Due to reasons of practicability and health, today's will be the last of the daily stories. More stuff hopefully in the future, maybe not.
When I was first seen, it didn't take long for the news of
my arrival to soak rapidly through the filthy town. By the time I had made it
to the square, I was surrounded by excitement, cheers and applause! There were
the helpless - a beggar with the plague, a statesman with lime green nasal eruptions,
a stable boy with a recently inverted face – All begging for my touch. To the
watching crowd I raised my hands, spreading an attentive hush.
I had them
enraptured, in awe, as I carefully drilled holes in the tops of my patients’
Hansel the barbarian cracked the beasts spine with the force
of his elbow. He drove it’s head into the ground, clamped it’s skull with his
thigh and wrenched the body crooked with a twist of his torso.
flopped to the ground. Hansel stood panting, then resting against a tree. The animal
had not deserved it, and reprimanding his own blind rage, he punched the tree.
“Ow.” Said the tree “Dude, the more you practice being
angry, the easier it will be for you to get angry. Has no one ever told you
that? Grow some fucking nuts man. You can crack a pterodactyl spine with your
bicep, but you can’t exercise a tiny bit of self-restraint and use your massive muscles to hold still? If I were your
mother I would have you knitting. You hear me? Knitting. Then you’d have more
to wear than that tiny leather speedo.”
Hansel wandered away from the tree, feeling dizzy and oddly
vulnerable in the open air.
Marlo was proud of his ability to bring birds into existence
with nothing but his words. The town people admired him, though he refused to
reveal how exactly he discovered this unusual talent.
Marlo would speak birds for every day of the week, and they
lived in the town being rather pretty, scratching around for raisins. No one
else could make birds really, or had ever spoken anything into reality, really,
until one day a stranger wondered into town and spoke birds of his own. Marlo was confident, not at all threatened. Then the stranger spoke out an elephant. Marlo clicked
his teeth, jealous. He swore loudly – his speech materializing in a way
that upset the children.
Within days of the visitors arrival, children began to speak out crude dogs with too few legs, rug-like cats and even, to Marlo’s horror, his own birds. They made many things. Marlo mocked the visitor for revealing their secrets to the children, believing they would now inevitably steal all the tricks and secrets and make himself and Marlo look like fools.
This puzzled the visitor, but drove Marlo to madness, who in
a fit of defiance spoke his own mouth permanently shut and never shared an
A cat, tongue dragging in
the dirt, said once to me:
I think it's important not
to forget, the constructions of your observation are the result of filtration
by the senses, notwithstanding the augmentation of personal notions to the
picture of the movie that you see yourself seeing inside your head. Meow, right?
But it is not a movie, your
memory, no, it is a bundle of seeds and farmers who would push those seeds into
the fields of your thinky bits in the hope that rain will fall from the senses
onto the young crop, favoring one farmers seeds over another. The crops bloom,
some die, and some yield new seeds, which are stored in the hopes of producing
a new crop at the correct time in the future. In my feline perception of
character and action in human beings, I see the fertility and competition of
these crops as the substance of personality and action.
I, being a cat, lack the cortical structure to experience this myself, but
I do believe my model is quite sound, though I had very much to drink last
Here is a brain scan to illustrate this phenomenological divide:
The caffeine coursed through me, stimulating my plumbing. I
knew, as a rat, three coffee beans was pushing it. Raindrops twitched my tail. I
bounded across the road for the cover of the drain, only to see humans
standing at the corner, waiting.
Their chest woofers pulsed slow, in sync with one and other.
The magnetic coils of their voice boxes kicked the diaphragm of their mouths in
complex rhythms, indecipherable music to my rodent ears. A car then pulled up, growling, silencing the loiterers. Their chest woofers increased in pace. A verbal and then physical exchange was made,
the driver going on his way with a heavier pocket.
They opened the package. Flash drives. Each inserted one into their socket, the data taking a few moments to copy. Gradually chatter resumed, synchronized but jittery - nervous perhaps. They started to walk and I followed,
curious. They began to laugh, electronic convulsions of vacuous fuzz, losing time, losing synchrony. Their steps got slippery, though the ground was mostly dry. They hugged and
joked incoherently, each dancing to their own rhythm, their combined noise an
echoing wall of sonic arrhythmia.
I will never understand humans, I thought, gnawing my fourth
Ti stood, the world steady beneath his feet. He looked down
at the ocean between the two continents on which he stood. Straightening to his
full height, he felt he could almost reach the Moon.
He stood with the atmosphere up to his belly, like a bather
in a shallow pool lit from bellow against a background of empty night. He gazed
at the Moon, and prepared to leap and take her. The Moon stared serenely out at
the universe, oblivious.
Ti began to run, but as he stepped hard to leap for the
moon, the Earth turned beneath his feet and he fell in the ocean.
The Necessary Instinct to Treat Fiction as Fact
Of all the planets, of all the stars - of which there are many more than there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world - life happened on Earth. It happened just the way it did, on this planet alone.
We are the one known thing in the universe that can say it is aware that there even is a universe, and we are the only known part that is aware that we are made by the same laws that allow the universe to exist in the first place.
In this way, because of us, tiny specks on a tiny speck, the universe is aware of itself.
In this way, it is also aware of Yorkshire Terriers.
There wasn’t enough time, but he had to try. Rerouting the
power from his suits life support to the console, he breached the door and
found himself quickly sucked into space.
Holding his breath, his muscles, eyes and teeth burning, he
sprinted along the side of the satellite assisted by his thrusters. He saw the
beast, the enormous drone, not machine nor animal, screaming silently towards
the atmosphere, preparing to forever disrupt the balance of the planet. He
kicked away from the satellite, estimating a trajectory unaided. With a short burst
he was on an uncertain path, falling alongside the monster. He knew that his
fuel tank would create a large enough explosion on re-entry.
This should work,
he thought, as he fell unconscious.
The two figures hung below an encircling horizon, glowing by
the heat of rushing air.
Damn, I think senselessly
as I leap from the fire escape. A short jump across, four meters, but the flooded
street pans slow, far below me. That woman was genuinely mad. Great rack,
freaky as hell, but damn - I thought mermaids were too dumb to be crazy.
That was the problem I left in the last building, though as
I sail to the next my real troubles move under me with less consideration for
the architecture. As I land on the opposite window ledge the building judders.
I glimpse the tail fins of my pursuer enter the building below in a cloud of
dust, hard electronic music and bits of office. I waste no time in climbing,
passing the bricks, sills and pipes from my hands to my feet with ease, rising
quick. Behind me the mermaid curses loudly as her apartment building collapses into the sea.
I near the summit, my salvation, my next temporary escape.
As I dive for the next block the building explodes around me. My nemesis, the
shark: the mermaids lover, Dubstep lazers blasting from his gills - propelling
him through the air so he can snap at my heels.
A young man, not short of ambition, built a balloon that
would carry him over the lake and the mountains. A toad, big as a Volkswagen Beetle, would sit nearby contentedly with his feet in the water, sucking on a branch from
an apricot tree, blowing out thick clouds of hot, fruit scented smoke.
The young man invited the toad to help him launch his
machine in exchange for a reward. The frog, intrigued by the young man’s
ingenuity, agreed to help him. He puffed on his pipe, inflating himself to an enormous
size and in one breath filled the balloon. The craft lifted and began to float
along the bank. The young man, quick to run alongside it, hoisted himself into the
carriage. Using large canvas wings, he directed the craft towards the mountains.
“But what of my reward?” asked the toad, on the ground. The
boy shrugged, and exposed his bum with a grin. Calmly, the frog puffed like a
devil and flooded the lake and the mountains with a thick smoke. Blinded, the
young man soon found himself marooned on a peak, his craft destroyed. By
morning, with the smoke cleared, he limped his way home.
This is the first in what I hope will become a series of daily stories of between 100-200 words. I have never been one for tradition, but I have a dreadful feeling I am going to make a habit of this.
#1 Ultimate recipe for productivity:
I start by saying confidently: “I can’t do this.”
My desk is a mess. I should make space for my computer. Or my pencils. I should draw something. I have to complete at least one small thing, or this day will be a waste.
I own three jars, each with a single pickled cucumber - I learn this as I scout for inspiration in the fridge. My desk is a mess.
I’m going to read a book, that’s productive, isn’t it?
I read a book. I feel smarter.
I approach my desk. I will make space for my computer, and fill jars with my pencils. There are jars in the fridge. I will get a snack.
I have a snack, spurred by the notion of productivity that emptying the jars provides.
I put the books aside, they are tomorrow’s problem, now distant and dwarfed by the conquest of my work space, complete with gleaming stationary repositories and my glorious digital literary generator. I am victorious, as I am now writing at my desk.
The above work of fiction was written sitting on my bed.