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The story begins...
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Gungoren. Istanbul. 1995. Rubbish heaps with loads of flies. Wasteland. Buses that look like they're bound for the scrapyard but they move and have people in. Giant trucks full of junk driving down the middle of the road scattering everybody. A man and wife and two year old child on a moped. The woman's skirt flapping near the rear wheel and it could get entangled at any time. Bits of bumpers from cars lying in the road. Rusty electricity pylons that look like they'll fall down and electrocute everyone. No planning. No organisation. Toxteth in the riots had nothing on this place. And yet the people were so friendly. Horace could stroll through all this shit and nobody harassed him as he made his way. He was in no hurry to get to the rendezvous on this occasion and so took his time. Soon, in the star-bunker's light, he would be far removed from the dust. Everywhere, trees with dust and muck on them. Half built things. Half destroyed things. Clothes hung out to dry on washing lines to get filthy before people have even put them on. Dust everywhere. Dust up your bum. People shaking carpets out of windows, pouring dust onto dusty people below grovelling about in dust and muck. Little corner shops with windows full of washing powder to sell, and bread with dust on. Workmen laying out building materials in the road...trucks driving over them and crushing everything. Women lowering food in baskets on ropes from three or more floors up to children playing in the streets below.
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The drift...
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They discovered that if you go faster than light you don't go in a linear movement, you go into a different dimension. Blood was congealed light. You couldn't go faster than light without dying...without destroying your body in the process. There was no way through until....
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Eskimez...
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So Horace blasted him with the gun he kept by the side of his chair. That was just the way it was. No point thinking any further about it. It had reached a point for Horace where there were two types of people. Those who deserved to live and those for whom it didn't matter. The boy, about sixteen years old, had broken in through the window behind the old man as he was snoozing in front of the warm fire with his hearing-aid turned down and the lights off. Now the boy was dead. He'd just stood there startled to find Horace suddenly moving so fast and shouting "Away with you". He had a bloodhound sort of head, Horace. Jowels that hung down and droopy out of control wiry eyebrows. He put on his red velvet smoking jacket with the astrakhan collar (only two burns in it in 40 years of rather reckless management), loaded the gun again and went via the hall down into the calm white vapours at the core of his star.
http://[email protected] has produced the pale graphic here and you can see many other examples of her superb work at her site.
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| Favourite links
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Sumo Now.
Far more happening than you first realise...will Mitoizumi throw the salt higher next time?...will Yokozuna Akebono make a successful comeback after injury?...will Chiyotaikai prove himself as Ozeki? Answers to this and more at the next (May'99) Basho.
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Robotman.
This is the guy who needs the treatment more than you or I do!...ludicrously funny comic strip now and then.
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Bastard Nation
Don't be put off by the name. I think they are doing a great job to challenge closed adoption records and to persist in attempting to get basic human rights for people to know the truth of who they are.
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Email me on:
[email protected]
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