dream and then I have a series of them, or a specifically recurring dream – in my own experience, I’ve learnt to take some degree of notice when this happens, although I try not to become obsessed with the interpretation.

2005-08-18T01:08:00.000Z

An office move to a new building in less than two weeks is currently eating up far too much of my time then is healthy, and so Ten Miles has been, and likely will be, neglected. But fear not, I shall return once everything is up and running at the new premises. So put those champagne corks back in, you're not rid of me yet!! We live in an apartment complex across the road from a race course (horses), where construction work is currently underway. As I leave for work fairly early when it is not yet light, when I open the front door, I'm greeted by the bright lights of two large cranes in a sea of black, like the site of an alien craft's crash-landing, or the excavation of some fascinating artifact. So when I should be swearing about the amount of time I'm spending at work and what I'd rather be doing, instead I dream up scenarios detailing the space-craft or invent histories explaining the artifact.....and I'm reminded that I should just be thankful I still possess the capacity for such meanderings of the mind. Sign in the window of Ten Miles: Back in ten!

Adoons-hulle

2005-08-07T07:40:00.000Z

I ended up talking about life as a human ape over on my page this morning and this feeling is still with me, so I’m thinking about it some more over here. I feel clinically detached from my humanness these days. I don’t know when it happened, if it’s been creeping up on me for a long time and I haven’t noticed the slow alienation from myself until now, who knows? All I know is I am not feeling human today. I haven't felt "human" for ages. They say that monkeys, as babies, demand the same amount of physical love from their parents as humans do and that if they don’t get it (for example apes that are isolated and used for vivisection/experimentation purposes and studied in laboratories) that they go insane, become withdrawn and schizophrenic. I am beginning to think that this happens to humans too and not just during infancy – if we don’t get adequate physical attention on a broad-based level throughout the whole tenure of our lives, we start to go inward on ourselves and we implode. Hopefully when I get back from the Kruger at the end of September, I will have tuned into myself again. My soul craves wilderness today. I need wild.