Story 26 - The Dream Machine and the End of the Human Race

It was a new application. Invented by a man in New Poland called Mac Schubert. Somehow it tapped into your brain and read your mind.

We remember everything you see, it’s all there. Our little conversations, the thoughts, the decisions, the scratchings of our heads… a lifetime of tiny incidents from deciding what we’re going to eat for breakfast to what shirt we’ll wear for work. A lifetime of memories.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could live your life again? “Live your life over,” was the line they used in the advertisements.

Schubert and co had the elderly in mind. Too old and infirm to do much apart from sit in a chair plugged in to their i-pads. It would bring happiness to victims of unfortunate accidents: the disabled, and could even aid depression, madness, drug addiction and the list went on.

Choose a date, a time, hit the button and you were away. What were you doing at four o’clock on the twenty-first of June nineteen-ninety-three? The dream machine would take you back to that moment and you were suddenly re-living a day forgotten by your conscious mind.

Remember that holiday in Madrid back when you were eighteen? Why not go again?

Apple secured the patenting. Millions were spent on advertising and billions were made as the world queued up to get their own personal app.

Almost immediately the effect of this new toy began to take its toll. (Have you guessed it yet?)

Put yourself in the situation of your average Joe Bloggs. You have a choice: Get up, start a whole new day that might turn out to be fairly non-eventful, even disastrous; or stay in bed, turn on your dream app and live through a day that’s guarunteed to bring you a perfectly satisfying, pleasurable time.

When one could repeatedly go back to their golden age of youth, was there really any alternative?

And then something new became available; an illegal download: Hackers tapped in to the dreams that people were experiencing and sold them on the black market.

Unsatisfied with your own life? How about trying something new? Ever seen the pyramids? Ever fought in a war? Ever had a threesome with two well-known porn stars? Ever been Tom Cruise?

An ageing Tom Cruise (you may have heard of him) was famously fighting a legal battle to win back the privacy of his own memories. Mostly he was unsuccessful because the hackers had got there before the laws were written; and the lawyers who gave a damn were few and far between anyway - too busy re-living their (or Tom Cruise’s) college days…

Addiction to the device proved devastating to commerce. People were showing less enthusiasm for their jobs, hardly willing to leave the house. Food was about the only thing anybody bought. Before they knew it they’d become cocooned inside their own minds. The body no longer had any use - people stopped taking care of their personal appearance and hygiene. They ate, they shat, they dreamed.

Apple may have secured the patenting but soon the thing had gone viral. It had spread across the world in a matter of months. Unemployment soared. People were stealing the essentials, feeding their habits by abusing the public electricity sources.

Of course there were some who opposed the devise. There were demonstrations, petitions; there were even plans to make it illegal by the end of it. But inevitably it was too late. Nobody was living. Almost no one was making any effort to start a family, to reproduce. The average age of the world population eventually exceeded sixty and after that there was no going back. The governments no longer cared and even the scientists were too busy being Steven Hawking to come up with any useful solution to the problem.

There are a few of us left now. But we can hardly call ourselves “the human race.” We’re barely animals. Nothing but tribes scattered around here and there. Surviving. Learning. Starting again. To conquer the planet again we’ve more than a long way to go.

All we can do is learn from our mistakes. But the device still exists. And even with education the danger will always be out there somewhere.

Story 22 - Bedtime Story

“So who’s this story gonna be about?” I say as she slowly moves a hand over one of her sleepy, puffy eyes – why do all kids have such stubby little hands? It’s a miracle they can pick anything up. I wonder: had she been drinking her hot milk with one hand or two? I cast my mind to us all sat in their modern kitchen: Neil and Bonnie suitably dressed up for their evening of pleasure: Stinking of expensive aftershave and perfume.

“Mummy always tucks me in before I sleep,” she mumbles.

“Mummy’s not here right now,” I reply, willing the tiny, sleepy, puffy little eyes to shut up shop for the night. “Your mummy’s with Daddy, filling her tummy with lots of yummy curry.”

“How do you know Mummy’s eating curry?” she says, slurring her words sleepily.

“’cause I know everything… I’m a witch, like in Harry Potter.”

She stirs in a moment of interest. “What’s she drinking?”

“Pink champagne; with lots of bubbles.” Beautiful champagne; delicious champagne. Rich Mummy and Daddy with their lovely champagne.

“I’m not allowed champagne,” she says, facing away again, hair spread over the pillow, clutching her strange one-eyed dolphin. One eye open, one eye sneaking a glance in my direction.

“How about dolphin here; is he allowed champagne?”

“He’s just a toy, he can’t drink.”

Such a cute little dolphin. She yawns a cute little yawn. I picture the flat screen TV downstairs, the big soft springy sofa.

When Neil and Bonnie had gone through a few basic rules my gaze had been fixed upon the huge screen showing “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” I remember the presenter asking an old man: Which of the following phrases was Mother Theresa most famous for? And the old man was phoning a friend who couldn’t be certain.

I’d taken in as much as help yourself to hot drinks and she usually likes reading in bed but it’s lights out before eight-thirty. Bonnie talked more about what to do in the case of something or other but my attention was flailing as I noticed the plate of cookies Neil was preparing.

Just a little snack for later! How old did he think I was?

At the door Neil said they’d be back before midnight and I’d only have to check on her once because she’s no trouble at all and usually goes to sleep right away.

As soon as they left I phoned Dave.

“Come round at nine?”

“OK babe.”

“You don’t really wanna story do you?” I say hopefully.

“No I want a story, really…”

I tell her a story about a dolphin: A dolphin that swims around all day saving kids from drowning. She’s asleep before I’m finished. I’m a professional.

Dave knows the new address. He’s been reminded not to ring the bell this time. I hear him scratching at the door as I descend the stairs.

“Babe?” he whispers.

I hiss back at him: “I’m coming Dave, I’m coming.”

Story 21 - 2 Worms

Two worms were fighting over a strawberry. It was first one to get to the top. One worm battered the other with a magnificent headbutt to send him flying onto the ground. The victorious worm then slid his way to the summit. “I’m the king!” he shouted. “I’m the king.”

Just then the fallen worm spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a starling.

“Over here, over here,” he yelled, before burrowing his way into the mud. Even before he was fully submerged he could feel the beating of the starling’s wings as she swooped down upon his tormentor.

Story 20 - Hungry and Homeless

There’s a sign in front of me saying hungry and homeless.

“How did you come to be hungry and homeless?” a woman asked me.

“Poor girl,” she must’ve been imagining; wanting to say; most probably a Christian; she was certainly giving off a motherly impression of, “There, there.”

I told her I’d lost my job along with my flat but was on a waiting list for a new one. I said there were a couple more weeks for me to get through ‘cause I could tell she was sorry for me and it being a good opportunity to get money. I wanted to make her feel she could make a difference so she’d go home happy; a lot less depressed than the sight of me was obviously making her. Unfortunately all I got was a cup of Starbucks coffee, a toasted cheese sandwich and a phone number.

“If you need someone,” she said. I thought: “For what?”

The truth is a lot simpler; much less dramatic than what I tell most of my mates: I was never kicked out of home, my parents never hit me and I’ve had plenty of chances to go back.

The fact is I’m stuck. At the very suggestion of getting my act together my veins fill up with inertia. I panic, and then tell myself there’s no hurry, that maybe one day.

Afterwards I remember there’s more important things to be thinking about. Like where I’m gonna sleep tonight; where, how, who with, how much, and is there a need for me to be begging for any more money?

It looks like it’s gonna rain soon. I’ll sleep round Steve’s if I can. Unless Tanya and her mates are there again it shouldn’t be a problem. Otherwise it’s the launderette on Wicker Street if I’m lucky enough for it to be unlocked tonight; and the doorway to Sam’s Café if I’m not. There’s twenty-seven pounds, thirty-eight pence on me. Two half cigarettes left (will more butts need to be gathered before everything gets wet?)

As the sky now rumbles with distant thunder the shoppers around me speed up, eager to be getting back to their warm homes. If I didn’t look such a mess I’d head for the shopping mall, but the security don’t like me in there. Think I’m gonna cause trouble. Harass the customers. Disturb the customers more like. Distract them from the ambience designed to make them feel rich, successful, happy and willing to part with their money. Perhaps I should dress up all nice and wave a flag saying you’re rich, life’s great, you’re great, and then people would be more eager in donating their loose change.

I need to collect some cigarettes for later; though there’s enough cash to treat myself to a new pack: Could do. Why not? Money is for food, drink, drugs and emergencies. A rule I made up last year. It’s how I’ve lasted this long: However, now as dusk sets in I’m starting to feel cold; and also slightly starving in a passive sort of way.

The folded cardboard hungry and homeless sign goes into the pocket of my duffle coat as I pick myself up from the floor. It’s started spitting now so I pull out my small Mickey Mouse umbrella from another pocket which explodes into life at the press of the magic button. I’m not your typical homeless girl. I have a magic Mickey Mouse umbrella.

The rain gets worse as I head to the kebab shop. Outside there’s a guy selling The Big Issue. He’s wearing a green parker with the hood up and is shifting from one foot to the other to keep warm. I don’t know him; or more precisely, haven’t seen him around here before; and he doesn’t recognise me yet.

We ignore each other as I go inside; ask for two kebabs with lots of mayonnaise please. There’s a TV on the wall but nowhere to sit. The news, but I can’t concentrate fully on what’s going on because of feeling tired and a little spaced out. I drink a Dr Pepper and stand, gazing at the TV screen while my two wrapped up kebabs sit on the counter.

It’s pouring with rain when I exit the shop. I offer the Big Issue guy one of my kebabs, hoping to make a new acquaintance but he refuses; and then disappears into the rain with a shout of, “You’re all good, yeah?”

Sitting on the floor up against the wall, under my umbrella I eat the two kebabs. After that I’m getting my cider at a different offie this time. In the rain everyone often appears worn and weathered; which usually works to my advantage ‘cause I look a little more ordinary. Less shit. On entering I for once can sense that to them I’m just a normal customer.

After sketchily making a show of browsing around I treat myself to a packet of Amber Leaf and get a one litre bottle of White Lightening; on impulse adding some M&M’s and bacon flavoured McCoy’s.

I decide against going to Steve’s but the laundrette is open thank God. It’s nice lying down in the dark - I daren’t turn the light on of course because of not wanting to give away my position - behind the row of washing machines with my little picnic. Outside the rain is pelting against the windows. Shadows of swaying trees dance against the wall while I smoke a rollie and briefly think about how lucky I am: the food, the shelter, the cosiness, the independence and that warm feeling inside brought about by the cider…

Although on waking up in the morning I’m being kicked by two old men. I’ve overslept, you see: a mistake on my part. A dishevelled old woman in curlers and a nightgown is in the background, looking on gratefully.

I hear the word, “Scum,” and there’s a moment when I’m spitting on the floor; and then it’s out into the fresh morning bitterness of a new day.

Review - Semi Detached by Gareth Jones

Twenty-six years old, bored with the nine to five and looking for adventure, Gareth takes off to South America and into backpacker land. Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Chile… if you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll know the routine. Go to a city, wander around feeling bored, then get pissed and have fun. At least that’s the way he does it.

What I liked about the book is that it wasn’t written by a journalist. There’s no in depth descriptions of the history and politics of every place they go to. And there’s no travel program isn’t this wonderful? bullshit. It’s a proper young person’s hedonistic flight into the sort of mad life such “holidays” can bring. A South American On the Road for the modern generation.

Gareth and his mates may not be everyone’s sort of people. Their sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lifestyle can sometimes be shockingly over the top. And the way they pretty much abuse the fact that they’re in a poor country by treating it like a playground is not exactly moralistic. But there again, this is what most young people do on their “year out.” (Plus there is a half-hearted epiphany or “realisation” of this towards the end).

If you’re looking for a travel book that doesn’t get bogged down with a lot of dull information or heavy plotlines then this is for you. Nice and simple. And a lot of fun.

This is a self published novel and could do with a bit of editing to tighten things up, but it’s still worth checking out. As with the other books I’m reviewing, this won’t be on the bookshelf of most shops, but will be available to order.

Review - If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur

So here’s the next indie review. If Errands Could Kill by Jim Bronyaur

It’s a self published kindle book and I was a little sceptical at first but ended up thoroughly enjoying it. (And I've since found out it's also available in paperback).

There are a few typos but don’t let that put you off. It’s well written, perfectly paced, and an extremely warm and fun book to read. The family life of the protagonist is rather “ideal” in an Enid Blyton sort of way but this works as advantage because you genuinely enjoy being a fly on the wall in the household. Reading about a happy marriage, well brought up kids, it’s a nice world to be entering. (We can’t be fascinated with the dark, messed up lives of others all the time now, can we?)

And then there’s the non-offensive murder mystery which keeps you turning the pages as any book in this genre should. Especially when the action hits in at the end. Back to Enid Blyton though, I actually think this would serve rather well as a kids book.

So whether you’re young or old, if it’s light reading for your kindle that you’re seeking then look no further.

Review - Abattoir Jack by Christopher Neilan

You’ve probably never heard of this book so I’ll borrow a quick summary from the blurb at the back…

At the age of 22, Jack is going nowhere. Stuck in a New Mexico backwater, slicing dead cattle for a living, he is ready to seize any opportunity to make something of his life. So when his workmate Ed tells him about the $25,000 stashed in a bus station locker in San Francisco, and when he meets and falls for the beautiful De S'anna, a sweet Italian supernova of sweat and lips and purple-black hair, the two events propel him into a journey of love, drugs, madness and determination as he tries to make real those two seductive mirages, the accidental fortune and the perfect love.

Abattoir Jack came out in 2010 on the same publisher as my own novel English Slacker (Punked Books). In fact, it was the main reason why I was drawn to this publisher in the first place.

It’s quite a short book, beginning with an absolutely awesome piece of writing about working in a meat cutting factory in the New Mexico desert (“just one dusty road leading back to the little spithole row of houses and bars”), living in a motel and wasting day after day, mostly by getting through a fair amount of vodka. The writing is stylistic and original. Christopher Neilan was barely in his twenties when he wrote this, but he shows the skill and maturity that a lot of older authors would kill for.

Then, suddenly the girl De S'anna enters the scene and it all turns at little too much like On the Road meets Natural Born Killers meets Thelma and Louise. It’s as if Neilan is trying too hard to fit in his favourite influences rather than relying on his own original ideas. Finally in the last third of the book, certain events cause the protagonist to turn melancholy and what we get is Raymond Chandler on acid, speed, coke, or all three.

For me this book showed a lot of promise but by the end of it I was thus, slightly disappointed with how it turned out. However, I would still highly recommend it as being an exciting and quite a unique read as a whole.

Frustratingly, like all the books in these indie reviews, it’s not likely you’ll see it on the shelf in your local bookshop. (Although it’s easy enough to order.) Also frustratingly, Neilan has so far yet to provide us with another novel to get our teeth into. A shame, since this debut shows a lot of potential.

(If you’d like to read an interview with Neilan see the interviews page at the top of the screen)

Story 15 - The Quarrel

I was walking home with my girlfriend one night and we were arguing. What it was about isn’t important 'cause of it not being in any way relevant to the story so I’m not even gonna go into any of it… Although just for no reason at all I may as well tell you we’d been with some of my mates who’d all pretty much ignored her 'cause of there being some fit barmaid they’d gone down this particular pub to watch. We’d sat at the bar instead of finding a table but my girlfriend had been all pissed off and settled on a table to herself instead. This meant of course that I’d had to sit with her but had been wanting to talk to my friends too and had sort of been flitting between the two places, exhausted with all the hassle of it all. Now she was sulking on the way home, obvious thoughts of what dickheads my mates were and why hadn’t I just sat with them, like why had I even bothered talking to her at all?

So anyway, I guess the story really begins when we were on the hill about two minutes away from our flat; no longer talking and not going home until things had become a bit more resolved, not wishing to enter whilst still in a bad mood with each other and all that.

I was on the bench smoking a cigarette while my girlfriend was sort of skulking about, not yet ready to sit down next to me; but at the same time having no desire to walk away and leave me behind either.

It was in this moment of me sitting there and her standing around nearby when I first noticed the guy walk across my field of vision. A figure out of nowhere, coming into focus momentarily: thin, ill looking, younger than me and slightly shorter. Either a drunk, a homeless person; or both. – in fact my guess of him being one of the many beggars you often see around our city (Brighton) was confirmed almost straight away as I watched the figure approach a couple who were now walking up the hill towards us. A conversation I couldn’t hear but could tell from the body language that he was asking for money and being refused: The shake of the head from the man, and then the blank, poker expressions of both him and his girl as they continued past him.

I drew on my cigarette, not wanting to stare for too long, allowing my eyes to drop to the floor, drinking in a brief moment of peace before out of nowhere the thin beggar had positioned himself next to me on the bench, leaned his face to my ear and spoken, “Give me 50p or I’ll slice your face.”

I froze for a moment, not wanting to turn and face him, trying to give myself time to decide how to best handle this unexpected encounter. I remember thinking I could probably jump up quickly to put myself into a more defensive position; or if it’d be better to simply tell him to fuck off and leave me the hell alone.

I was already in a bad mood of course and taking it out on this guy (at least verbally) didn’t seem like such a terrible idea at the time. The problem however was, if he really did have a razor blade then all it’d take would be one quick swipe of it to ruin my face for life. And I liked my face.

I also liked my girlfriend; despite the current argument. And I had to think about protecting her. To be honest if I hadn’t been with her and hadn’t been in a bad mood then I’d have probably got up and run away without a second thought. I’m not the sort of person who really cares about being macho or anything. Running away is simple and that’s what I’d have done. Problem solved within a couple of seconds.

“I mean it mate, I’ve got a razor blade here and I’ll slash your fucking face if you don’t give me 50p.”

I looked across to my girlfriend who was now walking into the kebab shop across the road, shouting something to me about wanting a coke; completely unaware of our current predicament.

“That your girlfriend mate,” he was now saying. “Nice girl. Give me 50p or I’ll slice your face.”

Keeping my head I did two things at the same time. Actually more than two. I got up quickly, stepping back and away from the bench so I was now looking down at the drunk; far enough so he couldn’t get hold of me with one movement.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and said, stalling for time, “Ok mate, 50p it is, or make it, I’ll give you a quid, but that’s it.”

By being friendly I was attempting to pacify him, by taking a firm hold of my wallet I was making sure he wouldn’t snatch it and by stepping away I was stopping him from slicing my face. (I say all this ‘cause I remember consciously taking all of these things into account which is why I go into detail here.)

He got up quickly and at once was right next to me, in front of me, stumbling about in the wake of my path. I remember him taking a swipe at my wallet and pulling it away just in time as I took out a quid, which I handed to him saying, “Here you go, but that’s it,” and made to walk across the road to the kebab shop; but already I could sense a growing agitation coming from the drunk.

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

I couldn’t believe it. How had fifty p suddenly changed to fifty quid? I’d thought I’d somehow stopped the whole situation and now it was gonna be over. I was about to happily share my girlfriend’s coke while this guy would wander off down the hill, accepting the fact that I’d outsmarted him, that I’d been too quick. He was now gonna go and hassle some other unlucky bastard.

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

I’d been nice enough to give this guy a quid, which at the time wasn’t exactly breaking the bank, but all the same I was still relatively hard up, and there was no way in hell I was even gonna consider giving this guy far more than I usually allowed myself to spend in a week.

“Look mate,” I said, trying to be friendly, deciding I’d have to cleverly talk myself out of this one. “I’ve given you a quid. That was pretty nice considering it’s double what you asked me for. You can go and ask someone else, I’ve given you all I’m gonna give you.”

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face.”

All of a sudden he started approaching nearer, closer to me with a look of violence in his eyes before swinging a bony fist through the air, which I dodged, and then he was on the floor, lying in the road: Literally, all happening within a couple of seconds.

He looked kind of pathetic as I stared down at him. In a blur I considered kicking him a couple of times just to make sure he didn’t get up and start harassing me again but didn’t. Although I nearly did. I’d been more scared than I’d realised and at the moment of him lying there I felt a great sense of relief as well as the strange urge to punish him for having given me such a shock.

Instead though I carried on talking; sticking to the original plan of using my brain instead of my fists.

“This is Brighton mate. Plenty of people are gonna give you money here. Why don’t you head into town? Loads of people around there.”

“It’s fucking shit mate.”

“What, Brighton?”

“It’s a fucking pile of shit.”

“You from here?”

“Nah mate, from London,” he said as he got up.

“What’s that like?”

“Fuckin’ shit.”

“Why’d ya come to Brighton?”

“Give me fifty quid or I’ll slice your face. GIVE ME FIFTY QUID OR I’LL SLICE YOUR FACE!”

My girlfriend was near us now. She’d come out from the kebab shop and was sipping her coke, watching our conversation, aware I was being hassled; although not giving away any like fear or apprehension over whether this guy really meant what he was saying about slicing my face.

I gestured to her, mouthing, “Go home,” then in reaction to her lack of response gave up with the whole mouthing thing and shouted, “Go home, I’ll catch up with you later!”

She was just standing there sipping her coke though, not doing anything.

“GIVE ME FIFTY QUID OR I’LL SLICE YOUR FACE!”

I needed her out of the way. I needed her to leave me alone with this guy so I could simply leg it.

I began to walk down the hill, drawing the drunk along with me, leading him away from my girlfriend who was hopefully gonna get the hint that she wasn’t helping matters by staying close.

The drunk followed, deciding now upon repeatedly mumbling his familiar offer of not slicing my face if I gave him fifty quid.

My girlfriend started walking down the hill towards us.

“Give me fifty quid mate or I’ll slash both your faces.”

It was more than I could take. Actually no; there wasn’t any anger involved. No lack of patience. It was simply my last resort. I’d attempted to be nice, tried to be clever and was without the opportunity of running away.

There was only one thing for it.

I stepped a couple of paces back from him and clenched each of my hands into fists. He was talking to me more now but I was no longer listening. I said nothing. Did nothing. There was no, “Come on then.” No, “You’d better watch it.” No, “I’m gonna smash your head in, kick your arse,” or whatever.

I simply looked at him, concentrating on his hands, assessing the time it would take him to pull out a knife or razor, waiting for him to make his move, read to knock him down as soon as he did.

In one rapid movement he jumped at me, fast as lightening. But instead of attacking he merely pushed me aside, sprinting down the hill.

And then my girlfriend was suddenly next to me, asking if I was ok while I remember half wanting to chase after the guy; kick his head in for putting me through what he’d just put me through. And in retrospect I should’ve been cuddling my girlfriend, telling her I was fine, she was fine, it’d been nothing and there was nothing to worry about. But I just couldn’t.

“Give me a minute,” I said to her. “I just need a cigarette. Then I’ll be ok.”

Although at the time my mind was swirling:

“Fuck that bastard,” I was thinking to myself as I fumbled around with my lighter, sparking up. “Fucking should’ve decked him. Taught him a lesson good and proper... And fuck my girlfriend. Bitch. It’s her fucking fault I got into the whole fucking situation in the first place.”

“Are you all right honey?”

“I just need a minute,” I told her. “Then I’ll be ok… Just leave me a bit… No, don’t touch me… Just go on home… I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Story 14 - Control Panels

The control panels are flashing red. A strange anomaly has appeared on the view screen and the captain has ordered a level one alert. It’s a dust cloud in the shape of a perfect hoop. The hole in the middle is black… whether it’s an actual black-hole or not is something I don’t think anyone knows for sure. Certainly the atmosphere on the bridge is tense.

The captain shouts for me to get down to engineering immediately and the information-pad in my hand is ignored but swiped away nonetheless. When someone bothers to look they’ll see our sensors have been showing a 0.02% malfunction over the last several hours, which I suspect is getting worse. In a ship this size it could be interfering with our exterior imaging array.

I slouch into the turbo-lift and command to be taken to section E2, silently cursing my low rank.

“How about you?” I say to the lift’s computer. Were you ever a lowly control panel? How long did it take you to work your way up to having your own voice?”

“Unable to comply,” is the simple response I get. “Please restate the question.”

Engineering is bustling with a flustered liveliness. Flashing red lights along the walls and ceiling add to the mood. Staff are arriving from various sections. Most of them, like me, seem uninformed of what they’re supposed to be helping with. I search out a senior officer through the crowd who subsequently informs me that we’re all awaiting orders, and when I ask if there’s anything I can do in the meantime he only tells me that it’d be helpful if I could just pass this message along.

So I’m meandering around for a while, telling anyone who’ll listen to keep calm, not panic and that it’s probably only a false alarm. There I am, busily doing nothing when I notice Juliana Shawls standing by a control panel in the navigational section of the engine room; her face deep in a kind of perplexed concentration; an unsolved problem obviously blocking her out to the rest of the world.

Juliana Shawls who I’ve been trying to find the opportunity to talk to ever since being assigned to this ship. I ponder if now would really be the best time to tell her how much I admire her work; how long I’ve been following her career; how honored I am to meet her in person. How I’ve dreamed about her more times than I can care to remember…

No, forget it. Why would she even care? I’m a nobody amongst hundreds of other nobodies. Someone of my rank would and should never talk to an officer in such a way. But there again, if my theory about our malfunctioning sensors is correct I may have enough reason to interrupt her thoughts. I could even be of help.

I walk over, wondering how I’m to open our conversation: when her head is going to rise from the control panel and she’ll stare into my eyes, inviting me to state my reasons for talking to her.

“So nice it is to meet you,” she’ll say. And then I’ll be telling her there’s no time for idle chit chat because we need a diagnostic to determine if there really is an anomaly outside, if such a menace is actually present at all; or whether the danger could be worse than predicted.

“Never mind the diagnostic,” she’ll reply, letting her hair down in front of me. “Why don’t we take this chance for me to show you my quarters?”

She’ll be leading me away through the crowd, throwing orders to a passing cadet before we come to the turbo lift. And once inside we’ll no longer be able to restrain ourselves.

But wait. This sort of thing wouldn’t happen to a lowly cadet such as I am.

I pick myself up from the floor; try to focus, to shake off the throbbing pain there now is inside my head. Why do I seem to be the only one conscious in engineering? I have to contact the bridge.

I stumble over several bodies to the nearest control panel, punch in a code I can hardly remember. The flashing red lights are blinding to me as I shout, “Bridge! Get me the bridge God dam it!”

A rush of static gushes out of the speakers. Somewhere in there I think I can hear the voice of the captain, though I can’t be sure.

“This is cadet 362,” I say.

There’s no response but more static.

I look around me. I’m not an engineer and have no idea what half of these control panels are for. An officer is needed, not me. Why is it that I’m the only one left conscious? I need to find an officer.

Making my way over the bodies I search out someone with a blue patch on their left shoulder. By the hyper-drive area I immediately notice some movement. Yes, the blue patch is there on this officer’s uniform, and they’re awake too. It’s the most beautiful officer I’ve ever seen. She’s smiling at me…

No, wait. This isn’t happening.

I pick myself off the floor again; ignore the throbbing pain in my head, the flashing red lights. I search the bodies around me, more bodies, finally come across the same officer I spoke to earlier. The one who told me to be alert and wait for orders. I shake him by the shoulders trying to rouse a response. After some minutes of this he begins to mumble sleepily.

“Wake up!” I shout. “Focus!”

“Where am I?” He finally says. “Who are you?”

“Never mind who I am, focus. Look around you. We’re in engineering. Something’s happened to the ship. I’ve tried to contact the captain but communications are out. We need to assess our situation but I’m not qualified to -”

“- my head! No!” he suddenly cries, falling to the floor, writhing in obvious agony before passing out once more.

I decide quickly not to reawaken him; look around me at the bodies, wondering if I should try someone else. A young female cadet lies to my left. I pick her up, shake her, her eyes open and then she’s kissing me passionately: but I manage somehow to bring myself around from this new fantasy; finding the same cadet lying on the floor next to me. I shake her, slap her face and shout for her to wake up but she doesn’t stir.

I need to get out of engineering. Maybe the situation is different on other parts of the ship. The bridge is where I should go. That’s where all the important people are: the ones who can help; who know what they’re doing. I pray to God someone is awake up there as I stager towards the turbo-lift.

Luckily it’s still working. And as soon as the doors shut and begin to move the throbbing in my head weakens somewhat. Transported through the veins of the spaceship on my way to the bridge I can feel my heart beating fast, my breathes short and irregular; and I’m sweating profusely: but there’s a definite sense of relief to be out of engineering.

Able to concentrate for the first time in a while the thought suddenly occurs that I can use the voice activated controls to talk to the ship’s computer in here.

“How many people are on the bridge?” I begin.

“There are eighteen people currently on the bridge. Four senior officers, two security officers, three science officers, three navigational officers, one weapons operator and five cadets.”

“And how many of those are conscious?”

“That information is not available.”

Hang on, I think. Why isn’t the captain on the bridge? I ask: “What is the current location of Captain O’Conner?”

“This information requires a security override.”

“A what?”

“Knowledge regarding the locations of Captain O’Conner and First Officer Dobson has been restricted to officers only.”

What, I think, is going on?

Then the doors of the turbo-lift are abruptly opening before me to reveal the bridge.

As I step out onto the golden floor the first thing that strikes me is how normal everything appears to be. Officers and cadets stationed at their posts, punching information into control panels, staff gliding about from one place to another, everyone communicating in low, calm voices. The flashing red messages of alert have ceased. The image on the view screen is an unremarkable picture of distant stars.

But soon something strange begins to occur: namely a realization of the fact that nobody has responded to my presence. They all just seem to be going about their business in an orderly fashion; a little too orderly for my liking.

I grab a passing cadet by the arm.

“Where is Captain O’Conner?” I whisper. “What happened in engineering? What is the state of the ship?”

It’s as if I’m not even there however. The cadet confusedly brushes my arm away, continuing in the direction he’d been headed.

I saunter around the bridge in desperation, pulling my hair out; wondering what to do. I move to look over the shoulder of a navigational officer, but I’m not qualified to understand our heading: cursing my rank once again and making a sudden decision I run at an officer by the turbo-lift, tackle him to the ground; then drag him through the sliding doors, commanding for the lift to move immediately.

“Take us to medical,” I shout, without putting too much thought into which section I’m willing to go to next. What I want is to get this officer away from the bridge in the desperate hope of shaking him back to life.

My plan however soon begins to backfire in the strangest of ways. Before I know it the officer has attached his hands to my throat and is strangling me with this crazy look in his eyes. He’s screaming with a frightening sort of anger. And when I say strangling I mean really strangling: actually trying to kill me.

My thumbs are under his hands, I’m pushing against him but he’s leaving me with no choice. I may be of low rank but I’m well experienced in hand to hand combat. I hit him squarely on the chest. Hit him again in the same place with more force and, when he comes at me a third time, kick at his temple to knock him out cold.

In slow motion he slides down the silver wall, crumpling to the floor. I turn to see the doors of the turbo-lift have opened behind me.

Three security officers are blocking my way. “The medical section has been restricted to officers only,” they say. Or at least this is the last thing I hear before being shoved back into the turbo-lift.

“Where am I supposed to go now?!” I appeal as the doors slide shut.

“Unable to comply,” is the lift’s unwelcome response.

I put my head in my hands, once again cursing my low rank. I am cadet 362; a nobody in a ship full of nobodies. I cry out for the lift to take me to the shuttle bay while beside me the officer begins to stir.

Story 13 - Space Capsule

So you’re in this space capsule and you’ve been travelling for a while now.

Your journey started a couple of months ago in fact and it’s… well, what do you reckon? Is it big with loads of facilities, maybe a kitchen, a gym, a cinema and…?

Nah, it’s small; tiny in fact: About the size of your bedroom. And you’re with all these other people in space pods, something like from on the Alien movie kinda thing, all squashed together, packed in like sardines in a can.

Except there was some sort of malfunction with the one you’ve been in and you’ve just got out and you’re squeezed up against a window looking out at all the stars, wondering how to restart the pod to go into stasis again because the journey is for like a year. Nah, two years…ten years and… No, ten months and like there aren’t any other pods, it’s just you and this robot that isn’t turned on and you’re gonna turn it on in a minute ‘cause you wanna know what the hell you’re supposed to do.

The robot is like this really sexy robot girl… or guy, depending on whatever you want the robot to be… but meanwhile you’re staring out the window going through in your brain what your mission is and what the hell you’re doing in this space capsule in the middle of all this nothingness.

*

You are sitting on a ledge by the window. The robot is slumped next to you and you bend down to turn it on, searching a switch behind its head, under the hair at the top of the neck. You press against the skin feeling around for a hard lump. You’re in two minds suddenly whether you want company now or not. It might be better to get yourself together a bit more, feel comfortable with being here alone because you are a human and this is a robot and you need to be the one in charge here after all.

You find the lump, pausing again for a second. It seems like you have all the time in the world when you listen to the distant sound of humming from what you guess to be the engines of the capsule. How many months or years are you really going to be out here, in here? What are you going to do with your time if the pod cannot be turned back on?

Your hand moves to switch on the robot in an uncontrollable reaction to your thoughts. Immediately it springs into life, sitting up next to you. Suddenly it is no longer a piece of metal, not just an object but a living humanoid.

It is apparent how attracted you are to the robot as soon as its eyes meet yours. Its standard dark brown uniform of shorts and a t-shirt is clinging tightly to its smooth olive skin; dark hair full and thick, enveloping an innocently attractive face.

Now filled with life the robot comes out with a generic greeting of, “Hello superior,” before moving its head around to take in the surroundings.

“We are not at our destination,” it continues in a voice which somehow seems to complement its appearance perfectly.

“Why have you woken me? Where are the others?”

“There aren’t any others.” you say. “I changed my mind.”

Although your words come across as sounding confident, almost arrogant, you have most definitely found yourself in a situation you were not expecting. Like, how could you have predicted this unexplained, increasing desire you’ve now found yourself having for what is, essentially a piece of metal.

“Changed your mind?” replies the robot, with an expression of perplexity – its face after all has almost all the features any human face would have. Its eyebrows briefly rise with what you take for a second to be giving off a hint of amusement.

“Yeah, it’s my fantasy. I can do what the hell I want can’t I?”

Again you are aware of this show of false confidence. But while you’re silently congratulating yourself on maintaining your position as a superior human, the robot’s expression has taken a noticeable change to that of sadness. So much so that at once you find yourself with feelings of empathy towards this object. It meets your eyes again, opening its mouth as if to speak, stops, then begins again with, “But what should we do in this space pod, just the two of us? Wouldn’t it be more interesting if more people were involved?”

It looks around, almost childlike, quiet and seemingly deep in contemplation. You imagine the mechanics working away inside its robot brain; mathematical equations being formed and calculated. I’m alone in a space capsule with a human being. What is the optimum solution for dealing with current situation?

Finally it rises to a standing posture and begins to move around the room, stumbling awkwardly at first; then quickly becoming more graceful in its movement.

The walls of the capsule are covered with flashing control panels. Your open pod is in the centre of the space. The floor is made up of square black tiles; the ceiling is mirrored.

You are still sitting on the ledge by the window, half gazing at the stars, half following the robots actions as it circles your pod and is then inspecting the various features of each control panel.

A sudden thought comes to mind and you reach down to your space boots to open up a secret compartment in the heel. A bank card, laser pistol, and packet of space cigarettes appear.

You notice a box of matches in your left pocket and run one of them along the floor to produce a flame, light one of the cigarettes, and begin to inspect the pistol, unsure as to why you are carrying such a weapon.

The robot immediately turns around.

“Smoking is not permitted in here superior. I assume you know that.”

You do not know this; although smoking not being permitted inside a space capsule does make sense in a funny sort of way. You disregard the warning however, continuing to drag on the cigarette.

“How do you know I’m not allowed to smoke?” you ask.

“I have accessed the data on space travel regulations.”

“But surely it’s up to me,” you say, almost to yourself.

“Of course superior,” replies the robot with a slight gesture of its hand. “Everything is determined by your own thoughts. All of this, the capsule, the pod malfunction, our surroundings; even me: It is controlled by your personal desires. You certainly know this already?”

You finish the cigarette, stubbing out the remains on the tiled floor. Look up to the mirror, at yourself, and then to your robot again, which seems to have suddenly become ever more attractive. At the same time it appears to be looking at you with an impression of fascination.

“I was thinking,” you tell the robot. “…I could always introduce some alien invasion or something, if we get bored.”

“What makes you think we’ll get bored superior?”

“… or like, if we can’t find something to do just the two of us, or if…”

The robot has unexpectedly interrupted your speech by walking directly towards you; its eyes seem to be scanning your body. The sentence feels unfinished as you let it hang in the air… “You know, like I’m sure we will eventually,” you continue, stumbling all of a sudden over your words. “Get bored that is.”

“I am programmed with over three thousand forms of entertainment,” it says, now almost upon you.

You look out of the window again, wondering where the number three thousand came from, if at all it’s possible to have a robot capable of entertaining you in so many different ways.

Turning to see the robot above, you submit to going along with whatever it has decided to do first. Your companion sits next to you on the ledge and you can feel its warm robot thighs pressed up against your own.

Review - Teaching with Chopsticks by Jonathan Last

So the next indie review is here. Teaching with Chopsticks by Jonathan Last. Another book you’re not likely to see on the shelves of WH Smith, Tescos, or even Waterstones.

Once again this is a book about teaching English as a foreign language that’s a must if you are or ever have been a TEFL teacher. Or even if you’re thinking about taking that year out and would like a heads up on what it’s really like. More so than Stranger in Taiwan because this is essentially all about teaching.

In fact that’s the great thing about this book. Not only does it include the obvious drama of overcoming initial feelings of loneliness to create a new set of friends; acclimatising to a foreign environment, and plenty of nights down the local bar… it’s also very much about the job you have to do when you get there. It’s primarily about the experience of being thrown into a room with a group of children, staring up at you: expecting you to be their teacher; then gradually learning the skills needed to cope with all the ups and downs of the work.

Jonathan Last went to Korea with the intention of writing a book about his teaching experiences and it shows. The detail he puts in and the way the plot moves around his ever changing attitudes towards the job and Korea in general… this is no memoir, you’re actually there with him, which makes for great reading.

I also enjoyed the subtle sense of humour, the way Last manages to fit in jokes almost accidentally… or incidentally… but I’ll stop rabbiting on and leave you with a short quote:

I must have arrived between lessons because children are running around everywhere, stopping to examine me with great curiosity. The standard interaction is as follows:

Child: “Hello. What’s your name?”

Me: “Hi, my name is Jon.

(Child runs off giggling)

Those are the bolder ones; the more shy specimens just hang back and observe me from afar, in huddles. Uniformly black-haired creatures running around like some sort of sped-up negative of The Village of the Damned, an alien language filling the air and plastered all over the walls – I’ve definitely arrived.

(If you’d like to read the first 2 chapters in full you can get a sample from the Amazon page).

The only problem with this book is that it isn’t available in print. It’s been published by a small company specialising in e-books called e-books publisher. One day I hope to see it picked up by a larger company because it definitely deserves a wider readership.

Story 10 - Outpost 269

 

Three thousand days alone on this godforsaken hunk of metal in the middle of space, with nothing so much as a passing comet … I’ve murdered my only living companion. But I had to get out of this interminable cycle of nothing – away from the mess I signed up for at the age of twenty-one; naïve; excited over the prospect of leaving my home planet for a life of adventure. A promise of a post aboard a starship after the minimum three years service; they seem to have forgotten me.

Once a week I talk to a computer back on Earth. Nothing to report. Systems at a hundred. What am I waiting for? The sun to explode?

Outpost 269 reporting in.

What is your status?

Status normal.

Observations?

No observations.

Equipment efficiency level?

Fully functional at a hundred percent.

Status of cat?

Alive and well.

Prepare for scan.

I move into the cubicle for a full body scan that records my mental and physical well-being. I’ve no idea how it works, but recently have begun to suspect that it may not be as accurate as I once thought. Otherwise, why did I kill the cat?

Over eight years I’ve been here.

Checking one section at a time I start with engineering in level A; finish with the observation room. On Friday and then at the weekend, donning my space suit, I examine the outside surface for faults. Once a month a pod arrives with more food supplies. The routine of non-events has at least some consistency.

Making my way around this tiny excuse for a space station, I’d hope against hope for something to go wrong. A sun storm to interfere with my settings. For a crack in the panelling. Stray bolts showing wear. An alien attack even.

If it wasn’t for the cat I would have gone mad a long time ago.

Not talking to myself. I’m conversing with the cat. Its name is Nibbles. Or rather, it was. Used to be. Former name. Former cat.

Nibbles would be hard to find at first. As a kitten it was difficult to get him to eat.

“Nibbles!” I’d shout. “Nibbles … dinner time!”

I’d find him hiding behind a canister in section D. In a bundle of sheets in my living quarters. Or often he’d be high above the space between the lighting and ceiling tiles.

Watching me. Observing my every move. Wary but interested in my behaviour.

Once I’d started to hand-feed him, we began to make a connection. Soon Nibbles was following me everywhere. In the evenings we’d lie on my bed together. I’d massage his head, rubbing the back of his ears. Nibbles used to like that. And his purring would provide me with comfort. I was looking after another living being, a life that depended entirely upon my own.

“Breakfast time, Nibbles. How about some milk? Okay, we’d better get to work.”

In the evenings we’d play hide-and-seek.

“Where are you Nibbles? There you are!”

There was a favourite piece of yellow and green tape I’d throw high into the air. The friction of this movement would cause it to crackle. Nibbles would come running into the room, eager to entertain us by chasing, catching and assuring his dominance over the object.

On the last day he knew. We’d spent too long together for there to have been any chance of me fooling him.

“Time to go,” I said, unable to meet his eyes. “The only way,” I mumbled while he blinked back at me knowingly.

“I love you,” I told him, taking hold of his neck. “You love me too, I know you do, but fate… they’ll be coming for me. Soon … they’ll have to …”

My excuse will be that Nibbles found his way into the waste disposal chute without my knowledge; the truth being that I put him there knowingly, deliberately – an execution, nothing less.

Nibbles didn’t struggle. He trusted me, and I know he was happy to give up his life for mine. As I watched him; watched the body fly into the vacuum of space and finally explode, I was overcome with sadness for the loss of my only friend.

Silently I held the tears back.

Returning to my room I shaved, showered, prepared myself mentally for what I was going to say in my weekly interview. The excuse I would make. And then, with an action that can only be deciphered as a spur of the moment spot of madness, I carved his name (N-I-B-B-L-E-S) into my forearm using a razor blade.

“Outpost 269 reporting in. Status normal. No observations. Equipment efficiency level is fully functional at a hundred percent. The cat however, has died.”

I began to laugh, more at myself that at the machine in front of me. “It’s dead,” I muttered, then hesitated before confessing that, “I killed it.”

Prepare for body scan.

Moving into the cubicle, I could still hear meowing but for a moment, a future of happiness flashed before my eyes.