Novella!

My novella Never Return is now on sale!


A crime thriller. - PDF edition.

£5

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A manifesto of sorts...

I saw Rick Perry's ad, attacking gays serving in the military, and it brought to mind recent discussions I've had with Jehovah's Witnesses about homosexuality.

Perhaps unsurprisingly I've been taking the view of

"Well, homosexuality isn't a choice..."

...and of course as they're defining their argument from the opposite perspective, we get nowhere.

Recently, reading Refusing To Be A Man by John Stoltenberg, I saw a section where he discusses sexuality as a purely political concept. A choice.

I thought... right, what would happen if we begin to play these people at their own game?

Of course, their main argument is:

"It's a choice, and your choice is wrong."

But how?

"God said so." Arbitrary, and rests on me accepting your definition of God, which leads us back to the first problem, so let us concentrate on another argument offered.

"We'd have depopulation... there would be no people left."

Good, we're a bunch of planet ruining wankers anyway.

If sexuality is a choice, though, surely it's just as much a choice for heterosexuals as it is for homosexuals (and anyone inbetween). With population being a political issue, we return to the idea of sexuality as political force.

Population control is a (perhaps unfortunate) necessity. What better way to do it than by consensual sex? People want sex, they don't want to be shot. Let them have what they want, and they'll do what needs to be done.

"BUT GOD DOESN'T LIKE IT!"

Oh... you're still here. What about Intelligent Design?

"YES THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT"

So why did your intelligent designer allow homosexuality? Surely an intelligent (and more importantly all-powerful) designer wouldn't allow a flaw into his system he's created?

Of course, with humans, it's understandable. There are limits to what humans can do. But God is all-powerful. God can do or create ANYTHING.

"BUT HE GAVE US FREE WILL"

Yes, but he could have created a system whereby free will isn't necessary, and we still have fulfilling lives, and fuck whoever we want to (or are told to).

Christians here are very lax about God's creating system. Either he created EVERYTHING, or he's not God. That's kind of how it works with the whole intelligent design thing. The perfect intelligent designer by definition doesn't get it wrong. So I call bullshit when you make claims about intelligent design and homosexuality being a mistake in the same paragraph.

If God's such an intelligent designer why did he make prostate stimulation so easy via the medium of anal intercourse? Why did he make the dick (almost) look like a lollipop?

Anyway, back to the issue at hand.

Regardless of whether God exists or not, homosexuality is important, and we ought to recognise it as such.

Perhaps then we can help our brothers and sisters cure their heterosexuality and join us in a better life.

Pound of Fiction

Jousting With Dirty Needles (in PDF)

A sleazy journalist uncovers something rotten... a short story oddly appropriate considering our recent revelations of press behaviour.

£1. Paypal link...

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Gateway (in PDF)

A short science fiction story about what happens when you trust a brilliant inventor who smokes too much dope...

£1. Paypal link

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Click.

New piece and an old piece...

The Jumblies of Elmer's End (draft)
http://www.mediafire.com/file/psqcokkk349ml63/Jumblies%20%28draft%29.pdf

Click

Click. The vid-screen flashed. Ads cycling by the roses. It reminded me of how much she hated this place. She hadn’t always hated the city. There was nothing left for her here. There was no her left for here. I craved a cigarette. I guess it was some sort of comfort. A little like breastfeeding. Perhaps it was just the ads by the grave. Taking my grief and warping it. Regurgitated back as an invitation to retail therapy.

Click. No, I had to leave here. I’d wished she’d had a better grave, perhaps if I’d had more money… no. They all had vid-screens. Even death was no escape.

I walked back through town, barely conscious of the shop fronts. Large signs and arrow windows. Vid-screens galore. An orgy of lights, expectations. No shadows existed here. Darkness was forbidden, life just one large bleached white smile. The lie she’d always hated. The lie I always hated. I’d always wanted to promise escape.

So many people had tried before. You can’t escape desire. Desire can’t escape exploitation. No escape. Click. Holiday packages from 490 creds. Click. Even that was never enough.

I wondered when I’d see her next. At least it wouldn’t be on a vid-screen. She knew where to find me. All we needed was a plan. All I needed was a plan. ACME Demolition Services. I’d seen it on an old vid-show once. A show for kids. I don’t remember the name.

Vid-screen words bounced around my head. Instinct clouded by money. Impulse mere drive to purchase. No. This couldn’t be it. There had to be more. Something you just could not market as product. No. Nothing is sacred, as the saying goes. Nothing is safe. Everything sells. Find the right buyer and you’ll profit from anything.

The right buyer needs the right product. From design through implementation, all the way down the supply chain, we need something that works. Click. Mouthwash Drops…the candy that keeps you fresh! Click. I needed something. I wondered about it for a while, standing by a vid-screen that was flashing an ad for a trashy nightspot. I remember thinking…“Can you buy inspiration?” Click. Derek’s Armoury: Guns for sale or rental.
Click. That had to be it.

Find the right product and finding the right buyer is easy.

It’s access that’s the problem. Marketing is simple. Simple doesn’t necessarily mean easy. It is expensive. Click. Corporate banking just a phone call away! Click. They spend about as much selling us stuff as we do buying it. That’s something that had always made her laugh. Irony, she called it. The way they would announce rises in profits as the same time they were laying off employees. Saying one thing and meaning the opposite. We’re doing so well. You’re fired. I never quite understood how it worked. Product. Buyer. Access. Yes, of course, access. That was it. They didn’t care about the irony or whatever else. They just wanted a middleman. Someone to broker the deals. The pimp. That’s all the hard work ever comes down to in the end. My problem was that I couldn’t have one. I couldn’t get anyone else involved. It would be too dangerous.

The city didn’t care for anybody either. Blaring light everywhere. Sometimes it made you wonder how big the generator was. Where it was. Hardly seemed enough space for a power station anywhere. Maybe it was underground, or buried beneath a bunch of vid-screens advertising something like water purification products.

Maybe it was all powered by human greed. Suppose I’ll never know. The other people I saw around the streets were not the wild-eyed masses shown by the vid-screens. It was late, and cold; but the city was never empty. Even so, nobody stood adoring the vid-screens. They all seemed to slide along, barely lifting their feet as they walked. It wasn’t hard to understand. They’d been bludgeoned into submission. Click. Billy’s Farm…Cheap Valium. Click.

Each purchase just one more in the relentless series of events they called a life. Some found solace in the things they didn’t need. Vid-screen things. Some found deep meaning. I don’t know where from, but I guess it showed there were still some souls there. Just glazed over is all. Reflecting ads back at the vid-screens through sad, wanting eyes. The vid-screens remained indifferent. If only they could be taught to be valid, contributing members of society. Fine upstanding citizens. A model community. Utopia for sale. Just need enough credits. Click. Island properties from 2mil Credits! Click. Shit.

I was wrong. There was an escape. Join the machine. Surrender and pretend to be happy. That was my perfect plan. Click. Suits for sale! 50% off! John Tailor’s Superstore! Click. Become the paradigm you seek to destroy. Not infiltration as such. Infiltration implied escape after the fact, and like I said, there is no escape. No sir, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.

I went to see Derek and he didn’t ask many questions. It was only the money he really cared about. A simple transaction. Quick too. This may be easier than I planned, I thought to myself. After all, many people carried guns these days. It was an ordinary thing to do. “It’s for protection, officer.” No more questions necessary, no more asked. I’d picked a lightweight pistol I’d seen on a vid-screen as I walked into the place. Middle of my price range. Hundred thirty credits. Rainy day money. Too easy almost.

I already had a suit. No need to visit JT’s. I figured I wouldn’t need a badge. A legit one would be too difficult to obtain without questions. A fake one could be spotted. Too much effort anyway. Why waste any more time than you have to? The meeting would be difficult enough to organise anyway. I needed a name. Something reputable. Believable, unlike the dreams they tried to sell. Airbrushed realities. The turd polished bright enough to blind.

Carlton Matheson was the name I chose to go on the fake papers. It sounded businesslike enough. CM Corp. No. CM Industries. No. They didn’t sound right. Too pretentious I think. CM Manufacturing. That would do. A little more unassuming. Inviting fewer questions. All I needed now was a sanction meeting. The fake papers weren’t advertised on vid-screens, but you can find anything if you look in the right places. The less questions asked, the fewer answers given. Less chance of a trace. This couldn’t go wrong. It sounded legit. It looked legit. It had taken me quite a while to save up money for the papers. Worth the wait. It took three weeks. I received a letter informing me I had a business sanction meeting with the head of AdCorp. Click. Business opportunities for Bright Young Minds. Click. Maybe in a few weeks time, there’d be a few different messages on the vid-screens, I thought to myself.

Business survival was dependent on the vid-screen. An ad determines product success. No ad, no access to buyer. Ads are granted if the business idea is sanctioned. The M.D. of AdCorp has executive veto of course. No point taking the long way round. Red tape bound up proposals. That sort of stuff took months to deal with. Big ideas went straight to the top. Big ideas, big money. A big cut for the M.D. on the sly often eased the transition to being sanctioned.

I had my spiel ready. CM Manufacturing is developing a product called the Mind Mirror. A brain chip receiving signals from vid-screens. As a consequence, ads reach deeper, for longer. All anyone would have to do after that is sabotage the vid-screens and change what showed up on them. Of course, he wouldn’t be told about subliminal messaging. That wasn’t part of the business proposal.

It was all bullshit anyway. Not even AdCorp scientists had the required technology. Surely the M.D. would know that. Didn’t matter. It’s only the idea you sell anyway. The M.D. doesn’t care about anything else. Good idea? Other people start talking. Things get done. Bad idea? You may as well have your ass kicked out of the office. You are formally escorted from the premises. They may as well just throw you out of a window. Their world has little time for failure. You’re a success or you’re a rat. That’s how it is. Fail in their world and it is game over, just like the vid-halls when the kids run out of coins.

All this, and I was nervous. Why? You’d think lying would be easy. I already had product, buyer and access. Means, motive and opportunity.

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

“Mr. Matheson?”
“Carlton, please.”
“I prefer formality, Mr. Matheson. This is a business meeting, not a bar.”
I sat, as directed. Nice office. Plush. Different to the city. Still no shadow, but warm and bright. The light wasn’t cold anymore. The suit I had on was warm too, verging on being uncomfortable. Out in the street, the suit had felt wrong. Uncomfortable but not because of the heat. It just didn’t look right. Didn’t seem to hang the right way. A little too tight. Now it was as though the fibres had relaxed, but I was still tense. I had space to breathe. A lot of space. Almost too much. So relaxing here. I sat back and breathed deep to calm my nerves. I had almost forgotten about the gun. Cold metal on my leg. Awake. Very awake. The tension had slipped. He’d read the proposal.

“Mr. Matheson, you have some interesting ideas.”
“You think so?”“You heard what I said.”
“Worthy of a vid-screen?”
“That, Mr. Matheson, is what we’re about to discuss.”

I looked over. Yes, he was definitely worthy of the hatred coursing through me. I could see what was going to happen. I knew.

“You are planning to sabotage the vid-screens are you not, Mr. Matheson?”I felt in my pocket for the pistol.
“You’re joking sir, surely?”
“Why else would you want direct access to people’s minds?”
“You’ve read the proposal.”
“Yes. You don’t have the technology.”

Plan B. The grants, research funding. I tightened my grip on the gun.

“Mr. Matheson, we don’t have the technology. Nobody does. It’s impossible.”

Fuck it. I took the gun from my pocket.

“What use is technology? You only use it to tighten screws. To press on with your lies.”

He hadn’t seen the gun.
“Matheson. It’s not your real name, is it? These papers are fakes. Excuse me while I call security.”
“Fuck security. People are dying and you don’t care. You’re a fucking murderer.”

He’d seen the gun and he sat down. He wasn’t about to call anybody.

“Mr. Matheson, what I do is not illegal.”
The vid-screen on his desk flickered. Click. Thin Lizard Beer. Tastes wack, but at least it’s not crack, right? Click. Smokey Dokey. The cigarette of choice for nicoteenagers. Click. Big Nob. Whiskey for men with balls. Click.

“And what I do is futile but satisfying.”

Click.

Mindsweeper Issue 9!

It's taken quite a while to get this one done... It's the follow up to issue 8, conceptually. Cheers.


Download it here:  http://www.mediafire.com/file/c8elg39occ24xxa/Mindsweeper%20Issue%209.pdf

As always, feedback appreciated.

Interview - Stage Seven

The chief inspector was ready for the meeting, though a grey haze had been hanging over him since the incident with the body. "It's fine," he kept telling himself. The haze would shift once this was all dealt with in an appropriate manner.

*

All these rendezvous points had gotten a little confusing. So many twists and turns, deviations and reversals from expected routes.

"Come alone, and don't be followed."

A little trick from the investigation days, before he'd headed the team. It helped to slip into paranoia. "To catch a criminal, it is sometimes necessary to think like one..." He couldn't remember who had said that first, but he held to it. He knew it was a dangerous game to play, but he knew it was never going to be easy. That wasn't why he joined the force...

*

"An overarching sense of duty... a crusade, you might say..."

He hadn't come here for this.

"Enough. No more games."


Spoilsport

"Alright. Sit down."

"I'm not in the mood for..."

"SIT DOWN!"

Cold concrete. No chair, but thankfully no rope. He couldn't see the convict, and his pulse quickened. Attempting to control his breathing, he waited for the silence to shatter.

"I suppose you're wondering about the body..."

The chief inspector nodded, still unable to see his man.

"Trying to make a fool of me were you?"

"You tried to kill me."

Grey.

"The body was supposed to be me, wasn't it? Admit it!"

The grey began to tighten.

"You weren't following orders."

"Orders? Do you even know where my orders come from?"

A moment of clarity.

"You answer to me."

Silence. Grey silence.

"My orders come from higher up."

He tried to breathe.

"Inspectorate."

No. Impossible. He tried to regain control.

"That's right. Her Majesty's Inspectorate of Constabulary."

No. No, it couldn't be true. It had to be another sick joke.

"We have reason to believe you have been liaising inappropriately with criminals and attempting to influence their behaviour with a combination of violence and psychoactive substances."

The grey tightened around his chest. He couldn't speak. The haze was much tighter than before. A pain in his left arm. His breath drew shorted.

"You have the right to remain silent..."

Mindsweeper Issue 8!

Wow... that rolled round fast...

http://www.mediafire.com/file/3sje78ap7m49g1d/Mindsweeper%20Issue%208.pdf

Mindsweeping

So, essentially, all experiences alter the mind. In much the same way that everything that happens creates history. Once it's happened, it's history and that's why "We're witnessing history in the making", while technically true, is a bullshit phrase. It's redundant. Everything we see is history in the making, whether it's a dictator being shot, or the paint on the wall you're staring at while you're taking a dump because you needed to go so bad you didn't have time to look for a magazine.

Some experiences alter the mind faster and more strongly than others. "Drugs" legal or otherwise, do so, but generally in short term. Discussion of such isn't as interesting as say, the effect human interaction has on the mind. It's longer lasting and more powerful, though no substances are ingested, nobody has to be arrested (yet) and the youth of the nation may rest easy. All writers are concerned with social interactions of varying shapes and sizes, and as such are essentially obsessed with mind altering experiences. This would seem a reasonable cause for many writers to also be obsessed with mind altering substances. You work out what makes you feel X, you can write about it in Y. People say the best way to write is to write about what you know. Of course, this doesn't mean crime writers have to go out and murder someone's family to write a good book, but if they understand the social workings and power games and emotions involved, then they'll probably come out with something pretty good. Now, you don't need to understand chemically what's happening, that certain "feel good" chemicals are naturally released in the brain when you kiss someone you think you love... but you could argue that the naturally produced stuff is better than the synthetic stuff. Higher purity, etc. It can be just as addictive, and we want to feel that feeling again and again, so we chase the high, forgetting that it's never going to be the same high we had before. This disappointment leads us to try other methods and eventually we're drunk and desperate and we're beginning to realise we're missing our shot at happiness because we're reaching too far and splitting ourselves in half. We're on the wrong drugs people and we don't even realise.

Interview - Stage Six

"Chief, we've found a body at the flat..."

"Excellent. Couldn't have come at a better time," he thought. Time to finally put a wrap on it, deliver his man to the Superintendent. An opportunity to clear the lingering grey from the sky.

The drive to the flat was quick, but brutal. The Detective Chief Inspector would have preferred a route without speed bumps, but murder investigations are not to be conducted slowly. Initial reports were conflicting. A vicious attack, ruthless. Clean. Vicious seemed to suggest sloppy, animal rage that couldn't be suppressed long enough to ensure a clean kill. A clean kill is harder to work with. Obviously that was a matter for the forensic team, but anything that makes life easier is a bonus.

Upon arrival, the Detective Chief Inspector was keen to see the body. After doing so, he left the room.

"Everything alright Chief?"

"No. Not at all."

"Too clean? Not enough to go on?"

"There's fuck all to go on. It's the wrong fucking body..."

"Chief?"

"Never trust a man who's supposed to be dead..."

"What?"

"Nothing... never mind constable. We're finished here."

Interview - Stage Five

Waiting for instructions is tedious. He counted and recounted cigarettes, smoked and unsmoked, as tar crawled through his blood. He remembered an earlier conversation:

"This will kill you eventually..."

Yeah, right. Another blast of grey. It began to descend as the letters fell. Bills and a package, which was postmarked Europe. A small snag of barbed wire and a handwritten note.

"Turn yourself in."

Hardly what he'd expected. He picked up the barbed wire. It had been sharpened, enough to draw blood. Before he went to get a plaster he took a few of the foam peanuts they used for packing and impaled them one by one.

"This isn't over, but it will kill you eventually..."

It was just as grey outside. A grey world waiting for a little colour. In another life, perhaps he'd have been a painter.

Interview - Stage Four

Back in the car they were both silent for about ten minutes.

"Your next set of instructions will be delivered by post."

"What do you mean? They're dead. You got what you wanted."

"No... you're mine now. You kill for me."

"Get out of the fucking car."

The cop said nothing.

"Get out of the fucking car."

"You don't understand..."

"No. You don't understand. You can't come back with me."

Too risky. Too suspicious. Of course.

As he drove off, the grey haze descended. He reached down the side of the door, but the cigarettes were on the passenger's side. He lit one as he walked into the lounge. No lights, not even the television. Just a little firefly burning itself to death. As he smoked, the grey haze thickened and he began to feel very tired. This wasn't supposed to...

*

They were all there. The cop and the dead men. Together.

"Had a feeling we'd be seeing you again..."

Traitor. Aura of grey around them, the suspect shifted, uneasy.

"Uncomfortable?"

A shiver, like a harbinger of voltage to come. He didn't need to reply. He couldn't speak, wondering if it was adrenaline or fear causing the shaking. A knife wasn't going to be enough this time. One on one he'd have a chance. No, he told himself... only one of these men is alive... this isn't a fair fight...

How do you kill a dead man?

"It's time..."

The suspect shifted again. Clearly there was no requirement to respond.

"You killed my daughter."

So this was what it was about. Grey disappeared.

"You never had a daughter."

"Yeah, because you killed her."

"No... there never was a daughter..."

The suspect didn't understand where the words were coming from. He'd been silent. The dead men had turned on the cop. A simple rule: never turn your back on your enemy. The knife flashed in the dark, and two slashes ripped the dead men's throats in half. Clean, quick, ruthless.

Manifesto update.

The writer sees himself as an emotional, and possibly (depending on scale and ambition) even social alchemist. In reality he is often a blind thing stumbling in the dark rather than the powerful wizard he imagines himself to be.

Part of the problem lies in the reality that the writer does not (and cannot) know the minds of his audience. His spells cast through his musical magical language... may not have the desired effect. Indeed, they may even be aimed at the wrong people, in the wrong way. Even if it does work, how does the writer know it's going to work on the right person (or people)? It may also affect people the writer doesn't want to reach.

So, even if you're guaranteed of getting the right person? Do you know how they'll be affected? What about their own will? Are you working with it, alongside it? Or against it? With power comes the necessity of responsibility. Do you use it or abuse it? This is something we need to learn.

Interview - Stage Three

Hitting the brakes, he threw the cigarette out of the window, having smoked less than half. Careless to be so wasteful... "I'll get over it," he thought. Already several yards further on as he exited the car, he didn't bother to go back to put out the cigarette. It burned out quietly. He'd left the pack in the car. No need to buy any more, he was almost at the agreed meeting point.

It was different this time. He was still nervous. Corpse locked in the boot of the car was reason enough. The lighter was also in the car. He'd been told it would feel like this. A low, empty feeling in his stomach began to consume his thoughts. All was enveloped in grey, dull monotone, and the earth felt like ash beneath his feet. The whisper came.

"Is everything ready?"

Nodding assent, he led the officer to the car. Driving off, the officer told him to keep the radio off.

"You recognise me yet?"

The voice had been familiar, but now the blindfold had been removed, the grey haze was lifting.

"You... you're my doctor..."

The officer smiled.

"Yes, now drive to the agreed point."

A few reminders were necessary, as the instructions had been a little more complex this time.

"I trust you have the body..."

"Naturally."

The agreed point turned out to be a cemetery.

"Perfect place to dispose of a body..."

He dragged the body from the car and passed the officer a shovel.

"I'm not here to reminisce, start digging."

"I'm impressed with your work. Very clean, very quick. Ruthless."

"You heard what I said. Dig."

It started to rain. A little too late to make the digging easier.

"You got one of the secrets..."

The suspect said nothing. They dumped the body.

"I switched some of your painkillers with what are essentially pain amplifiers..."

"I know, a control thing."

The officer began to shovel earth onto the body.

"You missed the other one..."

The officer looked up.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not a cop."

It stopped raining.

Interview - Stage Two

His breath was harder than he wanted it to be, desperate to control his nerves. Hands shaking; at least he had a good grip on his memory. He couldn't forget what they needed. He didn't dare forget. Almost at the rendezvous point, just nearly enough. Able to relax for a moment.

Footsteps. A good sign. Electricity as the hairs on his arms rose. A gasp as the sack was dumped over his head and a rope tightened around his neck. They hadn't mentioned this part.

*

"Seventh circle of hell is reserved for traitors... welcome."

A baseball bat to the chest brought the suspect to the floor.

"Shit..."

"You're in it."

After a while he couldn't tell what was hitting him. Trying to distinguish between kicks and the baseball bat wasn't enough to keep his mind from the pain.

"You thought you'd sell us off?"

Definitely baseball bat. This was clearly not the correct rendezvous. As more kicks came, he desperately tried to retrace his steps. Wrong right turn? Was it supposed to be a left? No. The instructions... a kick... had been very clear. He was sure he was bleeding, probably from several places.

Then nothing.

"I'm gonna gut you like a fucking fish, you..."

The shouting has muffled the sound of footsteps. There was the sound of a struggle. Somebody gasping for breath. A gunshot.

"Sorry I'm late..."

One down...

"I hope you now fully understand the gravity of the situation..."

The sack nodded.

Interview - Stage One

Interview commences. Another bullshit four hours of not getting anywhere. Yeah right. Time to dispense with procedure.

"When we're finished with you, you're going to be begging for death."

The tape had stopped running.

"Recognise that voice?"

No response.

"You said that to my daughter."

No response.

"Take the gag off and pass me a hammer. I want to hear this fucker beg for death..."

"You can't do this man... you're cops..."

Suspect already sweating.

"I want the names of ALL your men, and I want the evidence I need to bring them in. You're going to get it for me."

He swung the hammer down, just half an inch away from the suspect's thumb. There was a gasp of relief. Clearly his training had been inadequate. They hadn't been expecting to get caught. Poorly planned, poorly executed.

"You think you're not big enough for this, is that it?"

The suspect nodded. He was still blindfolded and didn't know where he was.

"Please... please don't kill me..."

The cop laughed. Clearly he hadn't explained himself properly.

"No. Of course not. Not yet... fetch me the saw... let's cut the fucker's hand off!"

The gag was replaced, though the subject struggled in the chair.

As the breadknife was dragged across his wrist lightly, the noises from the handkerchief stuffed into his mouth began to increase in volume. As it was dragged back with just enough pressure to break the skin and draw blood, the suspect was trying to scream.

The knife was put down.

"Do you understand yet?"

The suspect reluctantly shook his head.

"I appreciate your honesty. You're mine now. You will deliver my property to me. I have the power to keep you alive for as long as necessary, so don't even think there's an easy way out of this..."

The suspect nodded.

Holiday

I remember it well. The cave by the beach. The sting of too much salt water hastily inhaled going for a swim in the sea. "It'll do you good," they said. I bought the child an ice cream. My grandson. He was always so happy there, even after his mother died. I remembered the confusion among the arcade machines, giving him more coins for the games. I cried whenever I went back. I used to stick a twenty pence piece into the earth by his grave, knowing that somewhere he'd be laughing, glad his old grandfather got the joke. I tried to be happy there, remembering his smiling face, but it was always ruined by the image of him shaking, in tears, holding me the day his mother died. My daughter. He had been a great comfort to me. I miss him. I miss him terribly.

ISSUE 7 - RELATIONSHIP SPECIAL

Download it here:

http://www.mediafire.com/file/hyka6u89z45fxl6/Mindsweeper%20Issue%207.pdf

Stan

New one...

Stan

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Stan, the guy you sold your soul to."

It was all so wrong.

"You sold your soul to me. There was no mistake. I can assure you we're quite particular about these things. I have a certificate and everything..."

"Look, just fuck off, alright?"

"no need to be rude sir. Tourette's Syndrome as well as dyslexia?"

"I'm not dyslexic."

"Need glasses then? I hear Specsavers are..."

"I DO NOT NEED GLASSES"

"Was only saying..."

Stan shambled about in silence for several minutes.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Well, seeing as I now own your soul, I have to take it."

"Can't you wait until I die?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so, but you told me to go now."

"I see."

"You haven't thought this through very well, have you?"

*


He shambled away. It was the fourth case this week. The old devil wouldn't be pleased in the slightest. He hadn't meant to let them slip, but he wasn't terribly mercenary in these affairs.

He didn't want to be let go. It wasn't his fault, and he rather liked Hell. The air conditioning in the office had broken again though, and there were never enough engineers. God seemed to have a monopoly on all the good ones. At this rate he'd have to take more drastic action.

Perhaps it was just that Heaven Industries paid higher wages. As a demon, Stan hadn't had a choice. He'd have preferred one of the islands where they'd dumped all the landfill... tax collectors.

Come to think of it, in a way, he was glad he wasn't on any of them. All those numbers tended to give him a headache, dancing about the page like a plague of rotten angels.

"I don't care if you make the world work, you can just bugger off..."

"What was that Stanley?"

The old devil. Stan was silent.

"What's the matter, Stanley? Not... frightened, are we?"

"N... n... no sir. No reason for us to be frightened. After all, you're..."

"I'm what, Stanley?"

"You're... erm... here."

Evidently.

"I have a... little job for you to do for me Stanley."

The old devil began to outline exactly why it had been necessary for him to employ Stan.

"I do find these humans so terribly tiresome Stanley. I mean, where is the JOY in a dead man?"

"I... I don't know sir."

"We need them live, Stanley. Or at least... you need to bring them to me."

"Alive sir? Abduction isn't really my..."

"I know, Stanley. How do you feel about... murder?"

"Well, after that sir, they certainly wouldn't be alive."

The old devil nodded.

"I am aware of that Stanley. That is not your concern, now please answer my question."

"Well, I've never done it before sir. I started in Administration and..."

"Enough."

The old devil disappeared. A new assignment had been flagged.

*

An engineer. Perfect. Stan arrived in the evening. Two knives, some rope, a blowtorch and a bottle of bleach. Gloves. YOu could never be too careful. The blood was always difficult to shift.

"Hello, who are you?"

The engineer looked friendly enough. The kind of beard a pleasant neighbour would have. Stanley stabbed him in the throat. There was no blood.

"All the engineers in the world to murder, and I pick one who's already fucking dead..."

*

"Stan, where are we going?"

Stan refused to look at the engineer. There seemed no point in dignifying such a stupid question.

"A better question would be 'Why am I following you instead of fixing your air conditioning unit?' "

The question stumped the engineer, but he continued to follow Stan.

"Where are we?"

Stan turned, and the engineer was silenced. A flash in Stan's eyes dragged fear through the engineer and stabbed into his brain.

"I think you know."

They walked through the door and saw that the Satanist was where Stan had left him. He'd heard them materialise. Part of the engineer was stuck in the door. A common mistake for beginners. Spinning round the Satanist saw the smile, but not the knife.

"W... what's going on?"

"You're coming with me..."

"But... but... you're not the devil..."

"You have no idea..."

As Stan drew the knife, the Satanist began to speak.

"You... you can't do this man... I'm protected by the circle man..."

As Stan began to cut the Satanist's head off, it was clear he had a disregard for geometry.

"I work for the devil, Shithead. The Lord of Lies. Why would He stick to a promise?"

The engineer picked up the limp body which had already fallen out of the circle.

Shithead spoke.

"Do I get to meet him?"

Stan sighed.

"Can't anyone ever die properly around here?"

Creative?

"Oh no, no, I'm not creative at all..."

"Well, why not?"

"I... I don't know... I'm too busy to do all that..."

"You think maybe you need a holiday?"

"Wow, yeah, that'd be great!"

"Well, where would you go?"

"Somewhere nice and quiet, where I could sit by the beach in a deckchair, listening to the soothing sounds of the sea. Get up, go for an ice cream, tides go out, children building sandcastles... nice plate of fish and chips in the evening, a cup of tea by the fire before bed. Same as when I was young, really. Well, I didn't drink tea when I was young, I always thought of tea as an adult's drink..."

"You said you weren't creative..."

"I'm not..."

"Your little story made me want that holiday."

The old man smiled.

Issue 4 for download.

It's finally online! The 32 page beastie that is Mindsweeper Issue 4.

http://www.mediafire.com/file/i38d5q2bx6rr72q/Mindsweeper%20Issue%204.pdf
It was already online here, but the file size is now smaller and easier to download. Cheers :)

The stories etc. are in no particular order, although a few pieces go together, and they are in sequence, but not necessarily on consecutive pages.

Cheers! Enjoy!

New zines.

A General Notice From The Storyteller's Benevolent Fund.
http://www.mediafire.com/file/lenvzduvmxue387/StorytellersBenevolentFund.pdf

Tear'n'Share Zine Issue 1.
http://www.mediafire.com/file/hnlaynw165ae35g/TearNShareZine1.pdf

Issue 4 of Mindsweeper will be available for download within a few days. Keep 'em peeled.

More Mindsweeper!

*'splode*


http://www.mediafire.com/file/i8c20p140x1ghfn/Mindsweeper%20Issue%205.pdf
Mindsweeper Issue 5

http://www.mediafire.com/file/son41o59s0mspfq/Mindsweeper%20Issue%206.pdf
Mindsweeper Issue 6

Issue 4 is currently print only. I shall scan the masters and PDF it soon.