Welcome To Hellville - Part 8 By Rich Mills

next page Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Alan carelessly tossed the apple core in the bin next to his computer. Constructed in a moment of sheer mindless boredom, the waste-paper bin was an amalgam of newspaper strips and PVA glue, coated in a thick yellowing layer of varnish. Stuck to the outside, sandwiched in between the multiple layers of varnish was the headline APOCALYPSE CITY, which he'd purposely placed among many other carefully chosen dystopian hack comments about the state of the world at the time of construction.

"Personal file," Bleep! "Diary," Bleep! "Open," Bleep! "New page," Bleep! A carefully considered pause for inspiration, in a moment of cybernetic connection Alan could feel his heart synchronise its rhythmic beat with the cursor flashing in the top left of the screen. Nothing happened, his mudded mind strained to fill a blank screen, whilst drive heads hovered and discs span in vacuous anticipation.

He had a thought, and pondered why was it that words of wisdom came all too easily while he wandered the streets during the day, while dealing with the mundane tasks of just striving to live a 'normal' life. This was meant to be a seminal moment - he'd decided before the last of his anarchic life force was finally drained out of him by spirit-crushing day to day living, that he'd sit down to put thought-provoking pixellated characters down on harsh white screen. Still in the process of trying to boot-up his brain, which had spent a long period in downtime, he wound his jaw into a tight knot.

He soon realised that the clenching of his teeth and the resulting increase in pressure on his jaw did little to aid the eagerly- hoped-for ideas from remaining suspended in their semantic state. The only way to elevate such pressure when it occurred, and by way of reducing the risk of potential stress fractures to his already dentally challenged teeth, was to wedge open the mouth with a decent (well-packed) cannabis joint.

Definitely this was the right time, not that there was ever a wrong time, for a drawn out drag on an illegal but morally defensible herbal relaxant. Rolled and inserted in the time it takes to consider the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Coming to the usual conclusion at such times, that all answers may not be contained within. Yet once the process was under way the end became clear and he no longer cared for answers, just the potential alternate experiences such quests were often loaded with. Rolling a joint was very much a ritualistic neo-tribal post-modern art-form, he mused as he sparked-up the hurriedly constructed creation.

And so the ritual began, the sacrificial flame ignited the first offering, and Alan let loose his burden. A tranquil relief washed over him. Carried out of himself by the waves, he took one last look around with a sharp eye. He was a slightly built, youthful looking man.

An unusually high metabolic rate stripped all signs of fat from his frame. Fast flowing veins elegantly rising to the surface snaked their way down his forearms. If romantic emaciated gothic waif was the look he was going for, the complexion of pure extra virgin Mediterranean olives killed the effect somewhat. His lank black hair, worn at shoulder length, twisted and split in tumbling downward spirals. Draping his face in darkness, the only facial feature his hair did not disguise was his nose. Protruding proudly, the aquiline evidence of raging testosterone belied this figure of ambiguity.

With a single feminine flick Alan drew back the curtains, tucking them neatly behind his ears. The light revealed soulful brown eyes, bridged by wolverine brow. The nose now found its place comfortably between the brow and a generous mouth, made up of large brooding lips. Smoke danced moodily around his profile from the reefer that dangled carelessly from the lips.

Continued ....next page,

Fiction - Off To See The Wild West Show Part 1 (1886: Hull, Yorkshire) By Frank Beill
	Six steps up. All I could see was an entrance and no way back out again. I was only ten years old when Grandmother dragged me up the stone steps into the orphanage. 'They'll take good care of you, Sammy,' she said. I wanted to believe there was a tear Read more...

Fiction - Welcome To Hellville - Part 5 By Rich Mills
	I slept the long sleep, dead to the world; I lost a day in there somewhere. Now refreshed I'm ready to start transcribing what I've found. The two VHS video tapes seem to contain a variety of TV programmes. I'm going to get Keith down to give these the Read more...

Fiction - The Death and Birth and Death of a Legend By Bob Spence
	Goober liked to be busy. Some people could handle doing nothing, not Goober Walton. Running the tidy but ancient gasoline concession suited. Suited well. It was orderly and everything clearly had its place. Some would say it looked almost military in its order and for that it Read more...

Fiction - Feller's in Cut By Maurice Fairfield
	Well that's her gone. You don't remember me do you? I'll have a pint while you're thinking about it. It's me Jack, Harry Fergus's son. Here for the funeral. Thought I'd see her get put under. Not sure why. It's always a laugh though, watching a parson doing a Read more...

Fiction - Kat Out of the Bag Chapter Nine By Steve Rudd
	Life is a race against time, didn't you know? Sometimes I'm worn out by my own energy, but as we four walked first towards Langtang, right on through the cosy cluster of weather-beaten buildings and then so far past the village that even the strangely surreal Read more...

Fiction - Fishheads By Michelle Dee
	Monstrous silver and blue -green severed fish heads emerged at the forefront of her mind. Open, close, open, close the gaping mouths. She fancied there were others behind it. Each time the razor sharp teeth were bared she looked into the blacker than Read more...

Fiction - Firm but Fair By Mark Pollard
	Cry-Baby Jim Breaks. He pioneered it, they say. And the hushed, almost ecclesiastical tones of Ken Walton had heralded it's entry into Saturday afternoon folklore: the bright lights of Blackpool and Great Yarmouth, down to the lesser reputes of Ilfracombe and Skegness had all borne witness Read more...

Fiction - Puzzles By Denis Price
	I've got a really nice room, when the door's closed I feel ever so safe and warm. It's quiet as well, just the swish of the wind in the trees outside. I like the trees; they hide the big tall fence. My watchers say the fence is there to keep me safe, and that's their job too, they're always there Read more...

Fiction - COLD WAR TALES- THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS By Denis Price
	The piercing insistent wail of the siren woke him. `For Christ`s sake now what!` Over the tannoy the smooth expensive voice intoned languidly that this was only a drill and that all personnel should continue with their normal duties. He groaned and thought, this is my normal Read more...

Fiction - Scrawls Of The Unexpected By Mark Pollard
	Professor Colin Pillinger, lead scientist on the Beagle II programme, was calm but well pissed off inside. He had been clinging to the idea that his £35 million Mars Probe was stuck in a crater, waiting for some narrow rays of sunlight to banish the shade for a few precious hours each day in order that Read more...

Fiction - A Short Story - The Beaver Stalker By The J.E.M. Cult
	I stepped out into the cold frosty air. I pulled my muffler tighter round my hands and crunched across the frozen grass. Today was the first day of the beaver season- and by golly, I was sure gonna get me one. I love beavers. I can't help it. There's just something about stroking that damp fur that sends me Read more...

Fiction - The Art Of Being Alone In A Crowded Bar By Rich Mills
	What music are you into, man? The American exchange student who had earlier introduced himself, without any regard for Jean-Paul's need to be alone, suddenly threw a curve-ball of a question in his direction. Well I listen to... What followed was a definitive list of bands from Jean-Paul's wide ranging rare vinyl Read more...

Fiction - Old Tired & Completely Rucked By Martin Dale
	Of course, I used to be big league me. Right up there with the bigwigs I was. Every game I'd be out there, working my socks off for the club. I'd be at the bottom of every ruck, in the thick of every maul, I'd cover more of the pitch than anyone else on the team. Pretty good really, now that I come to think about it, Read more...