A Slice of Parsnip

Forest here I come!

2004-08-28T15:12:00.000+01:00

Hmmmm. Perhaps Maydell Boothby will be quite an interesting character to get to know after all....

From www.maydellboothby.biz

Maydell Boothby was born in 1964 in Saint Louis, Missouri. He went to school at Washington University and obtained his bachelor's degree in 1986. He received her Master's degree from Harvard in 1987 and later received his J.D. from Washington University Law School in 1998. Boothby married the Women's Issues campaigner Slatternly Ironface and had six children. In 2002 Ironface (that woman could never bring herself to change her name) was named the Illinois New Lesbian Mother of the Year.

For a whole fortnight in 2000 Boothby became a national leader of the conservative movement with the publication of the book, Echoes from my Breast, a speculative fiction romp through the Yore Galaxy, mistakenly viewed in some quarters as an avante garde endorsement of family values. Following his appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show - an episode that generated the greatest number of complaints in US Television history - Boothby was asked not to attend any more political functions.

Boothby has written over twenty books, publishes a monthly newsletter called How We Can Eradicate Weakness, syndicates columns to over 100 newspapers, and makes radio commentaries five days a week on WKZL ('Where Force Finds a Voice'), and conducts a weekly radio show called They'd Take It All If They Could.

Books: 19 science fiction novels, including: Echoes from my Breast, Beware the Positive Woman, Strike Now For Freedom, Libbers Across My Couch, Children Who Dare To Take On Moms, Who Will Rock the Cradle When The Moms Are On The Rocks?, Women Who Love Women Who Hate Men Who Love Women; 1 self-help book for cuckolded husbands: The Matrichidiocon Lizard Conspiracy.

What an interesting man! I would love to know more about the Lizard Conspiracy.

My research complete, I log into gmail to see if any of my many e-correspondants have contacted me. They have! Well, Olwen has, anyway.

From: Olwen Cuff [mailto:olwencuff@birmingham.prison.uk]
Sent: 28 August 2004 11:12
To: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Subject: Can't see the wood for the trees!

Hi Graham!

I can't wait to get out of prison for a couple of weeks to take part in I'm A Speculative Fiction Author... even if it isn't for ever. Ah, the smell of the forest and the chance to speak speculatively with everyone in the camp! I'm a big fan of both Maydell Boothby and Barnard Crubbins, so it will be wonderful to meet them, and I suppse having to put up with Dunkan won't be so bad...

Have you heard anything about what the Fen Tucker Trials might consist of?

Please confirm to me that you are coming? Apparently you are the last to confirm!?!?

Yours in spec-fic-lit

Olwen xxx

Gosh, she sounds as keen as Briony that I come along. And it might be a nice chance to pit my strength and wits against everything that nature has to throw at me... Blast, the phone is ringing.

"Greetings from Blaart." (My standard greeting, it seems to put cold-callers off)

"Jesus, Graham, when will you stop coming out with that shit?"

"Oh, hello Archie. How are you?"

"Pretty damn well exhausted, my man. Folks-Whippet had the vag coming at me from all directions. I'm bloody well literally shagged out. So, what better way to relax than some Police work, eh?"

"Quite, Archie. What can I do for you?"

"You mean, what can I do for you, Parsnip! I've had word from one of my snouts that one of Merv Doonican's relatives is coming over from Ireland to avenge his death. Now, I can't for the life of me understand why or how, but for some reason he thinks you're responsible, and that you're the one he's going to slaughter! Ha ha!"

The blood drained from my extremities. "Jesus Christ, Archie. What should I do?"

"Don't worry, boy. Trust your uncle Archie. Listen, I'll have a couple of my boys watching your flat for anyone suspicious. The best thing you could do is lay low. You got any family you could stay with? Or maybe take a holiday? I'm sure you could do with one, you pasty faced weasel."

"Well, I guess there is somewhere I could go. Would I be safe in Thetford Forest?"

"Ah, you thinking about that Celebrity rip-off thing, eh? I've already put a tenner on Cuff and Tupper to have a red-hot lesbo romp by the second night! That'd be ideal, everyone knows the Irish are scared of trees. Go for it Graham, lad. See you in a few weeks!"

With that, he rang off. I totter back to the PC and reply to Briony:

From: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Sent: 28 August 2004 14:12
To: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
Subject: Re: IaSFA...GMooH! (IawTFA)

Hi Briony

Count me in!

Graham

Is fate conspiring to humiliate me? Or elevate me to greatness? Well, let the public decide!

A ridiculous idea from Briony

2004-08-27T10:12:00.000+01:00

An interesting electronic epistle indeed from fair Briony!

From: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
Sent: 27 August 2004 04:12
To: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Subject: IaSFA...GMooH! (IawTFA)

Dear Graham

Thankyou very much for your last email. I really liked the card game scene in the 'Oli' (as those in the know refer to it!) and I am most flattered at the portrayal of Bri'oni ;-)

Also, well done on the cover art! It will do.

Now, a very exciting opportunity might be coming your way - a real chance to grab the limelight! Darryl Duckmanton, the News, Ads and Arts editor of the Thetford Free Ads has contacted me about a new venture they are getting into! Following the lead of "I'm a Celebrity...Get Me out of Here!", they are going to have their very own version of casting well known people out into the wilderness. Hence "I'm a Speculative Fiction Author...Get Me out of Here!".

So far, they have got Dunkan Cutter, Chester Prehatch, Olwen Cuff (on an electronic tag), Barnard Crubbins, Maydell Boothby (an american) and Poppy Tupper (who, I acknowledge, is hardly speculative).

The event will take place in Thetford Forest, and you will be in there for 2 weeks. There will be twice weekly updates in the Tuesday and Friday editions of the Free Ads, as well as a webcam feed on the Free Ads website!! Obviously there will be 'Fen Tucker Trials' to endure, but if you do well this will increase your popularity amongst the people of Thetford and district!

Whoever is crowned King (or Queen!) of the Jungle (or Forest!!) will be given a double page spread in the Free Ads to promote their work, as well as numerous oppotunities to open supermarkets and the like. It's a wonderful opportunity, can I teel Darryl that you're in?

Yours in anticipation,

Briony Flegg xx

There is, of course, NO WAY I am ever going to demean myself and my art by taking part in this freakshow! Poppy Tupper doesn't write speculative fiction, for a start, and I haven't ever heard of Maydell Boothby. I might have to check out his website, www.maydellboothby.biz.

Still, I shan't respond to Briony just yet, as I don't want to upset her: after all, she is only thinking of my career...

The Cover Art!!!!

2004-08-25T07:03:00.000+01:00

At last! Here it is! I can reveal all!

Below is the cover art for The A'Rafat Kronikles (note the renaming. The harsh 'k' is far more appropriate for these noirish tales). Click the thumbnail for the "bigger picture"!!

This picture is available to purchase as it is highly collectable. For just £150 you can purchase the original version which I printed out earlier today, or you can buy one of the second editions printings of it for £75. Each has been hand painted with a mouse in Paint on Windows. Or, if you would like to use the graphic in your own website, then for £400 you can have the electronic file.

Some of my less devoted fans my not know that some of my artwork is owned by none other than George Galloway MP and also the bloke who conducts the Thetford Children's Choir!!

Press Release

2004-08-16T21:18:00.000+01:00

Gosh, things are really starting to get exciting now! I have been tasked by Briony to produce a press release to go along with The A'Rafat Chronicles. I have come up with the following:

Ken's Books have reserved the entire first print run of Graham Parsnip's speculative-detective crossover book, THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES.

In an exclusive deal, Ken's Books will sell the paperback THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES in every one of their UK stores as part of their Xmas promotion. The book, which retails for £3.99, will be featured as a special 3 for the price of 2 promotion and given a prominent position in the front of store Gift Bay for the Xmas market.

Tipped by Palimpsest.org.uk's speculative fiction expert, Norman Clature, to be THE only small press book to read this Christmas, THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES hits shelves on 12th November.

The hardback (first edition) version sold out 5 weeks before the author is due to launch THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES at The Firkin Rights of Man in Thetford on the 11th November.

British author Graham Parsnip has agreed to sign copies of the paperback version of THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES for people pre-ordering via Ken's Books, making THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES one of the most collectable books of 2004. A small run of first edition copies have been printed in paperback and hardback, and the signed copies are definitely the ones to grab. They will make an ideal Christmas present, and additionally may prove a shrewd investment in the collectable book market. The limited edition paperback print run will be scaled out to all of Ken's Books UK stores.

Featuring the stunning cover art of multi-award winning artist, Graham Parsnip, THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES has been the subject of the biggest 'buzz' for an unknown author and small independent publisher since GP Taylor's Shadowmancer, which went on to become a massive international bestseller and Ken's Books Book of the Year 2003. The author of THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES, Graham Parsnip, has already received praise from Gringo Bellhop, who dubbed Wright's writing as '...writing'.

Graham Parsnip's work has also been named by the Speculative Book and Magazine Collector (July edition 1244) as one of the most collectable modern authors in the world today, making THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES and ideal Xmas present that may very well rise in value and most certainly will not end up amongst a pile of unwanted Xmas gifts, like the work by a certain Mr Cutter might. According to SBMC, Graham Parsnip is part of an elite of fifteen-hundred authors which include Chester Prehatch, Dunkan Cutter, Jeremy Beadle and others. The author is already well known for his cult “The Parochial Pentameter”, with THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES being his first foray into the speculative/detective market, and what a dark and controversial debut it is.

THE A'RAFAT CHRONICLES is about Inspektor A'Rafat, a weary elfin cop at work in the Blaartian star system, which will be further explored in Parsnip's soon to be published 'The Oligarchicon', a 3,000 page space/time epic. A'Rafat battles to stay on the right side of the law whilst dispensing instant justice to wrong doers and bad boys alike. Briony Flegg called A'Rafat "Sherlock Holmes in space, but an elf" and she wasn't far wrong!

This should stir up a fair amount of interest in the media, I am sure! Everyone will want to know Graham Parsnip once they realise how collectable and enjoyable his books are! Fame and fortune, here I come!

DIY

2004-08-06T15:16:00.000+01:00

Have decided to do the cover art myself. After all, how hard can it be?

Besides, what with the £5,000 I am giving to Briony to help cover initial distribution costs, I can't afford to buy anything in.

Watch this space to see the artwork before anyone else!

WEBCHAT

2004-07-31T01:47:00.000+01:00

Briony has raised the issue of the cover art for the Chronciles of A'Rafat, my collection of speculative detective stories. I really don't know what to do.

Briony informs me that she cannot afford to pay for artwork herself; and so either I have to pay or I will have to do it myself. I have no problem with the latter, for a achieved a 'B' grade in O-level art. But even with my artistic talents, might not the cover look a little amatuerish?

I decide to consult my friends on the spec-fic chatroom. Messages whizz through the ether and arrive proudly on Merryl's 17inch LCD display.

*** GRAHAMPARSNIP has Connected ***

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
He's definitely gay.

BUMNUTS wrote:
brb

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
My collection of short stories is to be published soon! But should I design the cover myself, or buy something in? It seems like a lot of money...

OLWENCUFF wrote:
Hi Graham. I have managed to get on a PC here at the prison. I think you are an excellent designer, and would do it yourself.

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
Thanks Olwen. Your opinion means a great deal to me. How is life in the prison?

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Ya big softie Parsnip! Put yer scribblings away and get the job done proper, like! Demand an artist give you summat for free. That's what I did with Farwhytt Ever Thee Bind, I tell ye! Git onto that Les Edwards, he'll give stuff to any old twat these days, I've heard.

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Hey, Cuff! You still looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp? Hahaha! Yer munter! How's your shit poetry coming along, eh? Got someone to listen to one yet? Hahahahahahahaaaaaa!

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
Dunkan, why do you have to be so profane and unpleasant? Olwen may not be the most conventionally attractive woman in thw world, but you are wrong to criticise her poetry, which has been coming along very nicely recently. I accept your thoughts on the cover issue but I hardly think I am in a position to be making demands of respected artists like Mr Edwards!

OLWENCUFF wrote:
Fuck off Dunkan, you dickhead.

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Ooooooh get her! I might just have to pop an email to the prison IT boys to let them know one of their crims is posting naughty words on the internet! Hahahaha!

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
You wouldn't Dunkan! Don't do that!

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Oh yes I would... And I just have! ROTFLMAO!

OLWENCUFF wrote:
you wan

*** OLWENCUFF's connection has been lost ***

*** GRINGOBELLHOP has connected ***

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
Hi Gringo! Have you any thoughts on whether I should design my own cover art or not for my latest publication?

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Whadya mean 'latest', Graham, you disingenuous dork? 'Only', you mean. 'ONLY'!!!

GRINGOBELLHOP wrote:
I suggest you buy 'COVER ART: TO SELF DESIGN OR NOT TO SELF DESIGN? THAT IS A QUESTION' by Gringo Bellhop. That tome answers your query.

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Bloody hell, great advice Gringo! NOT!!!! Anyway, did you get round to reading the precis of my new work, 'THE CATARACTADYSIRIAD' yet?

GRINGOBELLHOP wrote:
No.

GRAHAMPARSNIP wrote:
I may have to look that book up, thanks Gringo. Anyway, I have to go now and finish work on the current chapter I am working on.

DUNKANCUTTER wrote:
Fuck off then, Graham. That's a good lad. Let the professionals get on with their proper discussions.

BUMNUTS wrote:
I'm back. Just done a really big wank!

DUNKAN CUTTER wrote:
Great. Send me a photo.

*** GRAHAMPARSNIP has disconnected ***

Huth gambles with his Pride

2004-07-08T11:22:00.000+01:00

Things are truly looking up in my world, now. Dalrymple has been off my back for a couple of weeks, and Briony is filling me with hope for my literary future!

I am sat at Merryl, my eyes aquiver across the screen. I am putting the finishing touches to a scene in The Oligarchicon (I am able to stay focussed on the mighty Oli... even though the A'Rafat Chronicles will soon be published!) where Trels Gapplethorn (a civil servant from the snow planet, JUkl), Jug Jug Makkle-Trat (a slave trader, but actually a good man) and Huth are playing SLAGG, a notoriously dangerous card game for well high stakes.

In a gambling hall deep in the seedy district of Crustacean, Huth stared at Trels over the top of his cards, attempting to psycho-analyse his opponent into submssion. Failing, on this occasion, he instead placed the Praelector of Juttlebug card down on the table.

"I shall match your bid of 18 flibbits, Trels, and will raise you 4. Let me tickle the badger."

A trickle of sweat beaded down Huth's forehead. He knew the stakes were high, and that he was gambling with resources he couldn't match. If he lost, and unable to pay, he would have to make the ultimate sacrifice by the rules of SLAGG - he would forfeit his cock. He leant across the table to tickle the badger: a SLAGG term for getting another card from the pile. He glanced at it: A three of Chattawaaaweee. Dammit!

It was now Jug Jug's go. His beak opened and shut nervously. His vast wealth meant that he could easily overwhelm his rivals with outlandish bets: but this was considered not to be cricket when playing SLAGG, and he knew it - big time. Fortunatley for the slave-trader from A'a'a'a'a'tit, he was holding a game-winning card: the Ace of Blaarts. He hurled it down onto the pile, and screeched the game-winning cry:

"Embrace my dark place!"

Huth and Trels chucked their cards back onto the table in disgust. Huuth gulped several times, and crossed his legs. How in all of buggery was he to get out of this one? Crowing, Jug Jug scooped up his winnings, before noticing a note amongst the coincards.

"What is this?" The bird-man chirrupped. "'I owe you 84 flibbits. Kind Regards, Huth.'? What is the meaning of this, you Tadotian oaf? Can you not pay me my winnings? I hope you are aware of the penalty..."

"I am yes," spoke Huth quietly, and with the dignity of a man shortly to be bereft of his most manly appendage. "Give me a chance to make it up in some other way though, Jug Jug. I know you are a slave-trader, but I also know that you are actually a good man. There must be some task worthy of 84 flibbits?"

"You're right for once. I may be a slave-trader, but I am actually a good man as well. Very well! I do have a task for you to perform. One of my most attractive slaves, Bri'oni has been captured by Gaxor, the Replicant King and a planet-hopping madman!"

"What would Gaxor want with a humanoid slave-girl, no matter how fit she is?" asked Trels.

"Simple," simmered Jug Jug. "Gaxor has recruited D'Splorsch, the virgin eating dragon who fled Brel-Limial after their housing policy bust-up! He needs to feed up D'Splorsch to get him back to full strength, to help him in his mad planet-hopping. He wants to take over the whole western arc of Blaart!"

"So, by stopping Bri'oni being eaten, we will help save the Western Arc? I'm up for the challenge. After all, I could do with some action after banishing forever the handmaiden Sia'znai, to Fink, prison moon of Plupp," responded Huth, beaming widely.

"No way, Huth. You better keep your plonker in your pants. I need Bri'oni back unbroken. She's worth far more to me cherry intact than deflowered," interjected Jug Jug sternly.

"Shit. This is going to be hard. But not as hard as being castrated! I'll do it, Jug Jug! But I'll need some help. There's no way I can enter the realm of Gaxor, administered as it is by the evil Praelector, alone. Can you get me a partner in this job, Jug Jug?"

"I might be able to help you, Huth. Bogg-Ryder, the warrior Queen of Zlup, the swamp planet, owes me a favour. She has a Cybrowarrior named Pedro who would be ideal in a quest such as this. I'll make sure he comes along with you. get the next shuttlecruise out of Crustacean to P'Chuck, capital of Zlup. He'll meet you there. Next time I see you, I want Bri'oni to be there too - intact. Y'here?"

"Yes. I'll be on my way. See you later!"

Huth spinted out of the gambling hall and hailed a demicruiser to the shuttlecruiseport two miles away to catch the next flight to P'Chuck. he didn't know where this adventure would take him, but at least it kept him busy!

What an awesome scene. The tale of The Oligarchicon gets more exciting and complex everytime I write!

Further correspondance from Briony!

2004-06-25T23:34:00.000+01:00

From: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Sent: 25 June 2004 04:12
To: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
Subject: new ‘thread’ – publicazione!

Dearest Briony

Thank you for your message. I am ever more excited by the thought of actually being published by your good selves, I’m sure we can become a great team. No Bloomsbury/Rowling, of course, you simply don’t have the clout, but in time I expect things can progress towards something pretty special.

I have been a-searching on Amazon for other titles from the Fantastical House of Flegg stable. My, but it is an eclectic bunch. I consider myself a fair connoisseur of the genre but some of your authors are new to me. I am particularly taken by the exotically named Finetime Fallowfield and his Witchdragons of Blenk-drammondia series, which I see has now run to seventeen volumes! Further investigation on Finetime's latest instalment (Blood Kill: Return of the Witchdragons of Blenk-drammondia) proves interesting:

Customers who bought this item also bought:

· Undead Ted and the Bread Heads (a Berkley Hunt Investigates novel); Paperback ~ Chet Brownlo-Snetterton
· Way of the Ant: Book Nine of the Psoss-Idg Chronicles; Hardcover ~ Tuesday Knight
· Dead Wrong, Buddy!; Hardcover ~ Chelsea Darque
· The Flying Thief of Babies of Gralliqon; Paperback ~ Barbie De’ath & Darius McArb
· The Magic Toilet; Paperback ~ Kellee Strange
Explore similar items ...

Product Details:
· Paperback 1,432 pages (July 2004)
· Publisher: Fantastical House of Flegg
· ISBN: 1905100000
· Category(ies): Speculative Fiction
· Other Editions: e-Book
· Average Customer Review: Write a review
· Amazon.co.uk Sales Rank: 172,970
(Publishers and authors: improve your sales)

Extraordinary! I have often coveted my own Amazon page and to think this may now be just a few months away. Oh, to be in the august company of Mr Fallowfield! Anyone who is worthy of mention alongside Tuesday Knight deserves my undying admiration! I take it you have author get-togethers? It would be nice to meet your other luminaries, Kieran Orange, Kylie Bibble and the mysterious ‘LG’!

> Sent: 17 June 2004 03:19
> To: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
> Subject: re: A'Rafat URGENT! from G. Parsnip
>
> Dear Graham
>
> Many thanks for the completed A'Rafat document. Is the picture of the weather-girl intended
> for the cover? I'm not sure how appropriate it is?
>
> I will talk with our printers and let you know when we have some dates sorted out.
>
> Kind regards
>
> Briony Flegg

I must apologise for the photograph attached to the last message. I have a vague connection to Ms Reinger and we have exchanged photographs for some trivial reason, it must have been added in error.

So, have you managed to discuss dates yet? What’s the next step, Briony? I am tumescent with anticipation, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying.

Yours with trembling hands

Graham

PS. the website http://www.fantasticalhouseofflegg.co.uk/ seems to be down at the moment, do you want me to help get it up and running?

Getting away with it

2004-06-22T19:31:00.000+01:00

Whither the quiescent torpor that accompanies true peace? I am afraid it might be lost forever. My mind is a fetid maelstrøm of despair, in fact.

I sit on the bed, limp, wracked by the kind of self doubt that only the truly despairing can muster. What have I done? As soon as Dalrymple investigates the Folks-Whippet link he'll be straight back round here to haul me over the coals again. Worse, who knows? He talked about nearly dying and I'll bet he's not a man who enjoys being lied to. By all the Gods of Tyrethia!

I watch Clare Nasir present the weather for GMTV but it raises not a flicker of interest. Hell's bidets, I thought that fear and danger were an aphrodisiac for some people! If I get into very much more lumber with any more lowlifes I shall be as useless as a Jalpesian eunuch! I don't want to feel like this; I just wish it would all go away. I want to be able to write The Oligarchicon, watch Shaznay from afar and flirt with fame through Briony Flegg. That's it. It's not much to ask, surely?

It's flat Tizer and stale pop tarts for breakfast, but the idea of actually going out and replenishing my shelves fills me with abject terror. All I see that scenario producing is a headline in the Eastern Daily Press:

Unacknowledged Genius Kicked To Death In Alley: An Ignorant Nation Wakes And Mourns

Which has its attractions, I suppose.

But, no, I fancy another day of hermitage beckons. I switch on Merryl and stare at the new volume entitled Fugue (reprise). Huth is caught in an impossible dilemma too, musing on the Fate of Nations. Due to the cruel political machinations of The Praelector and Gaxor the Replicant King, he has been tricked into a situation where he alone must decide whether to destroy the peace-loving Draaals, a mutant race of wheelchair-bound liberals, or banish forever the handmaiden Sia'znai, to Fink, prison moon of Plupp. He, as I now, stares at the options before him and weeps.

I fritter a few hours writing a history of Plupp and its centuries-old war with the twin moon alliance (Fink and An'Orr-aq), a bloody conflagration resulting only in abject humiliation and slavery for the Finketians and An'Orr-aqs, as they're known. Into this penal hell, Sia'znai could be hurled!

Just as I'm writing the shattering conclusion to the Pluppy Third Age, the blessed telephone rings. So enraptured am I by my return at last to the Blaartian System and all things Blaart that I answer it without thinking. The worst horror of all! It is Dalrymple!

'That you Graham?'

I attempt an ill-advised accent, which I want to tip towards Jamaican.

'Wot is you takking aboot? Man. You is prolly at the wrong address. Isn't it?'

'You what?'

'There is no brother here wot is called Graham, man. You prolly needs to try somefink else. Get down, and so on.'

'Have you got the bloody telly on, you saddo? Graham it's Dalrymple.'

'No, is I…?'

'Quit the friggin' Ali G impression, pal. I just wanted to thank you.'

'Every ting is irie. I is … what? Thank me?'

'Yeah, Graham, that you? Cool, look, that guy you put me on to? Folks-Whippet? Fucking inspired move mate. I've been up to the hilt in all the charlied-up posh gash that East Anglia has to offer, and I'm still adrift in a sea of minge, you fucking star! When I finally pull me dick out of these lovelies – whoa there, Fliss, you honey, try it with the, oh yeah spot on love – and I – oh crikey – wanted to say cheers.'

'Er, OK, no problem.'

'You're welcome to a jaunt on the silage wagon any old time matey, just say the word. Good Christ, love, you'll break it at that speed. Keep up the good work. Oh shit! Early onions! See you Graham lad!'

And then the phone went dead. I put the receiver back, blinking in astonishment.

You're welcome, I thought. Don't mention it. Merryl hums to herself ominously, but I feel a visit to soapstarbonanza.com coming on.

Further into the mire

2004-06-18T16:24:00.001+01:00

Only someone clinging to the lowest common denominator in every aspect of his life would choose to arrange an assignation in the Savage Gardens, but then that’s Dalrymple. I enter somewhat cautiously and espy naught but burberry and Tommy Hilfiger (I am led to believe this is sooo 2001, but am rather more concerned about not receiving another beating, so I lower my eyes and avoid the snarls and stares).

I see Dalrymple first, handing out what seem like little twists of brown paper to the baseball-capped delta minuses that swarm around him. He looks up and smiles.

'Graham, glad you could make it. Now bugger off lads, more candy in a minute, OK? Go on.'

The seething underclass dissipate. Dalrymple walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder.

'Who did for you, chieftain? You looked proper nonced.'

'Kent Conthtabulary.'

'Who now?' he laughs.

'Kent Copperth. Thorted me out good and proper. I wrote thomething defamatory and...oh, it'th too long a thtory to get into here.'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just need you to spill the beans, Graham.'

'On Cutter, Duckmanton and Tupper? I know nothing.'

'Who? These our naughty boys and girl are they?'

'What? No.' Shit. 'Look, I'm thorry. I'm confuthed. They're jutht people whove pithed me off. I know nothing about your vithe ithue.'

'Fuck you do.'

'No, theriouthly. Look, I'm no fan of thethe people, and would love to get them into bother, but Cutter'th jutht a thpeculative author I know, thame line of work ath mythelf. Darryl Duckmanton, ith, or wath, the featureth, newth and adth editor of the Thetford Free Adth, and Poppy Tupper, well, the'th thome tuppeny-ha’penny authoreth of bookth about flora and fauna. They’re nobodieth.'

'Thpeculative? What the bejayzuss areyou gabbling on about, Graham?'

'Thorry, I mean he'th a thi-fi thlath fantathy writer.'

'So why mention them? You’'re talking shite, Graham.' Dalrymple punches me hard on the nose and it cracks and squelches all at the same time. I land, ignobly, on my behind.

'I...I'm thorry... I don't know what I'm thaying...I'm telling you the truth, Archie! They’re not your thuppothed vithe ring! They're jutht people on my mind at the moment and I had a thought about getting them in trouble, but they're not worth your time.'

'Bollocks. So what was all that threesome foursome moresome nonsense then?'

'Jutht a mucky pic. It got me agitated. It'th no worse than the thwingerth on the Canterbury Way ethtate get up to. Jethuth, Archie, that bloody hurt! Look at me!'

He steps forward and kicks me fully in the gonads.

'Tell me who the lucky basts are in that picture, then, and I'll stop. Give me everything and I'll even cut you a part of the action. Do it, Graham, or I'll do a Doonican on yo' ass, so help me.'

And then, through the grating agony and unswerving pain I have what you might call an epiphany. Cutter is no friend of mine, and Duckmanton and Tupper are less than worthless, but bollocks to Dalrymple, I'm not about to drop them in it to a fearful monster like this. I need to make him forget the names, but I need to stop this beating, too. There was a name...a name that meant...something. It crawls up from the depths and dribbles out of my battered lips.

'Jeremy Folkth-Whippet,' I say.

'Who? Speak properly man!'

I hold my mouth with crooked fingers and force it into the right shape.

'Jeremy. Folks. Whippet.'

'Never heard of him.'

'Ekth army. I think.'

A smile breaks across Dalrymple's ugly face.

'Army, eh? Proper filthy buggers those top brass. And where can I find him?'

I shrug, but he continues the grin.

'No matter, no matter. Can't be too many Jeremy Folks-Whippets in the 'phone book can there? Thanks Graham, I'm grateful. I can get you a piece of the action if you like. Fingers and tops, maybe? A bit of toast to go with your Gentleman’s Relish?'

'I'd rather die.'

'And, hey, you nearly did. Now sod off home Graham, before I set the lads on to you.'

I pull myself up and leave. What have I done?

Back into Hell

2004-06-16T23:07:00.000+01:00

8.30am

It is two days since I emailed my A'Rafat book to The Fantastical House of Flegg, and as soon as my eyes open I leap from my pit and rush to fire up Merryl, log onto broadband and check my email. A response has been received!

From: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
Sent: 17 June 2004 03:19
To: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Subject: re: A'Rafat URGENT! from G. Parsnip

Dear Graham

Many thanks for the completed A'Rafat document. Is the picture of the weather-girl intended for the cover? I'm not sure how appropriate it is?

I will talk with our printers and let you know when we have some dates sorted out.

Kind regards

Briony Flegg

> From: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
> Sent: 15 June 2004 16:10
> To: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
> Subject: A'Rafat URGENT! from G. Parsnip
>
> Dear Briony
>
> Please find attached the A'Rafat manuscript. You can be assured of it's excellence,
> believe me. It must make a welcome change for you,
> dealing with a real literary talent for once!
>
> I look forward to hearing from you.
>
> Yours in speculation
>
> G.P.
>
> <<>> <<>>>

Damn my click-happy index finger! I knew I shouldn't have been browsing for grumble whilst doing such important work! Still, I think I have gotten away with it. I can't believe that Briony, who is clearly enamoured with my talents, would think I am some sort of cyber-perv.

I log onto some of my favourite haunts, all the speculative and sci-fi newsgroups, a couple of message boards, and write a few reviews on Amazon.co.uk. I haven't read any of the books (I haven't the time!) but you can tell if they are good or not by the title and the cover. Then I scoot across to Palimpsest, to ensure that there has been no more of Cutter's skulduggery on there. He has been quiet of late, thanks gods, probably out of it in some drug induced coma. Ha! Good. My eye is drawn to the adverts at the bottom of the home page, and, despite being disapointed there there are no links to any speculative erotica, there is one which very much catches my eye! Glen Rapoza is the author of Illanthean, which sounds like a great read!

There is a kingdom where pure imagination brushes against reality, a dark twilight zone, full of beauty and death, that chafes the outer limits of human understanding. It is a realm where future and past collide with such irresistible force that new knowledge becomes void and old dreams dare turn to flesh. But where can such a mystical place be found? There is no geography that can bind such a land, no roads to touch her gates or maps to mark her borders. To go there one must forsake the traditional tools of the traveler and rely instead upon the inner compass of the mind. Thus chronicled within these pages is the true account of one man's chartless journey, a perilous course pursued by a sojourner who chose to tread the distant path of dreams and traverse a vast wondrous land called ILLANTHEAN.

This sounds so cool! I order a copy, and suggest to my readership that you do too. Check out the website, http://www.illanthean.com - which has some great excerpts from what sounds like a really well written novel full of totally original thought, and very original spelling!

I am wrenched away from the joys of cyberspace by a loud banging again on the door. Still being half groggy from my introduction to the new world of Illanthean, I make the mistake of opening up without checking who it is first.

'Graham Parsnip?' asked one of the three policemen, plain clothes but all holding out their warrant cards.

'Er, 'tis I. Yes. Are you from Dalrymple?'

'Who's Dalrymple? No mate, we're from Kent. Investigating a nasty bit of correspondence you alledgedly sent to a Ms Warner-Pryce. We don't like that sort of thing in Kent. It's a civilised place. We don't know, or frankly care, what you bunch of inbred bumpkins get up to round here, but don't involve us, alright? And next time someone bangs on your door for hours, like we had to a couple of weeks ago, answer the door, alright?'

'Oh, right. It was you, was it? Well, I'm, er, sorry for writing that story. It, ah, won't happen again, I promise, officer.'

'Too bloody right it won't, son! Give him a twatting, lads.'

Everything went black.

7.30pm

I awoke an hour ago. Bruised, battered, broken. I feel like someone has drilled a hole into my brain, and pumped Sunny Delight into it. Everything aches, every movement agonising. I remain in the same place, by the door. When someone knocks on it, as they do now, it sounds like a deafening clap of thunder.

'Are you in Parsnip?' It was Archie. 'I've got something for you!'

'I can't come to the door right now, Archie,' I moan.

'Oh aye? Wanking again, eh? Well, I'll just post it through the door. See you later.'

A piece of foolscap floats down onto my face, as I hear Dalrymple tramp down the stairs. Shifting my position ever so slightly, wimpering in pain with every muscle movement, I hold the paper to my eyes, and am appalled.

Merv Doonican's face is staring at me, lifeless. Taking in the rest of the photo, I see that it is just his head, removed from it's rightful position on his shoulders. The head is sat on a mantelpiece in a rather ordinary living room. In the corner is a slumped headless body. There is blood everywhere. I turn the photo over - there is writing on the other side: When I get a job done, I get it done right. Parsnip, I want information on our fornicating friends. I don't want to have to get a job done on you. Meet me in the Savage Gardens tommorrow at 1600 hours. Bring me some details. AD.

I turn to one side, throw up, and faint again.

Literary interest - at last!

2004-06-15T14:58:00.000+01:00

Apologies, dear Readers, for being so quiet of late! This is largely because I have been so busy. After the horrors of recent times, things are finally starting to look up again for my writing career!

I received the following email a week ago:

From: Briony Flegg [mailto:briony@fantasticalhouseofflegg.tv]
Sent: 8 June 2004 13:46
To: Graham Parsnip [grahamparsnip@gmail.com]
Subject: A Slice of Parsnip

Dear Graham

I have been reading your online diary with a great deal of interest. I am an independant publisher of fantasy fiction and I think I can help you reach your dream of being published!

I note with horror your dreadful treatment by other publishers, such as that known (but alas! not by you until it was too late!) crook Merv Doonican. As for the way you are used and abused by the police I am appalled! I shall not intefere in this area of your life - perhaps that's what helps to keep your fiction so edgy.

Let me inform you a little about my small press, "The Fantastical House of Flegg". We have been publishing for 350 years, and in that time have published some of the most groundbreaking fiction ever produced by man, woman or beast! Our most recent published work was Gilbert Djurgaarden's Diary of a Dead F'Neelian Shtormtrouper which sold more copies than any other independantly published speculative diary in the 'Look! A Book!' shop in Lowestoft. We have a pedigree and the booksellers trust us! We have also started to sell books on Ebay and Amazon which has opened up another, more techno-friendly market for us.

I would love to receive a precis of The Oligarchicon and while we probably at this stage cannot afford to publish such a work in the manner it deserves, we could certainly have a look at some of your shorter, completed works. We were considering an omnibus of the Invesigator A'Rafat novels, which sound very interesing, not to mention Parochial Pentameter which would have a definite market, I am sure.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Kind regards

Briony Flegg

Since then I have been all a-quiver! I immediatlely emailed Briony back, with the precis of The Oli... which I shared with you all recently. I have since then been working on the A'Rafat material, trying to get the stories into a decent shape and order for presentation to Briony. Her response to my precis was positive, and proved again that she was anxious to see the draft of the A'Rafat omnibus. I have selected what I consider to be the best 20 stories, sadly discarding 312 others, though I will probably recycle these into The Oli.... These, combined with a page long author's introduction will meet the requirement of filling 100 pages. I am so excited! Here is the introduction I have composed:

The A'Rafat Chronicals
A Note from the Author

I have come a long way since these stories were originally transposed from my imagination to the page, via a pen. They were my first true writing - the first time I touched what the ancient egyptians termed the papyrus with a nib, leaving ink behind in patterns that formed literature. Before A'Rafat and his exploits imploded through my conciousness, the sketches and doodles of writing I had done had paled into unworthy insignificance. But the ground breaking thought driving these stories of other worldly crime fighting was unique - speculative thrillers. My brain produced the following message, which electrified my creative urge: People love detective fiction. They also love sci-fi and phantasy. Combine the two and that's art! It seems so easy now, but it was hard then. Way hard. They laughed, the detractors and miscreants. I was left at home alone, with Alan the teddy I have nutured since childhood. Yeah, I scored the odd 'E' and dropped some acid. But my imagination was capable of these leaps without the aid of recreational narcotics.

The stories you read hear form only a small part of the A'Rafat canon. They form an even smaller part of what Graham Parsnip is capable of. But they will help bring you into a special world. For here are the first sightings you will have of Blaart - the complex star system which my current work The Oligarchicon will seek to explain. Some of the highlights in this compendium are as follows. The first story here, Cannibal Terror! is the sickening tale of a father who eats other people's children. He is zapped by A'Rafat, and a lesson learned by all potential child eaters. The fifth story is a more intricate tale. A'Rafat plays Boggle with a convicted alien psychopath, who gives him details of another killer on the loose. The complex dynamics between these two are espoused in an amazing collaborative poem, in which the killer's identity is revealed in the eighty-third stanza. The last book is a shocking portrayal of love gone wrong between aliens and men, and in which the main force of evil in Blaart, the Kuttah, is defeated by A'Rafat and Huth (star of The Oli...) who combine powers magnificently.

Enjoy this work. You may never read better - until the release of The Oligarchicon!

Graham Parsnip
Thetford, June 2004

I emailed the completed document to Briany. Oh gods, let her respond soon!

Rejection

2004-05-28T14:54:00.000+01:00

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen my years!

From the period I know as The Difficulty, from that moment, down long vistas of tortured, fearful and horribly confused dreams, my thoughts, if thoughts they could be recognised as, had been random pieces of a child's jigsaw, no two dovetailing, no half-handful forming a coherent pattern.

Yet now, and why I know not, it coalesces. Is this a hint of reprieve?

Or am I doomed to forever see the images focus, then shift out of focus. Today is an out of focus day. I have received a rejection from the literary agents, Dowsing Associates. My letter, returned, with simply 'I doubt we'd be able to place this, Ron' writ large across the bottom in green pen.

I am pinned, buttefly-like, by the entomologist's bleak needle, to the display board of failure YET AGAIN! Intervals of clarity and cohesion blister and bend and soon the black curtains draw against the light.

I awake, fevered and despairing. There is only one way to combat the endless jerks and jabs of daily life, and to cope with it. I must away to the Internet!

I understand from certain sources that people who write in green ink are neurotic, obsessive and possibly paranoid. This would fit the pattern, I think. I log on to alt.aspiring.writers.death.list and add Mr Dowsing to the database.

The demons of mischief never sleep, remember that!

Agency Submission

2004-05-21T11:16:00.000+01:00

To:

Dowsing Associates
Literary Agency
3 Mustard Road
London
W2 8NR

Dear Ron (may I call you Ron?)

I am submitting my novel to you for consideration.

I have held a long-standing interest in two things, the vicissitudes of Fate (yes, fickle Fate!) and the myriad possibilities of life on worlds beyond our own. This has led me to write The Oligarchicon, a first novel of approximately 915,000 words. Ah! But words seem almost inconsequential! For this is my long dreamt of magnum opus; a 3000 page epic set in the Blaart star system. The Oligarchicon is split into three sections - 1000 pages of, if I may say so, a particularly scholarly history of the Blaart system, 1000 pages of novel, then 1000 pages of footnotes and appendices explaining some of the more intricate plotlines and characterisations.

The Blaart system is a figure-of-8 star system, similar to those originally hypothesised by Glasby, Fresa, McLaughlin, Bauer and Lynds(1) during the middle of the last century. These researchers had discovered that various exotic orbits are theoretically possible for multiple star systems. The majority of these exotic orbits are unstable and unlikely to exist in the real universe, but I have speculated beyond the theory and produced a system that does work!

The two suns of the Blaart system, Sp'j'kraz and kLooodt, give life to twenty seven different planets, all with their own unique ecological make-ups and - where human (or human-like!) life occurs - sociological complexities.

Blaart is an eclipsing variable star system. It has a highly unusual light curve consisting of a pattern of three minima. The pattern recurs every 19.2278 days. The light curve has puzzled investigators since its discovery. The pattern of three minima can not be explained in full by the eclipse cycle of any conventional-orbit binary (or multiple) star system. Therefore it is usually considered that only the deepest minimum is caused by eclipse. and that the other two minima are caused by some combination of non-eclipse causes, such as intrinsic variability of the stars, tidal distortion, and extrastellar material.

Over the last twelve millenia, the Blaartian Empire has gradually evolved to become a utopian benign oligarchy of states and planets all working towards the nirvanic ideal of 'blaart'(2).

At the end of the historical essay we begin the fiction (which I may be tempted to call 'faction'). We enter the world of Huth, a dissident from the planet Tadot who has been imprisoned for daring to speak out against the Blaartian ideal. Clues are dropped as to his motives, but it is never clear (right up until the last chapter) if he is acting for good or ill. Running parallel to Huth's story we have fifteen other stories which - although seemingly disparate - will conjoin like a nest of rutting vipers to provide a dizzying example of technically adept style-fuelled conceptual writing the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre has yet to see!

Here is a brief Dramatis Personae:

Bogg-Ryder; the warrior Queen of Zlup, the swamp planet
Brel-Limial; a terrifying troll prince from the Kingdom of Tyrethia
The Praelector; a mysterious avian lizard with nought but trouble on his mind
Gaxor the Replicant King; evil incarnate, and a planet-hopping madman!
Trels Gapplethorn; a civil servant from the snow planet, JUkl
Blei-dorian; a jester who knows more than he is comfortable with
Jug Jug Makkle-Trat; a slave trader, but actually a good man
Sillykillybillywigg; a sex crazed flying ant with a clown's face
Alamao; the Chief of Gregoria
Krissie; Alamao's daughter and the lover of Huth (dissident from the planet Tadot, above)
Sia'znai; a Blaartian handmaiden
The Kuttah; a perverse gas in almost human form
Spup; a whistleblower to the Blaartian ruling Council
Frek Necktuck; the Chancellor of the Blaartian ruling Council
Mnememnmn; the Leader of the Blaartian ruling Council(3)

A goodly portion of the text is written in alien language, but this merely heightens the enjoyment for the reader, knowing that here we are dealing with a narrative integrity undreamt of in speculative fiction before now. I have retreated, admittedly, from my original intention of writing all sixteen threads fully in the native language of their individual protagonists, even though those languages are fully realised in the accompanying appendices. My colleague in the speculative medium, Chester Prehatch, author of the oft-submitted The Nietzsche Evidentiary persuaded me that perhaps the reading public was not quite ready for, say, the Juklesian Hyperbolic Past Participlian Future Tense, with its thirty-plus caste levels of conjugation for the verb 'zxucuxz' (to disembowel). Or the Tyrethian Shum dialect, which contains just one word (sevitagen) and relies solely on intonation and the gurning abilities of the speaker.

I have enclosed a longer synopsis and the first three chapters. For your convenience, an SAE is enclosed.

I look forward to your inevitably positive response.

Sincerely,

Graham Parsnip
(Speculative Author)
136b The Covert
Thetford
Norfolk

Email: grahamparsnip@gmail.com

1. Glasby, Variable Stars (1968); A.Fresa, Astronomical Journal (1957); D.B.McLaughlin, Astronomical Journal (1961); C.A.Bauer, Astrophysical Journal (1945); C.R.Lynds, Astrophysical Journal (1957).

2. Meaning, literally, 'smooth and warm'.

3. Probably a god.

Recovery

2004-05-18T17:52:00.000+01:00

All day it has been windy - strange weather for late May - the wind swirling through the hedges and fences like an invisible floodtide among seaweed; tugging, compelling the bushes in its own direction, dragging them one way until the patches of elder and privet sagged outward from the tougher stretches of blackthorn on either side. It ripped the purple clematis from its trellis and whirled away twigs and green leaves from the oaks at the bottom of the shrubbery.

An hour ago it left the Covet's gardens, but now, as evening falls, I can see it still tussling along the ridge of the downs four miles to northward. The beeches of Croxton's Clump stand out plainly, swaying in turmoil against the pale sky, though here not a breath remains to move a blade of grass: and scarcely a sound; the blackbirds silent as the grasshoppers, the crickets, within their dense, yellow-leaved holly bush, not yet roused to their nightly chirping. Colours change in twilight. The blooms of the giant dahlias - Black Monarch and Anna Benedict - no longer glow dark-red, but loom ashen-dusky, like great, lightless lanterns tied to their stakes.

Tell me. How do I not weep?

Huth expresses his passion through fighting, Brel-Limial by capturing virgins. Me, I ... well, I what? I appear to have become a pawn in a particularly nasty game of cat and mouse between a bent copper and small coterie of sordid underground scheisters, rather than an award winning novelist of speculative fiction. Where did it all go amiss?

Dalrymple's shocking suggestion that I would be incarcerated for a week was not borne out, thankfully. Bobby-Paul's mother, arrested later that same day for attempting to nick a demonstration tray of signet rings from Argos, acquiesced to Archie's request and has kept quiet about the imagined nonsense with her son, just so long as I keep myself holed up at home for a week. This ties in with Archie's plans, although I don't pretend to understand them. I am heartily sick of the whole thing and just wish that the lot of them - Cutter, Dalrymple, Duckmanton, everyone - would just bugger off and never bother me again.

Still.

I have therefore lived on delivery pizzas for the last few days. Fortunately Pizza The Action! do 2 litre bottles of Apple Tango and a rather cheeky tiramisu, so I've not really suffered on the nutritional front.

It has also given me time to write, and by crikey I have written. In an attempt to eke out the more suspensful scenes in The Oligarchicon (Chester complains that I cannot 'do' tension. He suggests that although there are very very many scenes in the book where Huth is in mortal danger it never lasts longer than two paragraphs) I have structured a 104 page set-piece where Huth and Sia'znai are locked in a garbage disposal crusher while attempting to avoid the attentions of the Rrav-eet, a many-toed Toad. I think it works rather well.

I need a Jules fix, but the bastards at Look East seem to have wheeled out that aged scrote Ivor Moores. Move over grandad! With no outlet for my more base frustrations I checkout soapstarbonanza.com, but not even Suranne can raise my spirits today.

And then, a knock at the door! I am thrown all a-tizzy. What does this mean? Can I open it? Will it be the fatuous Mother Chav from across the way, bolsted with gin and monosodium glutamate derivatives to shout more chemical-crazed obscenities at me? I creep into the kitchen and look through the nets. Ye Gods! It's the bloody rozzers yet again! I sit under the worktop and hug my knees. They knock again. I stay where I am, not daring to move.

The letter box is opened and a male voice calls out, 'Graham Parsnip? Is there a Graham Parsnip here?'

After a few moments they leave, and I can hear their footsteps along the landing, before they fade down the stairs.

How queer. Surely Dalrymple's cronies know this is my address? What the blinking flip is going on now?

Disaster Strikes! (again)

2004-05-11T03:43:00.000+01:00

I am exhausted. I haven't been to sleep since my return from 'Borgs in the Bookshop', so frenetic has my public relations exercise been. Chester and Jeremiah didn't waste any time at all, for as soon as Merryl and I logged onto the various message boards, mailing lists and newsgroups through which the disparate elements of speculatorial society communicate, they had already posted messages quoting Merv's false biography of me, and even speculating that Graham Parsnip does not even exist. When I posted messages to the contrary, replies soon popped up, saying things like "Whatever, Merv" and "Pretending to be other people on the internet is a crime!". Most distressing. How am I ever to regain my name and my reputation?

In an attempt to wake myself up, I turn off Merryl, and put some clothes on (I always find it more comfortable to operate the internet while in the buff). I head off into town to All Bar None for a refreshing and awakening cup of coffee. I have in my donkey-jacket pocket a copy of my current read, Jesse Jameson and the Curse of Caldazar by Sean Wright. I am a massive fan of Wright's work, even though they are intended for children, and certainly can't wait to read his debut adult speculative novel, The Twisted Root of Jaarfindor which will be available in a selection of desirable and collectable editions in October. I may even review this tome for this web site! It certainly can be said that for Wright, literary fame and fortune ... beckoning.

I sit down at a table with a mug of coffee, and start reading through the book. Soon my thoughts are elsewhere, away from my problems, and I can't help but cry with laughter when Iggywig appears! After my third coffee, I am wrenched back into the real world when Archie P. Dalrymple plonks himself down in the chair opposite me.

"Alright there, Graham? How's it going my friend? Got anything you can tell me about the menage a trois of perversion I was telling you about last month? I haven't heard a peep from you in weeks! This isn't what I expect from my snouts!"

"Ah, hello officer. I am afraid my mind has been on other things. I have been having the most terrible time of it lately..."

Archie jumped in, anger lighting up his eyes. "Someone been bothering you, Graham? No-one messes with Archie P. Dalrymple's narks! Tell me the name of the bastard and I'll get him sorted out!"

"No, Archie, it's nothing like that. It's just, it's just that I've been ripped off by another author, I've lost my savings, and worse, my good literary reputation..."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Graham? I can understand you being peeved over losing some dosh, but what the hell is this about reputation? The only reputation you've got is one for getting a little over excited about weather girls, as far as I'm concerned."

So, I went through the whole of the debacle at 'Borgs in the Bookshop' with him, trying to ignore his huffing and rolling his eyes at various points. It turns out, though, that Merv Doonican is well known to the Thetford Police, and Vice Squad in particular.

"Merv Doonican, eh? Can't believe you were taken in by that twat. Mind you, plenty of others have been in the past. He's been ripping people off for years. He used to get degenerates to write mucky stories, then he'd publish them as his own work and rake in the profits. He hardly ever got any complaints, because the people he ripped off were too embarrassed to complain and own up that the filthy works were their own. Then he came up with this speculative fiction idea, because this stuff was so humiliating that no-one would ever complain. I mean, who'd actually want people to know that they write this stuff, eh Graham?"

"Well, okay, Archie. But I still feel pretty awful about all this."

"As it happens, you're in luck. I still hate the bastard since he ripped me off a couple of years back. I let him take some kinky photos of my wife, and the little shit never paid me! God, it makes me angry just thinking about it! Hnnnrgh! Anyway, this is our chance to take him down, and you'll get all the glory. One of my other informants spotted Doonican heading King's Lynn way. We've tracked him down to West Winch, a village just outside Kingo with a reputation for housing speculative fiction weirdos. Some of my boys are on their way down there now."

"What do I have to do, Archie?" I was getting worried at this stage, I am hopeless at violence, and Archie's anti-speculatist attitude was sticking in my craw.

"Fuck all, Parsnip. Just go home. Say 'Hello' to the neighbours, make sure they know you're in so you can't be blamed. You'll get all the glory, don't you worry. Christ! I'm looking forward to this!"

Archie got up and left, and I followed him soon afterwards. I glanced up towards the naughty knickers shop, to see if Shaznay was around, and I was disturbed to see her sporting two black eyes. She really did look in a bad way, but I had no time to spare her, and had to rush home and wait for an update from Archie. I ran up the stairs to my flat, but before I unlocked the door, I rang the bell across the hall. After what seemed like an eternity, the door was answered by a small boy. He couldn't have been older than eight.

"Hello, young man," I addressed him. "Can you give me the date and the time?"

"Fuck off!" The boy slammed the door. I turned back towards my flat, shaking my head at the appalling standards of behaviour displayed by the youth of today, when I heard a commotion behind the door. It soon sprang open, with the boy's mother appearing in my vision like some deranged harridan from Farthest Cwthn, an island in the Tyrethian Lagoon, where even the feared Troll Prince Brel-Limial daren’t go! Anyway, this frankly grotesque creature, covered from head to toe in sportswear and gold sovereign based jewellery, started to direct her invective at me, rather than the child!

"Wot you doin talking to my kid? Wot gives you the right? Why you talking to my kid? Why? Wots he eva done to you? Wot are you, some sort of pervert? Some kiddie-fiddler? Eh? I'm gonna report you, you fucking weirdo. You pedrophile! You should be hanged. Wot you got to say about that then, perv?"

This speech was delivered in the space of about 15 seconds. I struggled to communicate with the woman.

"I, er, um, ah, am not interested that way in your child..."

"Why? Wots wrong with im? Eh? Peedo!"

"No, no, I'm sure that many, er, paedophiles find him very, ah, alluring. But I'm not one of, em, those. I just wanted to know the time, and er, if at all possible, the date?"

"What do you want to know them for? Why you asking an innocent child about that, you bloody weirdo? God, your sort SICKEN me."

"It doesn't matter, look, it was an innocent question. Quite suitable for a child of his age to answer."

"Why do you have to pick on poor Bobby-Paul, eh? Wots he done to deserve this? Why do you do it? Why? Why? You're evil. You're like the devil."

I just walked away. I am tired of these obscene exchanges with those unworthy of my time. She continued to shout and scream and rant, but I was oblivious. Just as I was turning the key in the lock of my door, I heard her on the telephone.

"Hello? Is that the police? I want to report a pedrophile..."

I shut the door behind me, put the phone by my bed and went to sleep, trying to forget about the bizarre events surrounding me. I dreamed of Blaart, and of Huth, Alamao and Krissie's struggle. How would they, I wondered, cope with my struggle?

I must have been asleep for a couple of hours when the 'phone rang. I groggily answered it in my usual style.

"Greetings from Blaart."

"Eh? Is that you Parsnip? It's Archie. Is that you? What are you on about, Blaart?"

He sounded stressed. "Yes, Archie, it is I, Graham Parsnip. What happened with Doonican?"

"Ssssssshhhhhhhhhhh! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Don't mention his name. Listen, we've sorted him. Trouble is, my colleagues are already aware of it. What makes it worse is that one of the DCs who are dealing with the case is a bit of a sci-fi nut, and is well aware of your spat with Mer...ah...the victim. They are coming round to question you - be prepared. Deny all knowledge. Did you make sure you got an alibi?"

"Well, er, kind of," I replied, thinking that the bitch next door was hardly going to go out of her way to help me after this afternoon's incident. "I'll be prepared though."

"Damn right you will be. Good luck, anyway. I'll be in touch."

With that, he rang off. Within a couple of seconds, there was a hammering on the door.

"Open up! This is the Police!"

I ran to the door and opened it. Three huge policemen burst in, all wielding truncheons. The largest one loomed over me, and started shouting.

"Right, you horrible little shit! Where were you at two o'clock this afternoon?"

"Here, in my flat."

"Did you speak to anyone?"

I thought about the ordeal with the boy and his mother, and though it best not to complicate matters. "No. I had been into town at around lunchtime, and then I came straight back here. I didn't see anyone."

"No-one at all? Not even a small defenceless child?"

"Er, no. No one, I said. What's all this about?"

Suddenly two of the policemen grabbed hold of me, and the shouty one starts screaming in my face.

"You lying scumbag! You dirty molesting little shagwit! You pervert! You're going down for this, peedo! And you know what they do to your sort in prison don't you? DON'T YOU?!"

With that he must have twatted me round the head with his weapon. When I came round my head was throbbing like a Pilation Megathrobber, which has been recorded as throbbing at a rate of 12. Woozily I sat up, and took in my surroundings. I was in a cell. I lay back down and started to cry.

After a couple of minutes my whimpering must have attracted some attention, as Archie burst into the cell with a huge grin on his face.

"I've got to hand it to you, Parsnip. That's the best alibi you could have possibly had! Jesus, man..."

"What's going on Archie? The police turned up, like you said, and seemed to accuse me of some sort of sex crime. They didn't mentioned Doonican at all."

"Of course they didn't, Graham. They weren't the coppers investigating the Doonican incident! They were investigating the call made by your neighbour - from when you tried to abduct her son! The boys who I warned you about turned up about ten minutes later, and found your flat empty. They smashed the place up a bit for you, I'm afraid, but this kiddie fiddling accusation means that you couldn't have been in West Winch this afternoon. Genius man! All you have to do now is make sure you don't go to jail for being a nonce."

My world was crashing down around me. "And how, Archie, how am I going to do that?"

"You're in luck, as it happens. That neighbour of yours is one of my old girls - I used to pimp her. She still does a bit of work for me now and again for a few clients with more specialist interests. But she knows I'm the boss. I'll get her to drop the charges. The only thing is, we need to give it a bit of time to let the heat wear off. We'll get you out of here in a week. In the meantime, you'll have to sit it out. The lads will probably give you a hard time, what with you being a child molester and all, but it will soon be over. And don't, whatever you do, request a lawyer. This is one can of worms I want kept tightly shut."

"But what happened to Doonican?" I asked, in despair.

"He won't be bothering you again, Parsnip. I can guarantee it. When you get out I'll tell you all about it. But for now, sit tight. And remember - you owe me now."

With that, he was gone. I lay down on the hard mattress and tried to go to sleep. Events seemed to be out of my control now more than ever before. I'd felt happier even during the dark days of The Difficulty. At least then the problems in my life were of my own making. What would mother say, if she could see me now?

BORGS IN THE BOOKSHOP

2004-05-10T02:32:00.000+01:00

5.00pm

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is my big night! Following the success of Garraghor!, the fantasy story omnibus I contributed to last month, I have been invited, along with the editor of the volume, to 'Borgs in the Bookshop'. This is an annual event held in 'Ken's Bookshop' every year, where fans and authors of speculative fiction, sci-fi and phantasy can get together and hang out. I attend every year, as a fan rather than a writer, though I always make my own name badge just in case anyone recognises me. I usually take along a couple of copies of whatever it is that I have most recently had published, so that I can sign them for my legions of followers. Last year this was a bit of a disappointment as my then publishers, 'StarlingFoot Books' had something of a cash crisis, and could only afford to publish one of my Inspektor a'Rafat novels (the dark and brooding Flem) by folding three sheets of foolscap in half and stapling them together. No one at the event seemed terribly interested.

It will be different this year! Apparently, my companion for the evening, Merv Doonican, is bringing with him a big pile of copies of Garraghor! for us to sign and for people to buy. This is turning out to be well worth the £3,000 I sent Merv to help with the publishing costs! I am yet to receive my complimentary copy of the book, so I have no idea what the finished volumes look or feel (or smell!) like. I am to meet him outside 'Ken's Books' in half an hour. Better get going, so I will update you, dear readers, on my return!

1.50am

What a night, I don't think I have ever experienced anything like it. I met Merv at the appointed time, and helped him carry three huge heavy boxes of books into the shop. He was a huge bear of a man, about 6 feet 5, with shaggy hair and a rather frightening beard. We found the tables that we had been allocated and started to unload our books.

He really had 'gone to town' on the publishing! As well as some rather standard paperbacks, he had also a handful of hardbacks which were very nicely done. These we numbered individually and signed in advance. Merv said doing this meant we could charge £150 a copy by claiming they were limited editions. Then he showed me the crown jewels, as he called them - the deluxe editions! The Boards were black leather, with silver gilt lettering to the front and the spine. The pages were of the finest quality, with silver gilt edging, and with illustrations throughout which were drawn, according to Merv, using a sabre toothed tiger's sabre tooth, using monkey blood for ink. I'd like to think he was joking, though his maniacal stare made me think otherwise. A stitched in silk bookmark and a black cloth slipcase with further silver gilt lettering completed the package. They were marvellous things to behold! Merv told me that they would fetch up to £1,000 each!!

Whilst waiting for the inevitable hordes to arrive, I flicked through Garraghor!, the subtitle of which, I noticed, was A Trip Through the Speculative Nether Regions with Merv Doonican. The contents page revealed that the 300 pages of the book contained 294 speculative novlets, along with biographical details for each of the two authors. That's right, two! I asked Merv about this and he confirmed that mine was the only story he felt was up to the necessary quality to complete the collection. All the other stories were by him.

By now, a few punters started to roll in, to coin Merv's phrasing. They were the usual crowd, who I saw every year at this event. I started chatting to a few, drinking more than a couple complimentary halves of snakebite. I signed a few copies of Garraghor!, and, after my name sticker fell off, a few books by other authors too. Jeremiah and Chester popped in, and both purchased the limited edition hardback copies of Garraghor!. Merv was taking all the money, and left me to deal with our adoring public. After a while, I noticed a strange fat man leering at me from across the room. He caught my eye, and to my horror started to stumble drunkenly towards me.

"Hello Graham," he said.

"Er, hello," I responded. "Would you care to buy a signed copy of Garraghor!?"

"Go on then. Just a paperback. Don't want any of that leather bound limited edition crap."

"Fine, ok," I wasn't happy with this person's attitude, nor his rank boozey breath. There are Swampfeetlers living in the mudbanks of Plynth who don't smell this bad. "What would you like me to write?"

"How about [belch] 'To Wavid. Enjoy the book, you wanker. Love from Graham'?"

"[as I write] To Wavid. Enjoy...hang on! Wavid? From Palimpsest - The Home of Informed Debate on the Web? Publisher of my innermost thoughts?"

"Yes, that's me. Can you hurry up and sign the book? I need to vomit, and get back to my girlfriend. Mind you, I'm snookered behind the red tonight, so there's no way I'll get to sink the pink. Know what I mean? I reckon the only pot on might be a difficult brown..."

I didn't have a clue what the lunatic was jabbering on about now, and I was desperate to get rid of him, and his rather unsettling companion who had suddenly appeared at my side, clutching a copy of one of Gringo Bellhop's series of self-help books for aspiring authors, Provincial Crime Writing for Beginners. I finished my scribbling "...the book. Thanks for your support. Graham", handed it over, and they were gone. As I watched them gambol their way out of the shop, I noticed, rather disturbingly, that Merv was nowhere to be seen! Nor were the deluxe editions of Garraghor!! Nor the takings for the evening! My concerns were confirmed by the event organisers, who came round to collect our £250 writer's entrance fee. Without any of the takings for the books, I am entirely unable to pay. A man will be coming to my flat tomorrow to pick it up instead.

So, the evening turned out to be a disaster. I am £250 worse off than before, and I have found out that my web-publisher is a foul mouthed hooligan. Can things get any worse? Upon leafing through a limited edition hardback copy of Garraghor! I notice that they can. Instead of my biographical details, the following is printed:

Graham Parsnip is the pen name of Speculatorial Grand Master Merv Doonican. His writings under this name are those intended for the fast-growing sub-genre Speculative Fiction for the Insane. He has been praised by various mental health bodies for producing fiction which can be easily understood by those who are totally tonto.

Lies! Damn lies! Damn damn lies! I have been done over good and proper, this time! I will make Merv Doonican pay for this! In the mean time, I must spend the rest of the night on the internet, and try to defend my reputation - and my name!!

A Short Story

2004-04-19T18:07:00.000+01:00

It appears to me that recent events seem to have overtaken me. Am I a speculative novelist, or am I a copper's nark? Am I a trailblazer in the world of fantasy fiction, or am I a casanova seeking to seduce buxom lovelies like Shaznay? I must return to my roots and (I admit) get back to what I am best at. Let's write!

A small Norfolk based publishing press is advertising a new compendium of short fantasy stories, which will be coming out soonish. They just need one more story to complete the omnibus, and I think that one of my fragments from The Oligarchicon will definiately be selected. With a couple of mentions of The Oligarchicon, my name and my website address my public image will be boosted no end!

I have chosen Chapter 16a from Volume 6, Part 3, Module K. It's a scene featuring Krissie and Alamao. SillyKillyBillyWigg pops up as well, but in order to smooth my way for publication, I will remove all traces of him - that crazy critter can't be unleashed yet on the public!

Quorum - A Short Story by Graham Parsnip

Graham Parsnip lives and writes in Thetford, in deepest, darkest Norfolk. He has had much of his work published in a variety of mediums, of which book is still his favourite. Graham Parsnip considers that the speculative short story is the ultimate medium for fantasy writing, for you can publish them seperatley, or cobble them all together to make a larger work. This short story, or 'novlet' as he prefers to describe his shorter works, is taken from his magnum opus in progress, The Oligarchicon which will be published soonish. Visit Graham Parsnip in cyberspace at http://sliceofparsnip.blogspot.com or email him at grahamparsnip@gmail.com - he'd love to hear from you!

Quorum

Krissie sat on the hard rock, and glanced across the auburn skyline to her father, Alamao. He was staring, too, but not at her. He was staring towards the desert which they were on the border of. They were sat on probably the last bit of grass they would see for a long time, and this fact was not lost on Alamao, the wise traveller.

"This, Krissie, is probably the last bit of grass we will see for a long time. We will be crossing the desert for weeks, maybe a month. Maybe even two months. It is unlikely to take three months - I haven't heard of it ever taking that long. So up to 10 weeks, maybe."

"If there is no grass, what will the Choloracamels eat?"

"I have been feeding them constantly for weeks now. They can store enough food in their 86 humps to keep themselves going for months. At least two, probably three. Maybe not as many as four, though, but as I said earlier, we only need them for up to ten weeks, so we'll be ok. Don't worry, my daughter, about the logistical arrangements for this desert based trip. They are well settled now. But there is one matter we must be aware of, for in the caves under the Great Tyrethian Desert lives Brel-Limial - the Troll Prince and his vile hoards of Harbingers!"

"Hhhhnnngrrrrhha! I have heard tales of the evil of Brel-Limial! He and his foul virgin eating dragon friend, D'Splorsch."

"Fortunatley we are spared that horror now..."

"Why father, how did you know that Huth and I had gone 'all the way'?"

"Hrch! I was referring to the fact that D'Splorsch has died. Tchk! Tell me no more about your foul relations with Huth, else I may smite you. Gh! No, Brel'Limial and his dragon fell out big time about 8 millennia ago. They argued over the solution to the housing crisis in Tyrethia. Ever since Brel-Limial had invaded the land (previously known as Amneria) he had pursued a policy of building a large number of standard low quality accomodation in and around all of the ancient Amnerian villages. This angered D'Splorsch, who felt that the history and culture of the region was being destroyed, and that Tyrethia (as it was now known) did not have the infrastructure to cope with the increased numbers of Orclins and Harbingers who were moving in, since it became a land of evil. Brel-Limial countered this, by stating that destroying the history and culture of the region was enitrely the point of the exercise, and that the Orclins and the Harbingers couldn't care less about infrastructure. D'Splorsch was so enraged by this, he left Tyrethia for good, and without Brel-Limial's supply of fresh virgins to eat, he soon withered away and died. So, you have no need to worry about being eaten by dragons, Krissie, whether you have been broken in or not. Krissie?"

She had fallen asleep, her father's monologue on Tyrethian housing policy acting as well as any lullaby. Just as well, thought Alamao. The ordeal ahead was going to be harder than anything she has faced so far. He settled down to clean his spanking rods - the ultimate weapon to use against Harbingers. He cleaned his spare set also, for Krissie's use. Whilst he was doing this, a visitor came to visit him - it was Colon, the clerk to the local council. He sat down next to Alamao and spoke:

"We have heard some bad news. There have been large numbers of Harbingers moving around the border between our village and the Great Tyrethian Desert. Your passage through the desert would be foolhardy at this stage as somehow Brel-Limial - the Troll Prince - knows of your plans."

"Forsooths sake! What interest does the mighty Brel-Limial have with us mere travellers? Myself and Krissie mean him no harm."

"Ah, you haven't heard, have you? Have you?"

"No."

"Brel-limial has only gone and signed a non-aggression pact with the Blaartian Council! He is now a legal enemy of the Tadot based Gregorian uprising - which means you, Krissie and that oaf Huth! If Brel-Limial gets to capture the two of you, that will be two-thirds of Blaart's biggest problem under lock and key!"

"Pnh. Crt. This angers me, Colon. Fdt. Apologies for my Tadotian cursings. What do you and your esteemed council suggest we do?"

"Give up, Alamao. There's no way you can reach Crustacean and meet Huth in time without going through the desert. And you can't go through the desert without getting killed or captured. You'll have to contact Huth and postpone the revolution. It's just not going to happen."

"Ch! Vh! Gw! No way! We've got to make it through! We must burst the Harbinger wall of doom and break through to Crustacean!"

"What's happening, Alamao?" It was Krissie's voice, half dazed but awoken by her father's splutterings. "Can we not go on the desert adventure?"

"No way," said Colon, gesticulating with his feelers. "It would be suicide. Instant death. No matter how big your spanking rods are, there'll be just too many Harbingers. You can't beat them."

"I guess you're right, Colon, thinking about it," responded Alamao, thoughtfully. "Let's get in touch with Huth and tell him we need another month to reach Crustacean. We're going to have to go round the long way!"

The three of them laughed, relieved that the danger had been avoided so closely. A messengerbot was issued to track Huth down and inform them of the change in the plan. Later on, after Alamao discussed the rudiments of Blaartian political economy, he and Krissie fell asleep under the canopy of stars, resting afore the challenges to come.

I wipe a tear from my eye as I finished my revisions to the tale. Such pathos! This will be my first published work of the year, and hopefully it will bring me the publishing deal my talent deserves!

A trip to the pub

2004-04-09T13:12:00.000+01:00

After a fruitful day’s labour on The Oligarchicon, I decide to reward myself with an alcoholic beverage at the Firkin Rights of Man. I rarely socialise, finding the company of others oppressive, but on occasion I do find myself drawn to the public house. I cannot at times resist the lure of standing at the bar in a smoky room, surrounded by other solitary drinkers, all alone but not lonely, reflecting on their day’s events and life’s achievements.

This is the first time, indeed, that I have ventured near a ‘watering hole’ since my fateful excursion to the Skinner’s Arms in October with Dunkan Cutter. That ended, as you are all aware, in disaster, and I have been loath to return. Since The Rights of Man has opened, however, it offers me a good chance to have a drink without being harassed by the other members of the League of Imaginary Writers, and their cronies. I cannot find a clean shirt to wear out, so I must innovate in my sartorial style. My pyjama shirt goes rather well with my black Wranglers, especially when in combination with my gleaming white trainers. I remember attending a science fiction convention in Norwich, where it seemed as if everyone there had plumped for the black jeans and white trainers combo - it’s clearly the fashion within that particular milieu, as well as with certain ‘Heavy Metal’ bands of course.

When I reach the Rights of Man, I stride manfully up to the bar and order a half pint of snakebite and black. I don’t want to have the evening ruined by getting soused too early on! I prop myself on a bar stool, and stare into my drink, which is, I believe, the correct modus operandi for a lone drinker. I am suddenly roused from my reverie by a familiar, sweet, sweet voice ordering a Bacardi Breezer and three vodka-jello-shots. It is Shaznay! She is clearly out on the town with three of her work buddies! I turn to face her, and am somewhat surprised to see her alone. She doesn’t, I must say, look well. Fortified by the two sips of snakebite I have taken, I dare to enter into verbal intercourse with her.

‘Are all your friends in the Ladies?’ I ask. This seems a fair summation of the situation. She has, after all, purchased four drinks and, by the length of time it seems to take her to focus, been drinking for a while.

‘Eh?’

‘Apologies, my enunciation is perhaps not quite so crystal as I had assumed. I was merely asking after your company.’

‘Oh you can sit with me, lover, just get these in wouldja?’

Head a-swirl I pay for Shaznay’s drinks and then walk over to her table and sit beside her. She has already finished the vodka jellies. She leans over to me and pats me on the knee before falling back in her chair, grinning crazily.

‘Now then, boy, what’s your name?’

‘Er, Graham,’ I say, glancing nervously towards the door marked Toilets. ‘Listen, your friends...’

‘Ha! Friends! Don’t make me larf! Slags! Leaving me here talking to the likes of you. No offence.’

‘None taken. You mean you’re on your own?’ This is marvellous. Shaznay, all to myself, and her defences substantially reduced. We can surely have a really good conversation!

‘Ar, all on me lonesome, getting pissed with a total stranger. Still, you don’t mind, eh?’

‘No, I-‘

‘Out me ‘ead, that’s where I want to be. On a shuttle to Planet Rock, knoworramean?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘On the blob.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘On the blob.’

I’m worried now. I think I know what this means. ‘Are you employing street nomenclature viz-a-viz the act of menstruation? Unfortunatley I-‘

‘Nah, they sell ‘em at Yates’s. Blobs. White wine, hot water, sugar and lemon. Blobs. Bloody gorge, they are. But no Yates’s in Thetford, is they? Bloody Norwich, bloody Peterborough, bloody Colchester, but not Thetford.’

‘Thank goodness.’

‘Ar, for beer you mean? Get ‘em in again then, lad.’

I re-order and return to the table, where - it would appear - Shaznay’s excesses are beginning to take their toll.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Graham.’

‘Do we know each other?’

‘We have crossed many Universes together, Shaznay.’

‘What. Evvah.’

I suggest that she take a break between drinks and offer her the chance to listen to me walk through my precis on The Oligarchicon. She nods, and waves her hand, indicating I might continue. I have only just begun to sketch out the very thinnest of backgrounds on the Blaartian political intrigues during The Second Age when she leans forward once again and - with a mumbled ‘sorry’ - throws up violently and, it must be said, rather colourfully over the crotch of my Wranglers.

Aghast, I totter squeakily to the Gents to wash myself down. This takes a very long time since the only hand driers in the toilets are at head height and I have to stand precariously on the edge of a sink whilst thrusting my hips upwards against the chute of warm air. This is a difficult position to maintain and I fall off the sink frequently. Eventually, smelling not unlike a too-sweet carton of Tropical Fruits Sunny D, I re-enter the bar.

Horror! Shaznay has gone! Vanished!

I return to the bar dejected, disorientated and soiled. Such an opportunity spurned! I order a whole pint of snakebite, and down an eighth of it in one go. The barman looks at me pityingly, before walking away, wiping a glass. No one, it seems, wants to spend time with me tonight. What a lonely existence it is, being a literary trailblazer.

To compound my misery, there appears to be ‘live’ music being performed this evening. A rather frumpy looking woman with long curly greying-black hair sits upon a stool on the raised area being used as a stage. She is, to my horror, holding an acoustic guitar. This can mean only one thing. I finish my drink and order another, for I require further fortification to get me through the ordeal ahead. I hate folk music.

The sound of some fairly random string plucking wafted across the pub towards me. This was going to be worse than I thought – the bitch clearly can’t play a guitar to save her life. Well, she might have to, the mood I’m in. Just as I thought the evening couldn’t decline to a more dreadful level, she starts to sing. The ‘song’ is clearly some sort of civil rights anthem, though not one I have heard before, thank gods. I finish my drink and order another, before the full emotional impact of the chorus hits me.

Racism is wro-ong
It’s a crime!
A criiiiime agaaainst humaniteeeeeee!
Especially black humanity

This last line was emitted in a ghastly deep voice. By this point I was swaying woozily on my stool, with the effects of the appalling music and the snakebite starting to take hold. A commotion at the entrance of the pub couldn’t distract me from the vile figure with the guitar, until what seemed like hundreds of uniformed policemen stormed the stage, and started to give her a mighty thrashing with their truncheons and side-arm batons. After few minutes of this violence, her battered, bruised and bleeding body was dragged from the pub and thrown into gutter. I can’t understand whether this is some kind of hallucination and soon I will awaken in my flat safe from harm, or reality. A voice by my side confirms the latter.

“Cheers for that lads! Couldn’t have a decent session with that shite in the background. Hey, you pal, you look like a sad lonely bastard like me. What are you drinking?”

I assume that he is talking to me, as he is prodding me quite viciously in my ribs. “Snakebite and black, thank you. My name is Graham Parsnip, speculative author. May I enquire as to your identity?”

“Two pints of snakebite and black please barman. And two whiskey chasers. I’m Archie Dalrymple, mate, Thetford Vice Squad. You’re not that guy with the weather girl fixation, are you?”

“Ah, er, no, no, no. You must be thinking of, er, Dunkan Cutter. That’s right. Cutter. He’s a total perv. Is that whiskey for me? Do I have to pour it into my snakebite too? Right, okay…”

“The thing is, Parsnip, is that in my line of work, you have to see some terrible things. Evil things. But you get to see some great thing as well – so it kind of evens itself out. But when some bastard reckons he can keep his stuff away from me and get away with it, it makes me bloody angry!”

“Oh, right. Okay. Er. And has someone done this now, maybe, then?”

“That’s right Parsnip, that’s right! Some lowlife scum reckons he can run a seedy porn and vice network without me getting my cut of the action! You name it, this twat is up to it: pics, flicks, dogging, roasting, swinging, the whole caboodle. And I’m not involved in any of it! Someone in this town is having boiled eggs for four – and I want MY portion!”

“Do you have any clues, so that the villains may be apprehended?”

“None at all. All I know is that there’s summat going on. It’s instinct – I’ve got a feeling in my trousers. Just like the feeling I had when I finally caught those bastards who stole the Urine Shroud…”

“Surely you mean the Turin…”

“I know what I mean, lad. Don’t interrupt. Anyway, my snouts have told me that there’s three ringleaders who are organising this association of filth. Two blokes, one woman. She must be a dirty tart to be hanging round with those two, and my god I’ll be showing her a lot more than the strong arm of the law when I get my teeth into her, I tell you! As for the other two bastards, I’ve heard they’re arty bloody farty losers like yourself. Shouldn’t put up too much of a fight when I track ‘em down. And my god, that time will come soon! No one escapes the grasps of Archie P Dalrymple for long! No way! No fucking way! Now, what I want you to do, lad, is keep your eyes peeled for any dodgy behaviour. Let me know of any suspicions you have. I’ll be watching you, mind, and don’t mess me about, or the revolting contents of that website of yours will be winging its way towards a court with you in the dock! You hear me? Now fuck off.”

“Right, yes, er, ok Mr Dalrymple. I will see you soon sir. Ok, right. Bye.”

I dash for the exit, and make the mistake of looking back before I leave. My eyes are drawn towards the mezzanine area, which acts as a meat market for the debauched. I see Shaznay surrounded by some of the policemen who entered earlier. She is embroiled in some sort of french kiss with one of them, and is being obscenely groped and mauled by three others. I feel sick to my stomach. I run as fast as I can all the way home, and ‘crash out’ on the bed, my eyes welling with tears at Shaznay’s betrayal and, more importantly, Dalrymple’s threats. I toss and turn all night in search of peace and sleep, but my thoughts are constantly turned to the photo of Cutter, Duckmanton and Tupper and Dalrymple’s words: “…three ringleaders…two blokes, one woman…she must be a dirty tart…”

Finally I drift off to sleep, the last image on my mind that of Shaznay and I aboard a Blaartian demicruiser, silently progressing down the river Vulva, eternally happy.

Promotion - and defending my honour on the web

2004-04-05T11:09:00.000+01:00

I am sat at Merryl, my fingers poised above the keys ready for my muse to strike. I have been in this position for two hours now, and cramp is, I must admit, starting to set in. I switch therefore from WordPad to the Internet, my trusty broadband connection feeding Merryl with data which she passes onto me. I visit a fantasy message board, and laugh loudly at some of the postings, especially those which concern the work in progress of chronic speculatorial authors in waiting. Their crummy efforts are totally bizarre in their lack of cohesion and are very rarely thought through properly. Many of them write their novels without footnotes, meaning that none of their work is intelligible. Having had my fun, I turn to the serious business of promotion. I ‘log-in’ to the forum using one of my special pseudonyms and head for the review section.

grahamparsnipfan wrote:
The Oligarchicon – Amazing, awe inspiring Brit-spec-lit!!

I don’t know if anyone on this board has heard of Graham Parsnip, but he is writing the best, most far out and totally groovy speculative fiction in Britain, nay, the WORLD today. I have only been able to read fragments of the book, for it is almost a myth for despite being in progress for many years it hasn’t yet been finished but the bits I have read are so brilliant, so exciting and challenging that I simply can wait till it is out but Graham Parsnip is not as well known as other writers but shouldn’t he be anyway? I hear good things always being said about some writers, and Graham Parsnip is up there with James Joyce and Graham Greene amongst other which could I guess include also Henry James, Jane Austen and Chaucer not forgetting Isaac Asimov who he shits on from a great height. I only discovered him because I was researching for a Home Economics project on Google and searched for “parsnip, oligarchicon” and a reference to this amazing author appeared!!!!!!!!!! I suggest that everyone reads Graham Parsnip he is good better than Cutter.

I have to raise my profile and this is a great way of doing it!

I flick across to the chat zone, and am dumbstruck by the apallation that enters Merryl’s screen and my vision. In a topic entitled ‘The New Tony Slitt?” I, Graham Parsnip, am described as a ‘shameless self-promoter’ and a ‘bloody baldy slaphead like that Tony Slitt’. Tony Slitt is an odious ‘fantasy’ author and a total shit to boot. I hate the man and his awful self published books! And he is far balder than I ever will be! Ever! I must put this right.

grahamparsnipfan wrote:
You are all totally wrong! Graham Parsnip is a great author of wicked phantasy novellas and novels plus poetry!!! These personal remarks are slanderous and libellous and probably untrue. I have seen a photo of Mr Parsnip and there is no way I can be described as a slaphead!

That’ll learn ‘em.

Goodbye, fair grumble....

2004-04-02T06:01:00.000+01:00

It has been a long night. I have eventually exorcised so many, maybe all, of my ghosts.

Fare thee well, Nicola! Fare thee well, Claudia! Fare thee well, Marina! I bid you all a fond valediction, but I must move on. Time marches on, and so I must bid you to go, my friends, my companions in all these ages past. Take heed; 'tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows; for me, however, my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die. You must go your way, I mine; we cannot travel together any more.

I delete the last of the 17Gb of pictures, lingering carefully over those vidcaps from The Caves Of Androzani ... lord but those were the best of days! But no, it is time, and zapped they remain.

And finally, finally, as dawn fingers the ticklish bellies of the clouds and lights my meagre quarters, I come to Julie. Fair Jules! Queen of the Weather! What I would not give for a personal forecast just now, standing here, gazing longingly across Thetford's manneristic roofscape. I wonder if, like me, she would imagine the refulgent vista to be a cloak for all forms of life beneath its surface, not just human? Who else sees the 'other' Thetford? The vanished world we know nought of? The subterranean Thetford? The ephemeral Thetford? Julie would, I am sure, share my vision; she would see the Kraals swooping on their diaphanous wings over the tower of St Nicholas's or imagine the Weasel Soldiers assembling for battle next to the Duleep Singh Satue. Perhaps, too, she might be the only one to fully comprehend the lives of the T'kgreps as they struggle to cope with heavy rainfall in the sewers beneath the Mingay Road, Kimms Belt and Ulfkell Road rat run.

But no, to Jules, I too must say farewell. I leave just this final picture, here, on this my forum, that I might return (and perhaps replenish Merryl's image cache during the loneliest of nights):

There, 'tis all gone now. All of it. For me, the real work starts now. Monogamy is an odd game, but it is the furrow that I have chosen to plough. I must upload all my Shaznay material, and that may take some time.

I realise that after my first abortive attempt at contact, the softly softly approach is possibly the wisest way forward. No more tinnitus-inducing personal contact for now. Much better to keep my distance and enjoy her from afar. I have finally bought the Nikon COOLPIX 5700 Digital Camera, with the 8x Zoom, 5.0 effective megapixels, 256-segment Matrix Metering and Matrix Auto White Balance and (best of all!) digital zoom up to 4x magnification (32x when combined with optical zoom)! Woohoo! I barely even have to be in Chapel Road at all!

Or for that matter 26c Shelley Gardens....

[...EDIT... mid-afternoon]

Huth nags, nags away at me, eager for the off. He needs to be let free again, to have the shackles of my mind unlocked and release him onto the screen. I check the completeTO.doc file and find - aghast! - that I haven't written anything since 22 January 2004 at 0307. Surely some mistake?

Huth needs a kick up the backside. I fly into a fit of creative pique. Forgive the typos:

Huth stared at the creature. It stared right back.

Huth had never seen a Drolenquian Fire Chameleon before, but it lived up to its reputation. It was massive, about sixty metres from head to tail, and as ugly as sin. It was basically a big lizard, that breathed fire.

He began to circle it, but the Drolenquian Fire Chameleon circled him, too.

He reached into his scabbard, but of course the Sword of Righteousness was back there, in the Cave of N'Drozania, Queen of all the Faeries.

'Curse you, Huth of Tadot, I knew we would meet at last!' the Drolenquian Fire Chameleon hissed evilly.

'You speak?' opined Huth, incredulously.

'Aye, we all speak, we Drolenquian Fire Chameleons,' said the Drolenquian Fire Chameleon, and it slithered threateningly towards him.

As it moved, and as the shadows played along the sand Huth could see a figure behind the Drolenquian Fire Chameleon, hugging the shadows cut into the wall. It was Sia'znai, the Blaartian handmaiden!

'Bring it on, worm face!' he spat at the Drolenquian Fire Chameleon, 'Do your worst!'

I have freed so much space in my mind. The Oligarchicon and my love ... life is so much clearer now!

Oh, such a happy day

2004-03-02T06:56:00.000Z

Ah, the mercurial vicissitudes of Fate! What a day this has been. I am spent, and for once this has nothing to do with a Look East weather presenter!

I shall lay it down, in order, for it has been a truly magnifique solar sojourn!

The shops down Chapel Road seem to have undergone a renaissance of late, no doubt attracted by the almost magnetic presence of Get Thee Behind Me Satin's youthful appeal. On the other side of the Baptist church is a new café coffee bar, All Bar Nun, "home of the Trip Hip Triple Hocha Mocha Latte", apparently. They allow me to bring my own Lemsip sachets in as long as I pay full price for the hot (not boiling) water. This I am happy to do.

Across the road, Oodles of Noodles, "Norfolk's Premier Noodle Chain" does brisk business with the lunchtime crowd (it says on their website). Next to them, The Firkin Rights of Man with a pub sign showing a cheeky picture of Thomas Paine, winking as he holds up a tankard of ale, appeals to the drinkers. It's all go.

Shaznay, my love, my dark princess of the night, comes in to All Bar Nun for a Danish pastry on a Monday and a Thursday, usually at about 10.32 or 10.33. I know her name because I have espied it written on the badge that adorns her bosom. Shaznay! What a name! Pregnant with all the possibilities that Joy and Wonder can devise! And I bet that [winks] there is a Blaartian hand maiden just dying to be called Shaznay this very moment!

Everyday, at 12.47, Shaznay and her colleague from the shop, cross the road and enter the gloomy mystery that is The Firkin Rights of Man, whereupon they exit, 63 minutes later and return, opening up for 2.00pm.

Only this day – this momentous day! – she did not cross the road! No! This day she entered All Bar Nun, on her own, and, there being no seats available, sat across the table from me!

Up close, I can see that she is a woman of vernal beauty, a spring flower, fresh and dew-sprinkled, as clean and lovely as the morning. Her hair sparkles with light and health. Her eyes! Ah! Her eyes! They dance and sing and laugh all at the same time. I am spellbound by her eyes!

Beyond all comprehension I feel words bubbling up inside my, bursting to get out. I can contain this no longer! I speak! Ye Gods of all Creation, I speak to the vision before me!

'Pray, miss, would it be at all possible, and presuming it to be not unsolicitous, that I may purchase, perhaps, a cup of coffee for you? What would be your pleasure, I wonder?'

She turns, and our eyes clash for the first time. Where will she be, I surmise, when she first recalls this moment with a smile?

'You what?' she says.

Her voice is like all the angels singing.

'I was merely wondering, miss, if I might be permitted to by you a drink?'

'What is this? Candid Camera or somefink?'

'The 1953 NBC television series starring Allen Funt, in which unsuspecting members of the public are placed in confusing, impossible, embarrassing, ridiculous, and hilarious positions? No, I can assure you that is incorr-'

'Just For Laughs?'

'The BBC's similar but frankly insulting early evening time filler? No, I mere-'

'Well if it's neither of them, you can piss off.'

'Ah, aggression, that's good. Very healthy.'

'Whatever.'

'So I can stay then?'

It is at this point that my tinnitus fires up like the German artillery assault at Verdun and I am forced to drop my head with an almighty crack against the table.

'What the-'

I hold up my hand and totter painfully to the door. As I exit on to the street the aural clattering and banging ceases and I stare back into the café, where Shaznay is busy mopping up the mess from my spilt Lemsip. Disaster, and just as she had acquiesced to my request for company!

I cut my losses and head home. There will be other opportunities, and we are, after all, now acquainted. At home a letter stares at me from the welcome mat. It has the same typeface (Garamond, 12pt) as before: Ms Warner-Pryce's solicitors. I do not pick it up, but kick it into the bathroom. I will read it later, appropriately positioned on the cludgie.

Merryl’s choral welcome urges me towards alt.fantasy.speculative.trailblazers and I lurk carefully for an hour before jumping gracefully on the argument of some fan boy who clearly knows nought about the physics behind Neal Asher's use of the nanomycelium. Ha! Amateur!

And then …and then… a very strange posting indeed. A wry smile creases my lips.

I retrieve the letter from the bathroom and carry it into the kitchen. Over the sink I burn it, unopened, smiling boldly at the mini heatwave as the ashes rise to the ceiling. So, I am to be better known then? An emissary from a literary website has approached me with requests for my work! On top of this, I have finally met the enchanting Shaznay and have had no contact with Dunkan and his foul coterie in many weeks! Rebecca Warner-Price can scatter to the four winds for all I care! This has been a good day.

This has been the best day!

Soliciting and a beauty beholdered!

2004-02-08T16:20:00.000Z

My Salvarsan 606 post-it pad fair shouts today's instruction:

WRITE TO BASTARD SOLICITORS

but I am struck by an uncharacteristic torpor. I must apologise, I am told, and that I cannot do.

Why not ask me for a list of Huth's war scars (37, not counting the mental anguish following the accidental amputation of Portia's legs) or The Federation's battle fleet (17,000 Gemini-class star frigates; 9,870 Mbatu hover ships; 876 Tor-Elial B'drak warrior junks; 34,487 Camcorsian cruisers; 101 Siresian warheads; 786,000 Tactoik gunships; 234 Uni-Med labs; 54,389 Spider Speeders; 321,656,897 Stürmtroopers; 18 Spargelmeister Flip Drivers; 9,376 GA-TQ Gannymedeans; etc.) or Alamao's harem (98 dreks)?

Why this nonsense about an apology?

I sit at Merryl and boot her up. Julie's picture leers out at me from the desktop, urging me on, enticing me, but I must resist. I need to catch the 11.15 post from the box on Croxton Road.

My hands are shaking, so I pour a sachet of Blackcurrant Lemsip into a can of Dr Pepper and take a long pull:

Graham W. Parsnip
Speculative Author
136b The Covert
Thetford
Norfolk

8th February 2004

Dear Mr Beaverbrook

Ref: 'Ms' Rebecca Warner-Pryce

I write with reference to my recent story, Faber's on stun (you do not actually mention if you enjoyed it?), and the alleged distress it seems to have caused your client. I understand that there are "many passages that have caused offence", but I fail to understand how.

Decapitation is a remarkably pain-free way of "popping one's clogs". Indeed, I would wish to quote no less an august source than Harold Hillman, then reader in physiology at the University of Surrey, who wrote an account of the suffering caused by the guillotine for New Scientist magazine in 1983. This is what Hillman said:

"The guillotine was named after the French deputy who proposed the use of the device in 1789. It was tested on corpses at the Bicetre Hospital in Paris, and employed by the French Revolution in 1792. It ... was considered more humane because the blade was sharper and execution was more rapid than accomplished with an axe. Death occurs due to separation of the brain and spinal cord, after transection of the surrounding tissues. This must cause acute and possibly severe pain. Consciousness is probably lost within 2-3 seconds, due to a rapid fall of intracranial perfusion of blood."

You see? You see what Hillman is saying? 2-3 seconds. Not very long at all. If I had wanted the FICTIONAL character in my story to really suffer I'd have had her rent asunder by being tied to two cars going in opposite directions, or being eaten slowly by slugs, or stabbed repeatedly by a gang of knife-wielding toddlers. My mis en scene is, you must agree, perhaps the most humane that I could manage. No more talk of distress, please, unless - naturally - it relates to mine own.

Ms Warner-Pryce, as I believe 'street' nomenclature would have it, can go swivel.

Yours most sincerely,

Graham

On Croxton Road the cars speed past like Teatran Land Cruisers, pilots ensconced and unaware. I hurry to the post box opposite Chapel Street and drop the letter off.

Over the road a billboard announces a Grand Opening, so I cross and investigate. A new lingerie shop called 'Get Thee Behind Me Satin' has just taken over the old vestry building next to the Baptist Church. Ye Gods! What next?

But then I notice her. Through the plate glass her elfin form bespeaks of beauty past all comprehension. Her auburn hair a mythical rope ladder to Paradise. She is dressing a mannequin, placing intimate garments across its plastic, armless form. My God! The electricity coursing through me is overpowering.

She glances over and grimaces. O! Fortunata! What an inadequate word is Grimace! And I realise that I am still in my pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Fortunately, my appearance is so massively dishevelled that any level of maintenance will render me virtually unrecognisable from my current state.

I vanish, awa' the Croxton Road, a tingling groin speeding me homeward. Who is this creature? What inspirations can she visit upon me? I am incandescent with possibilities!

SillyKillyBillyWigg Enters th Fray - and HORROR!

2004-01-23T03:49:00.000Z

Yesterday was a wash out. Literally, and literaturely. It rained all day outside my flat, and it rained all day inside of me. The latest legal challenge I have received has knocked me down, and I thought I may never recover. All day I failed to write a single word of The Oligarchicon. Today, however, is a new day. I have decided to ignore the letter from the solicitors, and hope to goodness that the problem goes away. I must get cracking with my opus!

I have realised that The Oligarchicon is a very dark work. It needs something to lighten the atmosphere. Having discussed this with some of my correspondants on alt.authors.speculative.new.wave.eastanglia.norfolk.thetford, I realise that what I need is an amusing little character to keep people entertained throughout all the pain and the death which The Oligarchicon describes. At first I thought that the name of the little fellow should be Muntykunt, but I then, using my powers of recall, remembered that a character in one of Dunkan Cutter's filthy novlets was entitled thusly. More thought was required, and then it struck me! Sillykillybillywigg would be a fitting name for a fun creature the kids will love! I decided to introduce him into the action forthwith and leafing through the piles of folders on my desk, I pulled out the one marked Chapter Twelve. It was empty. Excellent! A blank canvas. I booted up Merryl (my PC) and started a new document on WordPad. Here's comes Sillykillybillywigg!

They hadn't had any word from Huth for days now. Krissie turned to Alamao, watching her adventurer companion over the flickering flames, which were licking the night's underbelly like a sadistic red hot dog might. She feared the worst: Huth dead, or captured.

"How now, Alamao, if Huth is gone, can we Gregorians restore our rightful control of Blaart? I fear for the future. I really really do."

"Fear ye not, young Krissie. I know myself that Huth is still free. I can feel it! We must stay strong and continue on our journey to Crustacean, where we shall meet Huth and prepare for the revolution!"

"Wow, Alamao. Thanks for setting my mind at rest. Ugh! Oh my gods! What in all of fuckery is that flying freak?"

"Shit! It disgusts me. But wait - what is it trying to say?"

The minging flying creature of the night came further towards them. It was like some giant flying ant, but with the face of a clown, grinning and laughing grotesquely.

"I is Sillykillybillywigg! That is what I is! I looking for friends now. Sillykillybillywigg's friends all left him. Sillykillybillywigg needs to wanky wank. Come here lady, let me spunk up on you!"

The kids will love this earthy humour! A sex crazed flying ant with a clown's face! No one may doubt my imaginitive abilities after this!

I print out the page and place it in the Chapter 12 folder. I am exhausted by the act of writing once again. I totter through to the kitchen to locate refreshment. I pop a MicroPizza in the microwave, and pour myself a sparkling glass of cherryade. I carry said Micropizza, now steaming hot, and my drink over to the couch and loll in front of the television. There was nothing to interest my intellect on, however, and so I decided to treat myself. I reach under the coffee table and produce my special customised copy of Boggle, in which I have modified the rules to allow words in any alien language. With no visitors, however, I must play alone. I have a sheet of graph paper in which I record my scores - and I think that today I may well be challenging my personal best ever solitary Boggle score. In go the letter dice, I clamp my hands over the lid and give it a bloody good shake. What I then see astonishes me!

Spelt out in front of my worldly eyes, although split over a few rows is DARRYL DUCKMANTON. What a shock! How can this be possible? Perhaps I should contact that esteemed compiler of World Records, Norris McWhirter, for surely this is the longest forename/surname combination randomly produced during a game of Boggle? On with the game, anyhow. I write down the words that I can visualise in the letters afore me. Duck. Man. Ton. Duckman (a creature from Blaart). Arryl (an alcoholic beverage drunk in Blaart). That's five already! Let's try harder. Em, ay, ar, tee, wy, ar. Martyr! Martyr! That's a proper word! Dee, yoo, en, kay, ay, en. Dunkan! As in dougnnuts! Excellent. See, oh, ell, dee. Cold. Cold! This is my best EVER performance.

I write down these last three words onto my graph paper. Cold, martyr, dunkan. Ha! That sounds just the sort of way my friend and rival Cutter would describe himself. I write below it the letters that form the name Darryl Duckmanton. I suddenly feel like the room has gone cold, and a ghostly presence around me focuses my attention on those letters. It's then I realise that Darryl Duckmanton is an anagram of cold martyr Dunkan! And (this really clinches it) vice versa! It must be mother visiting me to point out this further confusing evidence of treachery! I put the piece of graph paper in the folder where I keep the Duckmanton/Cutter/Tupper mucky photo, and mark the front of the folder 'Evidence'.

Though it is only 2.30 in the afternoon, I retire to bed. I am drained.

Just as I thought things could not get worse

2004-01-21T10:35:00.000Z

The nigritudinal opacity fades and morning, sweet pendulous morning – resplendent in its own smug beauty – unsleeps her beams. Ah me! I love the first few moments of a new day, safe in the warm bosom of my slumberous numbness, the rigours of a whole world’s (or worlds’, if you’re me) challenges ahead.

I switch the television on and come around steadily to Penny Smith and Kate Garraway. It is time for my morning routine.

Afterwards I slip into daywear and awake the flat. My flat, or Yalpë as I would have the world know her, is an organic beast. She feeds off me and of me, and I her. We co-exist, we osmose.

My petit déjeuner replete I switch the PC on and ruminate on Huth's latest adventures. Where to take him now? I have filled in as much detail as I can manage on the Orclin without the footnote appearing too scholarly. Olwen's minor snipe rankles somewhat, but of course she would never have considered it had she been fully cognisant of the details. This is what footnotes are for, dammit!

A blackcurrant lemsip by my side (the envisioning powers of the phenylephrine family of pharmaceuticals is one of my little 'assists', trivia fans) and I’m soon in the flow of things:

Huth's mini-medi-bot swam up his vas deferens and staunched the tide of poisonous filth. The micro-blasters sliced the antigens cleanly in half, spilling Tazoa gunk-

But soft! What light through yonder front door breaks? It is the letterbox, and my most recent short story success is surely come!

I'm out of the chair like a Seullian racing leek, arms and legs pumping in harmonious unison in my eagerness to get to the front door. I see the letter (a letter! No returned manuscript this!) flutter gracefully to the floor, and I'm on it in an instant. It looks official, by all that’s holy, it looks official. I tear it open.

And yet...barbs! More accursed barbs! As I read, the telephone begins to ring, but I am transfixed with horror and cannot answer the infernal device:

Hern, Hern, Cash & Raven Solicitors at Law The Square Canterbury Kent

19th January 2004

Dear Mr Parsnip

Ref: Ms Rebecca Warner-Pryce

We write with reference to your recent submission of a short story to the publishing company Invictability, based in Whitstable, Kent, for inclusion in their quarterly magazine review 'Fabulous Tales and Fantastic Stories'.

It has come to our attention that much of the detail of this short story regards the aftermath of a violent murder and the shocked reactions of the victim's work colleagues as they try to come to terms with what they might have done to try and prevent it. Unfortunately, it is clear from the text that you have based your central character, Ms Rebecca Warner-Pryce, on a real person. Ms Warner-Pryce is now an employee at Invictability and was in fact the first person to read your story when it arrived at the Whitstable office (some three weeks after the closing date, incidentally).

In the story, "Faber's on stun", there are many passages that have caused offence, not least the repeated decapitation motif. It is our instruction to inform you that Ms Warner-Pryce requests a formal apology or she will be forced to seek advice on how best to pursue recompense for the distress caused.

A reply within three weeks is expected.

Yours truly,

Hablôt Beaverbrook,
M.A. (Cantab.), LL.M. (EUI); PhD. (Cantab)

The devils, they mock me at every turn.

I totter drunkenly into the living room and press the flashing red light on the 'phone.

'Gasworks Road Surgery, Mr Parsnip. Just to let you know that the nurse will need to take your pulse this afternoon, and so we must warn you that any recurrence of last month's nonsense will require us to call the police. Good day.'

My world is crammed with beasts from the most nefarious of dimensions! When will the mocking stop? When?

Some correspondence

2004-01-10T21:32:00.000Z

I am roused from my slumbers by the noise of the oafish postman, blundering around the corridor, manhandling post into each letterbox. I trip and stumble through to the kitchen, and as I reach inside the fridge for a refreshing can of Apple Tango, I hear the sound of correspondence entering my domain! I rush to the door, and pick up the three envelopes. One looks like a bill, another has the appearance of having come from a solicitor's office. I ignore these, and rip open the third - for the immaculate handwriting on the front means that it must be from my favourite (and only) correspondent - Olwen Cuff!

Olwen was my only real friend in Thetford. She worked at the local lending library, and also was a contributor to the Thetford Free Ads, like me. In the days when we both had our works published by the TFA it was a most august periodical, and not the total snotrag it has since become under arch philistine Darryl Duckmanton. Olwen is currently in jail in the West Midlands, where it would appear she had been claiming various benefits under various aliases. I had no idea about her criminal activities, but she claimed that she needed the money to support her in her poetic activities, and that the moral anguish it caused in her helped produce some of her most powerful imagery. For Olwen is a poet, largely non-speculative, unfortunately, but she is still marvelously talented. Some of her best work reaches some of the standards set by the folk poetry in the Oligarchicon. It's that good. Our relationship is entirely platonic, for in my opinion only a madman could find Olwen sexually interesting, but I shall forever be in her debt for the care she gave me in the aftermath of The Difficulty. Her letters are usually informative and erudite, so I was eager to read this one.

Dearest Graham

How goes work on the magnum opus? I refer of course to The Oligarchicon. The magnitude of the work astounds me! It seems of all of life will be contained within its covers. The passage you sent with your last epistle entranced me with the beauty of the prose and the sheer excitement it generated. I particularly revelled in this section:

Huth's long dark green fingers fingered the orbs in his pocket. Facing him were the massed ranks of the orclin(2234) army. He had been running from the hordes for three days now, but they finally had him cornered. They inched closer to him as one, until he could smell the grease on their vile greeny yellow scaly skin. They were armed with poisoned tridents and used Macabreshields to defend themselves from attack. Things truly looked bleak for Huth, last of the Gregorian princes.

With a flash, however, he pulled his hand from his pocket and launched the orbs towards the orclins, who gibbered in fear. The orbs exploded, light raining down upon the army of monsters. Suddenly the light disappeared, leaving only Huth in the cave. The orbs were Jizzbees - which when unleashed magick away anyone in the area who has foul intent. Thus Huth was safe to continue his journey to the lost city Crustacean.

Such marvellous writing! I would indeed love to know the contents of footnote 2234, the orclins sound like an appalling race. One point, though. If the orclins had been chasing Huth for 3 days, why hadn't he used the jizzbees before? I am sure there is a good reason. Please let me know!!

I am sorry to hear about your recent trouble with the Thetford Free Ads. That publication is certainly going downhill fast! You are best out of that uncreative milieu, I am sure. I for one am reveling in the repellent, authoritarian atmosphere of this gaol. My muse is aflame! I am writing up to two or three poems an hour at the moment, and they are all of enormous quality. Here is my latest effort. You will notice the advances I am making typographically, I am sure.

The Barking {and the Barked}

'Jesus,' she said, marking her brow

Elliptically, with her blood stain'ed hand.

'This blood is the blood of a thousand men

Who I have kille'd with my hands or using weAponry.'

; ; ; ; ;

Birds in the air fly with grace and verve

We must stay locked up.

Monkeys chatter and swing in trees

We must stay locked vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvup.

Fish leap from the ocean and walk on land ...Then We Will Be Free.

Please let me know what you make of my latest output. My poetry is unappreciated and ignored within the confines of this penal environment.

With Love

Olwen Cuff.

What a delightful communication! I am sure that the questions that Olwenposes of me are not veiled criticisms, she is merely anxious for more information on the complex dynamics of Blaart. I must pen a response to 'fill her in'!

Dear Olwen

I received your letter with pleasure, the pleasure one can only receive from literary discourse! Let me first answer the questions you put to me, for I cannot bear the thought that you are anything other than satisfied with my plotting. Huth cannot use the Jizzbees during the previous few days because, as explained in the text, they destroy all that has foul intent. It would have been suicide to use them in any situation other than a totally desperate one! For how could Huth know, unless he was facing his own impending doom, that he didn't have some malicious thoughts within his conciousness? Besides, I had already written the five thousand words describing those three days of adventure without deciding on how it would all end. I got the idea of Jizzbees from Digging Yourself Out of a Hole - The Bumper Book of Deux Ex Machina Endings by Gringo Bellhop. It's a useful tome.

As for the orclins, here is the footnote you desire:

2234. Orclins are a vicious crossbreed of orcs and goblins. They are tenacious fighters, though are not reowned for having high levels of intelligence. They were originally bred in the Blaart year -87 by the ruthless dictator of the planet Nananga, Ibbiza, who wanted to created the ultimate genetic fighting machine. Ibbiza's armies of orclins kept his hold over Nananga's population for the whole of his lifetime. After his death, and the violent and bloody revolution that followed, the orclins spread across the star system, multiplying in number on a daily basis. Their ability to breed so quickly rests on the facts that from conception, an orclin takes 24 hours to be born, then another 24 hours to become sexually active. That the orclins have no moral problem with incest means that there is a constant supply of potential partners. They are now spread disparatley around the system, but retain a sense of orclin identity, and all swear allegiance to their spiritual leader, The Cantankerer, who is rarely seen in public.

I trust this satisfies your thirst for knowledge of the orclins. Let me know, however, if you need more information, and I'll make some up.

I found your poem, The Barking {and the Barked} astonishing. I genuinely cannot comprehend some of the wordplay you have used - are you sure it corresponds to any known poem formulation? I must admit, my great understanding of poetry is largely based on the verse from planets other than Earth, but still, Olwen! You must at least obey some of the rules of poetical conduct! Try and rewrite the poem using the meter and vocabulary of the Parochians. Then I shall be able to fully understand its beauty and range.

Yours in literature,

Graham

Let's hope my letter brings her as much pleasure as hers did me! Actually, I am sure it will bring more, thinking about it.

Turning success into disaster

2004-01-06T06:35:00.000Z

10.00 AM. Good news, for a change. I have been rather of the mind recently that I am doomed to be ignored and mistreated at every turn, but it would appear that my work still has it's champions! Once again, it is my longstanding supporter which comes to my aid, the Thetford Free Ads. They have always been quite happy to publish some of my less controversial short stories and poems, and sometimes I come second or third in their creative writing competitions. Anyway, today's exciting news came via that most ignoble of mediums - the telephone. I answered the call after the twelfth ring, so as to deter any peddlers of low standard consumer durables, and it was Darryl Duckmanton, the features, news and ads editor of the TFA. He wanted to know if I would like to write the new literary column for the paper - reviewing the books which are produced locally. For this task I would be paid twenty pounds a week cash! Almost hyperventilating with excitement, when I recovered my breath I accepted! Darryl said he would bring the books round to my flat. I told him I would likely as not be out, so he should leave them outside the door. I have no interest in him seeing me inside my natural habitat.

12.30 PM. He has now brought the books round, and I must say I am disappointed with the selection. I had hoped for some examples of cutting edge speculata, but instead I am burdened with reviewing Flowers of Thetford a book describing, yes, the various flora found in this area, written by some tart named Poppy Tupper. The other is a novel, at least, but its title fills me to the brim with nausea. Zone Kill is the story of a lone soldier, left for dead by his regiment, who fights his way back to Britain in order to prevent an attempt on the Queen's life by some lunatic Arabs. Or something. It's written by Jeremy Folks-Whippet, who used to be in the Territorial Army, so I suppose he must know what he is on about, but it still sounds like the most appalling crap. However, I am employed to review these books, if not to actually read them, so I shall have to do so, despite the fact that it offends my creative sensibilities so.

So, here goes.

World of Books, with Graham Parsnip

It was with some trepidation that I, Graham Parsnip, author of The Oligarchicon and speculative fiction grandee, opened the first page of Poppy Tupper's Flowers of Thetford. A work of such lowly scope and narrow ambition could surely not be of interest to a man with as great an imagination as I. And so it proved. Throughout the book, when Tupper drones on about daisies or clematis (or whatever) my mind drifted to the image of the flowers of the Blaart star system (as described at length in The Oligarchicon): the beautiful taisies, the awe inspiring glematis, the gigantic fraffodils. Such colours and such delightful smells! The same cannot be said for the flowers of the small planet Kukkoo, which are all ultra-poisonous to humanoid life forms, but which give great strength to the Jillbarti, a race of exotic horses, who inhabit Kukkoo alone. Tupper's total lack of imaginative (and dare I say, cognitive?) powers renders her descriptions of the sad plants of this region lifeless and totalitarian. Her tedious paragraphs are unaided by footnotes, and the reader is left with more questions than answers at the end. Utter shit.

Zone Kill, the debut novel from posh pen pusher Jeremy Folks-Whippet, is a quite different book. But the one thing it has in common with Flowers of Thetford is that it is rubbish! I loathe thrillers and such like books, at least when they are non-speculative in nature (I have myself made various attempts of writing detective fiction: there are 80 Investigator Ar'Rafat novels, some of which I shall incorporate into The Oligarchicon so as to hold the attention of some of my dimmer readers. I have no problem with genre fiction, as long as it is set on planets other than Earth). The hero of this formulaic tale is Spunk Blackstock, a hardened soldier who has a problem with authority. I wonder where Folks-Whippet got that idea from? Because that sounds just like Aitor, one of the minor characters in my own work! No doubt Folks-Whippet has been reading some of my posts on the alt.phantasy.speculative.fiction.authors.parsnip newsgroup! Anyway, suffice to say that the plotting is ludicrous, the characterisations brilliant (because they have been copied entirely from me) and the setting of the novel insanely mundane. Who the hell wants to read about one man's journey through the whole of the Arab world, when you could be revelling in the delights of the planets of Blaart? My advice to Folks-Whippet and his cohorts is: DON'T BOTHER. Leave fiction to the real authors. Like me.

I think this is rather good. I shall hot foot it round to Darryl's office and give it to him in person. I think he will love it!

20.00 PM. Oh dear. Darryl Duckmanton is clearly as intellectually retarded as everybody else in this godforsaken town. It would appear that he intended my column as being merely an advert for the books submitted, rather than the intelligent critques I had provided. I clearly haven't done myself any favours with the man, though I can't see how I was supposed to know that Ms Tupper is his fiancee, and Mr Folks-Whippet his brother-in-law. Duckmanton bawled at me that my career at his paper was over and that never again would he publish any of my work! I am even banned from entering any of the competitions! Surely this is a breach of my civil liberties? As I left his office, for I could no longer listen to this tirade of abuse, I asked for my twenty pounds. So enraged was the lunatic by this polite request that he picked up a large hardback volume and hurled it at my head. I caught it as it bounced from my cranium and ran with it back to the sanctuary of my flat, where I collapsed in emotional distress.

An hour later, when I recovered my senses, and washed myself down, I examined the book which had assaulted me. It was none other than a copy of Dunkan Cutter's Epicryptoverumicon, the first edition/first printing gift copy with the ribbon incorporated. Used, presumably, as a bookmark (quite why, when the ribbon is there for this purpose, I'm uncertain) was a polaroid photograph of Dunkan, Darryl Duckmanton and Poppy Tupper engaged in an utterly revolting act. I can't quite understand, looking at it, which body part belongs to who, or indeed is inserted in who. Still, maybe some good has come out of this episode after all: I shall hang onto this photo, for it may come in handy.

Some more from THE OLIGARCHICON

2003-12-11T00:18:00.000Z

The first wintery flurries of December knock in ghostly approbation at my window. I like this weather, and it likes me. It reminds me of mortality.

Today I have decided to eschew my preoccupation with footnotes. Today is prose day and I will not be sidetracked. I can put footnotes in at my leisure. For now, today, it’s just solid plot plot plot. I must strip the text of extraneous distractions and attack! Chapter 2 here I come. Here is the first stanza:

Huth sang as he dodged the zinc pistols. This was easy he thought as he sidestepped the silvery blasts that rang around the rocks and boulders. The guards on the slave caravan were under orders not to leave the hover-ships in the middle of the Aivalf, a desert wilderness full of the most feared sand creatures on all of Tadot.
'Pathetic!' shouted Huth as a zinc charge ricocheted off a boulder a foot from his left ear.

He could hear the guards becoming angry, shouting foul Tadotic oaths at him as he lept across the landscape. A chasm, five feet across, but enough to give him pause, opened up ahead. In his hesitation he stood still a moment, and a slug hammered into his shoulder, shattering the flesh and bone.

He fell to the ground and yelled in pain.
Behind, the guards shouted and jeered. Further bursts of fire thundered into the ground around him. 'By all that’s holy!' he exclaimed through his clenched white, perfect teeth. The pain was unbearable. He listened and could hear the boosters on the hover ships change note. They were de-coupling. Sending out a recovery vehicle. Just a few seconds, that's all he had.

Then he thought, despite the pain, that the last thing they'd want to do was recovery. A trouble-making escapee like him, injured too. Just a quick blast to the head and then they could claim the sand creatures had grabbed him. Hell, what were a few cloverii off the price of a whole caravan full of slaves? The pain spread from his shoulder like a large and growing spider, with red legs.

Seconds. It's all he had.

He turned over and looked in front of him.

'Only...chance...got...to...act...' he muttered. And with a supreme effort he clawed his way to the chasm and fell in.

***

He fell, it seemed, forever. The zinc bullets had been laced with pp-25 a particularly mean and nasty viral toxin designed to make the last few minutes of anyone unfortunate enough to be infected by it wildly disorientating and hallucinatory. Huth was no scientist, but he knew all about pp-25.

Every rag-tag devil-may-care renegade knew of pp-25 all right.

Arcturus, the old murderer from Lanrouj had shook his head in despair when Huth had brought the subject up the last time they'd met.

'Bastards,' he'd grunted, 'this one's nasty, young Huth. Quinolone antigens like pp-25 cause joint and tendon ruptures. It's not a nice way to die. If you're stable and in a steady environment then peak blood levels are reached one to two hours after dosing. If you take something antacid, preferably containing magnesium or aluminum hydroxide, and most have one or both, it will bind up to 90% of the drug, rendering it mostly ineffective. But the opposite is true with zinc, iron, and calcium, which is why the Tadots saturate their ammo with the stuff. If you take theophyline, and they sprinkle the slaves' food with that shit, the pp-25 just explodes your metabolism like a firecracker. It'll cause severe nervousness as you would expect with an overdose. Pp-25 is effective against gram positive and gram negative bacteria, too. So it works by interfering with an enzyme that bacteria need to replicate their DNA. Pp-25 enters tissue, including the prostate, and can be isolated from prostatic secretions. You'll need a drug called Prosatyl, if you can get it. It's a cactus extract. 500mg every 12 hours for 28 days. Yes, four weeks.'

'By all that’s holy!' exclaimed Huth, at the time. 'Why so long?'

'Because, if untapped, the poison continues to work. It has an agenda, don't you see? It has a goddamn agenda! If one ailment doesn't get you, it tries another and another until something else does! A month of Prosatyl will be effective against enterococcus faecalis;, Staph aureus;, Staph epidermis;, Staph saprophyticus;, Strep pneumoniae, Campylobacter jejuni, Citrobacter diversus, Citrobacterfreundii, Enterobacter cloacae, E.coli, Haemophilus influenzae, Haemophilus parainfluenzae, Klebsiella pneumonae, Morganella morganii, Neisseria gonorrheae, Proteum mirabilis, Proteus vulgaris, Providencia rettgeri, Providencia stuartii, Pseudomonas aeruginose, Salmonella typhi, Serratia marcescens, Shigella flexneri, Shigella sonnei, Staph haemolyticus; Staph hominis, Acinetobacter iwoffi, Aeromonas caviae, Aeromonas hydrophilia, Brucella melitensis, Campylobacter coli, Edwardsiella tarda, Haemophilus ducreyi, Klebsiella oxytoca, Legionella pneumophila, Moraxella catarrhalis, Neisseria meningitidis, Pasteurella multocida, Salmonella enteritidis, Vibrio cholerae, Vibrio parahaemolyticus, Vibrio vulnificus, Yersinia enterocolitica, And your old buddies, Clamydia trachomatis and mycobacterium tuberculosis.
'All quinolones cause erosion of the cartilage in weight-bearing joints. They may cause convulsions, increased intracranial pressure, toxic psychosis, CNS stimulation (i.e.nervousness, lightheadedness, confusion, hallucinations). So anyone with seizure disorders, or cerebral arteriosclerosis is in for a rough ride. Anaphylactic shock, and cardiovascular collapse. Tingling, itching, facial swelling, and difficult breathing. Pseudomembranous colitis has been reported from nearly all antibacterial agents (mild to life-threatening), and anyone coming within a yak's fart of having diarrhea should immediately check with his prescribing physician.

'There's achilles and other tendon ruptures requiring surgical repair, resulting in prolonged disability can occur from quinolone use.

'Crystaluria (particles out of solution in urine) may occur, photosensitivity (sunburn) occurs easily. Stay out of the sun all you can, or wear sunscreen if you can't. Monitor liver, kidney functions, and blood chemistry during prolonged therapy.'

'By all that's--'

'Wait, there's more. I'll go through everything I know. You'll experience cardiovascular problems; palpatations, heart flutter, fainting, angina, heart attack, cardiopulmonary arrest, blood clot to the brain. Central nervous system: nervousness, dizziness, headache, lightheadedness, insomnia, nightmares, hallucinations, manic attack, tremors, irritability, seizures, lethargy, drowsiness, weakness, no appetite, depression, numbness, depersonalization, ataxia (that’s a lack of muscle coordination to you, Huth, something you'd be stuck without, you big lummox), agitation, confusion, delirium, toxic psychosis, muscle twitching, involuntary eye movements. Gastrointestinal: painful oral mucosa, thrush(oral fungal infection),intestinal perforation. Bleeding, jaundice, difficulty swallowing, constipation, intestinal gas, swelling of the pancreas. Musculoskeletal: joint stiffness, back pain, neck or chest pain, gout flare-up. Kidney/urinary: kidney failure, urinary retention, urethral bleeding, acidosis, nephritis (inflammation of the kidneys), increased urinary output, kidney stones. Respiratory: difficult breathing, throat or lung swelling (edema), hiccoughs, bronchial spasm, blood clot in the lung, nosebleed. Skin hypersensitivity: itching, rash, sensitivity to sunlight, flushing, chills, swelling of the blood vessels or lymph system, swelling of the face, lips, neck, eyes, or hands. Cuticle candidiasis (yeast) and hyperpigmentation. Special senses: blurred or disturbed vision, sensitivity to light, seeing double, eye pain, ringing in the ears, hearing loss, bad taste in mouth. Miscellaneous: elevation of triglycerides and cholesterol. Blood and albumin in the urine, elevated serum potassium, glucose, and albumin. Anemia and agranulo-cytosis (potentially fatal condition where the white blood cell count goes extremely low). Not nice.'

All this flitted fitfully in and out of Huth's mind like so much flotsam and jetsam as he fell, or thought he fell.

Then, like a poorly editted film, or something very arty, frames of reality cut in. Then out. Then in. Then out. And then in, again.

A dwarf, dressed in a long white robe and muttering divine and incredible incantations, loomed over his supine form. What was that in his hand? Was it a cactus? The dwarf smiled and carried on his tireless working, squeezing droplets from the pricks onto Huth's parched tongue.

Perfect.

An Interview with Me! (Graham Parsnip)

2003-10-15T12:10:00.000+01:00

I have been given the honour of being interviewed in the monthly newsletter of League of Imaginary Fiction Writers! This small group, of which I am a most active member, can be joined only by invitation, and thus has a membership of only 4 at present: myself, Chester Prehatch, Dunkan Cutter and Jeremiah Crudpuppy.

The issue I was interviewed in was the fourth made, and also the last. The group is still going strong, however, and continues to pressurise the publishing world into taking notice of us!

To be honest, I am uncertain as to the chances of the other 3 ever being published by conventional means. Dunkan's work is too uncommercial for my tastes, and contains sexual content which could only be enjoyed, or indeed understood, by perverts. Chester on the other hand prefers to publish his work in the manner of his hero, Martin Luther, and he pins his stories to the door of his local parish church. This didn't cause too many problems until he finally finished The Nietzcshe Evidentiary, a work of quite alarming scale, and the industrial sized staple gun he used to attach the 8,500 foolscap pages to the church's entrance resulted in the destruction of the 400 year old door, as well as some structural damage to the church itself. Jeremiah, I believe, has made a rod for his own back, if you will excuse the use of cliche, in that he has concentrated so much on the development of a language for his fantasy world that he has quite lost the ability to converse sensibly in English. This isn't so much of a problem when he talks with us, for we have learnt the rudiments of Pphlaps, but some of his conversations with ordinary citizens can become quite embarassing, especially when one considers that the saucy euphemism is at the core of the Pphlaps language.

I appear to have digressed, once again. I have lost the original copy of the interview, however I have rescued the text of my responses which I had previously scanned in for my first website. Typically, the questions, which were posed by Dunkan Cutter, were lost to the ether. All is not lost, however, because John Self, a noted scholar of Cutter's work, has a copy of Dunkan's notes from the interview and has helpfully provided them here. Note that I feel that Cutter's interest was more in talking about his own work in progress (Farwhytt Ever Be Thine: An Epistolatory Fable) than what I was up to. Here's the interview, anyway:

Cutter: What's all this stuff written on the back of this copy of Chapter 1 of my opus in progress I gave you, Graham? All right if I throw this out?

Parsnip: Certainly not, Dunkan. Those are some notes I took a great deal of time over, for some of my own work as it happens. Specifically, they are the first thirteen verses in a folk ballad I am composing which will be sung by King Ban-arl to his family during the last meal they share before he is to be put to death. It summons the spirit of the gods to help him through his torment, and hopes for a quick death from scurvy for all of his family so that they do not have to live without him for long. I note, Dunkan, your immediate mention of your work, which I should point out to you is not to be the subject of this debate. Please let us start the interview.

Cutter: (Excuse me! Yes. I asked for non-brand gin. Oh and make it a double please. ...Well it's 6 o'clock in India - you should know - ha ha.) Sorry Graham. My own work, you say? Well the working title is Farwhytt Ever Thee Bind - An Epistolatory Fable. Write that down. No Graham - ha ha - that doesn't mean it's about cowboys in the future!!! Anyway it's a bloody important work because even in its present form I think it blows the arse off just about anything being written in English today. You see Graham, if you view the English novel as a pair - or more - of tits, then mine are plump, supple, pert and mouthwatering, whereas everyone else's are flabby and droopy, like snooker balls in hiking socks. I don't think I overstate the position when I say that every other so-called writer in the language is shit and absolutely fucking disgusts me. They are just not doing anything of any interest and should give up immediately before they humiliate themselves to death, and double that for anyone trying to 'compete' (ha!) with me in the world of speculative fiction. [Pause] Did you say you'd been working on something yourself Graham?

Parsnip: (No! No alcoholic beverages for me! I must keep my mind clear for my muse. I shall have an orange juice please. How much? Good grief.) For the sake of that which is considered holy! You know exactly what I am working on at the moment, Cutter! It's what I have been working on all my life - only I didn't know it at the time. You with your foul proclivities can never understand the beauty and the grace inherent in the mythical worlds of my imagination. Why must you sully our conversation with such depraved and offensive linguistics? Why, I have never used the word 'tits' in conversation before this moment in my life, at least when describing a human lady's body parts. Anyway, my work, as you know, though the potential readership of this pamphlet don't, so I will say it, is The Oligarchicon. A work on a scale imagined by no other writer - before you say it - IN ANY LANGUAGE! So complex is the storyscape that to aid the reader they must first work through a thousand page history of the star system - and following the story will be an equally long section of footnotes and appendices! No one will have contemplated a fictional world on this scale before. It is, in many ways, unique. My only problem at present is that the scale of the work makes planning very difficult, and with my mental issues, since The Difficulty, my concentration is not always what it could be.

Cutter: Ah yes, I remember now. How could I have forgotten; after all your, uh, thing was inspired by my own Epicryptoverumicon, was it not, which I began at the age of twelve months and finished when I was seven. You see my life is my work, Graham, and I remember now how I sat my parents down just after my first birthday, handed them a stiff drink each (oh - yes - thank you) and said There are going to be some changes around here. I charged my poor dead mother with transcribing every gurgle, burp and fart that emanated from me for the next six years. For the music of the body makes fascinating reading, as I was telling a young receptionist the other day. I was thumbing through her - her, ah, her first edition/first printing gift copy (ribbon incorporated) of the Epicryptoverumicon, just recently; it all seems somewhat juvenile now of course, although I did have a chuckle at my first punctuated sentence - which, ironically of course, turned out to be my mother's last. But I do wonder Graham whether there is - perish the approaching thought, but for lesser hacks and vomiters like yourself I know it remains a consideration - a market (dread word!) for a three-thousand page long children's book such as yours?

Parsnip: Your Epicryptoverumicon is not something I have read in totality. In fact I was consumed with ennui at around page 6 during a passage in described in nauseating detail the progress of a piece of turd down your left leg, which presumably your mother was too busy describing to wipe away. I do not even have an appreciation for the scale of the work - does it reach 3,000 pages? Is it intended for the children's market? I am sure you cannot be suggesting that The Oligarchicon might be considered childrens' literature, for it will obviously be far too complicated for the small and squashy minds of infants! Quite why you question me on the topic of children's books, when you are well aware of my humiliation over my first and only attempt at such an enterprise (the rather ill-advised, I'll confess, F**king for Money) is beyond me, unless you are merely attempting to make me feel uncomfortable. No sir! I shall not allow it. Anyway, you have asked the question, and so I shall answer it. I think that children may be too stupid to follow books which have more than 2,500 pages. Now, ask me a question about The Oligarchicon!

Cutter: By all means, dear Graham. My question for you is this: do you fear legal challenges from the estates of those laughably non-speculative scribblers Herman Hesse, whose Glass Bead Game - I tossed it off in a day - it was not worth my attention although it might, conceivably, be worth yours - incorporated a history of its fictional world into the start of the book, or indeed from the representatives of notorious homosexual and girl-fiddler Vladimir Nabokov, whose Pale Fire was comprised largely of the notes deriving from the text of the book? And my other question is: isn't it time for your medication? It's six o'clock in India, as I pointed out to our waiting wallah just a moment ago. I have your tablets here for safekeeping.

Parsnip: I do not fear legal action, Dunkan, no. I very much doubt that the feckless fools who read the works of such literary non entities would have the ability to read and understand my book. The work of the speculative author is to create, to innovate, and most importantly to write at enormous length. My length is somethine which has caused me great concern of late, hence my recent concerted efforts to improve it. I have, I must admit, never heard of Hesse nor Nabokov, and half suspect they are merely characters in Farwhytt... which you are unashamedly using this interview to promote. So no, I feel my work is so distinct and so unique that even if others have used similar methods, they cannot possibly be covering the same ground that I do. The sheer depth of my work will elevate me to to my true status at the forefront of the New Wave of Speculative Authors. As you mention it, yes, I ought to have my tablets, I feel the shakes coming on. And we don't want a repeat of The Difficulty, do we? It was not long after my recovery, I seem to remember, that you, I, Chester and Jeremiah first met at the initial meeting of our group. Do you recall the occasion?

Cutter: No. I have tried to forget it, my dearest and oldest friend, in the same way that I try to forget that I am going to die - I speak purely in corporeal terms of course, for my work will live on, and when Parsnip's pages have become mulch for the winter vegetables, Farwhytt will be read, fingered - and sung, dammit - in every home across the land. (Thank you for mentioning my book by the way, though please call it by its name which, as of now, is Farwhytt! Ever Thee Bind. You will recognise the ironic use of exclamatory punctuation as a reference to the black hole of female orgasm. I am always creating, always revising, and tomorrow two of the letters which I have had my eye on for some time - you know who you are - may be transposed.) No, I do not remember the occasion of our first meeting. My brain - which has several minds of its own (that is not a reference to your multiple-ahum Difficulties, my boy, perish the thought) - has blocked it out in the same way that one blocks out the memory of childhood abuse. There was, I make no secret of it, some abuse in my own childhood. But I don't regret it. [Pause] Unless of course you mean the time when we four came together as the only readers in the East Anglia area of that trailblazer of self-published speculative fiction from the Fens (I forget his name). We had just seen him sitting behind a desk alone in your local bookshop for four hours without a buyer or signee to his baldy name. Except us, dear boy! Except us! (Waiter!)

Parsnip: Are you quite sure you haven't already had enough, Dunkan? Anyway, I do remember that day. I was wandering through the bookshop in Thetford when I saw this chap so bald it was like he had his hair shorn right off. I cannot for the life of me remember his name, myself, but I said 'Good day' to him and soon we were involved in conversation of the most remarkable type: about fantastical fiction! He was a writer himself, and though he was the most tedious arse, at least we had something in common and I had read some of his works. Then Chester came in carrying one of his bespoke hamster holdalls - and he too was drawn into the magical conversation. It was at this point that we discovered Jeremiah masturbating under the table which held all the unsold signed books. He told us he too was an author of science fiction and he had been greatly stimulated by our conversation. The three of us banged on and on (the bald headed man had gone curiously silent, for he was penning a review of one of his own books to post in the window of the shop). The last to enter was of course you: coming into the shop for one of your regular impromptu readings from Epicryptoverumicon. You never got round to it in the end, because, thinking about it now, you abused all three of us in the most dreadful fashion! You claimed that it was authors like us who were holding you back - even though we had never met before. How wrong you must feel now about it all - now you realise that it is I that leads the way, shines the light, for all the writers of a speculative nature in this land!

Cutter: I know when I've had enough, laddie! (And another - yes - just leave the bottle.) And I know too who the real leading light of the New Wave of Speculative Fiction authors (in the Hemsby region) is - me! Not you! You know what they say about you down the Municipal Library, don't you - 'the only way you'll get even MINOR PARAGRAPHS out of GRAHAM PARSNIP is as an anagram!' [Laughs] [Coughs] Stop your scribbling, you little shit, of course it works out - the O is silent. And the R. And might I also remind you of the havoc you wreaked on both our fledgling literary careers, when you - or one of your godforsaken subsumed personalities, no wonder you've forgotten it - persuaded me to engage in a joint project with you and then let you publish it through your little vanity project. Well I may have been a new boy in town, just down from the Highlands, a wee bit wet behind the ears (no it's fine I've got a hankie), oh yes - but even I could have known that if your opus is published by 'ChickensBreast Books', and your joint name is Parsnip, Cutter, you're going to end up in the fucking cookery section! Well from then on, Cutter comes first! And so it will say on your epitaph, my boy!

Parnsip: How dare you take that tone with me! I came here, to this frankly disgusting establishment, to talk about ME, MY work, MY ideas and MY genius. Instead I am forced to listen to the deranged ramblings of a gin crazed lunatic. I really for the life of me do not know what your problem is, Cutter. You are vile monster, who will come to naught, I am certain, if only because of your preposterous attitude towards yourself and others. I do not hear you mention your own authorial follies - who was it who entered the Thetford Free Ads short story contest with one of his more extreme examples of speculative erotica, Alien Rapathon ("A literary cross between Straw Dogs and Alien. It's good shit." - DCI Archie P. Dalrymple, Thetford Vice Squad), and was arrested for the distribution of offensive material? Why, none other than Dunkan Cutter! So don't you patronise me! I won't have it! No! Oh god, The Difficulty is coming back! Arrrgh! [Starts to froth] As soon as I can get this beermat sharpened, I'll give your liver the home it deserves! [Lunges]

Cutter: [Coughs and splutters at very prolonged length, then falls silent] .[Some time later]

Waiter: Hello is that AngliCabs? ... Yes, it's the Skinner's Arms here. I'm afraid - that's right - sorry about - uh huh - yeah, old Soako and Psycho have passed out in each other's arms again. Can you send a car round to take them home?

To be honest, I had forgotten how badly things turned out. The red mist had descended upon me, and I was quite out of control. Fortunately, once Dunkan had been taken to hospital and had his stomach pumped, it was revealed that only minor damage had been done in my attempt to eat his liver. Still, if memory serves me right now, it took quite a lot for Dunkan to forgive me, and for a long time he refused to be alone in the same room as me. Though, before he lost his temper, I feel I certainly had him on the ropes during our intellectual debate.

Let me know your thoughts on the great Cutter vs. Parsnip debate!

Da Krell!!!

2003-08-06T12:07:00.000+01:00

The sun mocks me. O piteous day! O portentous rays of death! Why dost thou shine so brightly? The people who know about such things are calling this ‘the hottest day of the year’. Sadly, being a Saturday that does not mean Julie Reinger, who is no doubt enjoying a hip-shatteringly memorable day of vigourous consensual shenanigans. I have closed the curtains and turned the television away from the hideous glare of summer. I am too hot and distracted to work.

The arrival of that absurd bimbo Tess Daly on SM:TV has encumbered the programme with a loss of credibility that is almost too painful to bear. It almost makes one wish for the return of Clare from Steps. Why has Cat Deeley forsaken me, WHY?!

I am stricken with unpalatable thoughts and nearly switch off. There is nothing for me here and no beginning to my tumescence. I fumble feebly amongst the hoariest of my DVDs and pull out Forbidden Planet. A trek to the fridge and very soon I have Dairylea on toast before me, a glass of Fanta on the go, and Bebe and Louis Barron’s electronic tonalities flooding through the sound system. Take that sunshine!

Is it me or is this film really challenging man's current ability to wisely use the technology we have? I wonder. Clearly it is not the future we need to be concerned about it's the here and now. In 1956, everyone was worried about a nuclear war and ‘A’ bombs. Are we wise enough to wield said power, acting like a child waving a plastic sword? I fear not. The braindead governments of the day are mere luddites to me. They appreciate not the spiritual power of universal energy. They should be made to sit and watch this film every day. Could Bush or Blair ever be like the Krell? It is unlikely. Is there some point where our technological prowess will outstrip our wisdom thus making a disaster inevitable? We’re there! We’re there!

There are flaws of course (there are even flaws in the works of Stephen Baxter for goodness sake! Thankfully, of course, very few). Like, when Morbius orders Robby to kill the Id monster, Robby ‘blows every circuit in his body’ rather than harm a rational being. Less than 24 hours later, Robby is 100% operational again at the helm of the C57D starship. Pah! How could the Adams character and the others repair a robot more advanced than anything in Earth science in one day? It was made clear that the Robot could not be duplicated by all the resources of the science of Earth. Morbius demonstrated that the Robot would destroy all its circuits if the contradicting order were left uncancelled. When Morbius ordered the Robot to destroy the Id Monster, the order was uncancelled and presumably the Robot was destroyed. So - who repaired the Robot to enable it to astrogate the cruiser? I’m afraid this may undermine the message should today’s world leaders take my recommended cautionary trip to the cinema (obviously, it need not be a multiplex for security reasons, I’m sure that Warner Brother’s could bike a print over to the White House or Westminster or the United Nations, they would not regret it!). Also, does anyone really know what exactly are the DC (deceleration) stations for in the beginning sequence when the ship drops below light speed? Is it some type of inertia-dampening mechanism to protect the crew from sudden decelerations from high speeds such as v >= c? It’s sloppy, and I could imagine the likes of Chirac and Kohl tutting in their oh-so-continental way about it over pastries, or whatever. Still, one thing we cannot run away from is that this film – praise be! – represents the Genesis (capital G intentional) of Star Trek. I can see Gene Roddenberry, sitting in a flat not unlike this one, gasping in awe at the sheer poetry he has just witnessed (and no doubt mirroring my own global peace ruminations). I pull out the original pilot for Star Trek, The Cage, and then the second pilot, Where No Man Has Gone Before, and it’s so clear! Not only are there visual parallels between FP and ST, but there are similar philosophical and spiritual hypotheses put forward: the dangers of a society becoming so advanced (for Krells in FP, read Talosians in The Cage) that it cannot bear the new responsibilities of advancement and thus it disintegrates. Without this film, there would be no Star Trek. And I, for one, would feel the loss.

Am thinking of changing my signature on alt.fantasy.valhallas.displaced.warriors to "The fool, the meddling idiot. As though his ape's brain could contain the secrets of the Krell!!"

Take this, Faber! (and a bit about Sretupmoc)

2003-07-11T07:02:00.000+01:00

Looking back on yesterday's old diary entries I realise that I am still furious with Faber and so have written a letter which I hope will give them pause:

Dear Messrs Faber and Faber

I enclose your letter of the 29th June 1997, signed by a Ms Warner-Pryce. I feel it my civic duty to point out to you the damage which this 'Ms' Warner-Pryce waged then and no doubt - if still in your employ, which I can only hope is not the case - is still waging against your august institution.

You will note that at no point does she even begin to try and understand what it is my work (Parochial Pentameter) is attempting to achieve. I seriously doubt that she has even the most rudimentist grasp of poetry theory, let alone fantasy poetry theory. In fact, I am left to wonder where it is you get your employees: rejects from the Virago Press I should imagine (what is that 'Ms' all about?).

Of course, it is your own business if you decide to engage social and sexual deviants in the workplace, but you must surely appreciate that they will almost certainly bring their own dubious and disgusting agendi into their daily professional intercourse ... it's only (un)natural. And you, let me remind you, as you have clearly forgotten, have a reputation to uphold. A sullied and frankly rather tatty reputation these days, but nevertheless something that at one stage gained some credence in our permissive and grubby little world. Take note.

Obviously, I have resubmitted the work once again. Please forgive the sellotape, I was rather angry that grey summer morn six lonely years hence, but I believe it helps to show just how passionate your (future! ) writers can be. For reference, that is tea on page 4. The word that is obliterated is, if memory serves, 'Orc'. I look forward to hearing from you, hopefully with a more positive and polite tone. To that end, it is probably best to deal with this yourself, rather than hand it over to the latest lacky.

Yours in poetry &c.

I think that strikes just the right note. I am giddy with excitement for what the week may bring.

All the jaffa cakes have run out and it is time to go to Aldi yet again. Bugger. The dogs on the landing chased me this morning as I went to get the paper from Shaun's Newsagent. Huh. (where is the mythical 'Shaun' anyway? I hardly think he's the grumpy and overweight Pakistani woman who sits there all day. Perhaps it's some corporate badge to confuse the bigots who roam the estate all day. I will have NOTHING to do with that sort of attitude. Live and let live say I).

I double-lock the door and head towards the lift. The dogs must be elsewhere, although the stairs stink of their muck.

No Angelo this morning, and being dressed in my 'day wear' I am unhindered by the nazi as I do my shopping.

I treat myself to a lemon sponge, some Fanta and a Chicago Pizza for tea. I'm expecting Julie to do the weather on Look East tonight. Better than that potato-faced freak Jim Bacon anyday. Why we have to put up with him I don't know. It's only one step from him to Michael Fish in my book, and then where would we be? Not sprawled in front of the local news dreaming of all manner of naughties and nasties, that much I do know. No, Julie Reinger that's for certain. I must try and remember to send another email to her despite the webmaster's warning. Perhaps a different tack this time, and no more promises of presents.

I need to restart on Chapter 2 of The Oligarchicon but become waylaid by the footnotes for the Seventh Millennia section in Part One. I can't believe I've been so stupid. There is plenty to say about the Sretupmoc, and I fear I have been woefully carefree and dismissive. My note *had* said:

Sretupmoc Super-intelligent technological beings reminiscent of Star Trek's borgs.

AND THAT WAS IT! Talk about inappropriate cross-referencing! The Sretupmoc are nothing like the Borg! Jeez. Spent the next couple of hours in deep thought. Finally:

Sretupmoc: Beyond the furthest boundaries of even the PD3 Observed Galaxy range, the Sretupmoc are easily the most technologically advanced of all the known races in the entire Universe. In fact, at the last estimate it was possible for the Sretupmoc to claim that they had evolved ultimately, to reach the very pinnacle of being: there was nowhere else for them to go. Sretupmoc communicate via temporal molecule displacement, a form of speech too complex to go into at this point (it's all Maths, anyway. And some Physics). It means that thoughts and ideas are communicated immediately and with no fuss. The Sretupmoc are expected to become some sort of gas, eventually.

That's more like it. I feel at home with thinking about the Sretupmoc. They could certainly run Faber better than the bunch of lefty twats currently in charge!

Oh God let me hear from them soon!

Some old diaries for your enjoyment

2003-07-09T17:57:00.000+01:00

Looking back over my journal entries which composed much of my old website, I am surprised at the sheer quality of some of the writing, as well as just how interesting some of the incidents are. Here is a small selection from 1997 which particularly caught my eye.

5/6/97 - It has now been two years since The Difficulty, two years in which I have been living here alone. Three years since mom's death. My writing, which had slowed down to nothing by her death and reduced even more in its aftermath, had now exploded. That part of me which cared for my mother and for my own recovery is now fully engaged in creative thoughts - my imagination has filled the gap! My latest book, Parochial Pentameter, is surely the one to break me through into literary stardom. I have written directly to Faber, sending a copy, for I think they are the ideal publishers for this groundbreaking work in fantasy poetic theory. Though it is a little on the short side at 6 sides of foolscap, I feel it could easily be padded out with illustrations, or I could always write more footnotes. Thinking about it, actually, I think that some of the footnotes themselves are a little unclear and could probably do with some annotating themselves. I wait eagerly for Faber's response, which must surely be positive.

12/6/97 Nothing yet from Faber. I did receive some correspondance today from my solicitor. It would now appear that the court case which has been casting its shadow over me for the last year is at last coming to an end. The children's bookshop in town have been suing me for loss of business after they agreed to stock my admittedly rather ill-advised children's fiction debut, F**king for Money. I had printed 2,000 of the books at my own expense, and delivered them myself to the shop. The costs for the damage done to the shop, physically and reputationally in the ensuing fracas, could have bankrupted me. Fortunately my solicitor has fobbed them off for so long it looks like they have given up. Excellent! With this stain on my character removed, literary fame and fortune is surely beckoning! n.b. I feel that F**king for Money was rather harshly treated by the press, in whose hands a copy must have fallen. The response from The Thetford Evening Times was predictable, they have always been against me, but even my supporters at the Thetford Free Ads criticised the work. Perhaps the tale of child sex slavery on distant planets was a little bold for the 4-8 year old age range I was aiming for, but my intentions were entirely honourable. And the writing, I feel, speaks for itself.

30/6/97 Bad news indeed. I received an envelope, stamped from Faber, and my heart leapt - it wasn't that bulky! Perhaps this meant they hadn't returned my manuscript! Upon opening the envelope I remembered just how slim Parochial Pentameter is. A terse letter was attached, offering me no support whatsoever.

Dear Mr Parsnip Many thanks for your letter and for sending Parochial Pentameter for our attention. We must admit to being rather bewildered by it: as a piece of poetry theory it is certainly unique, but unfortunately I am entirely unaware of the context in which it is written. For an example, I am quite unable to understand any of the poetry or folk songs you quote, for they appear to be written in a foreign language. Given the very short nature of the work, I thought that perhaps it was part of a larger book, and had somehow landed on my desk as Poetry Editor. Either way, I really don't think that in its current form it is something we would consider publishing - perhaps you could try a smaller, local press?

Never have I read such an abusive response to my toil. And full of lies too! I have sent every one of my Parochial books to Faber, and if she hasn't read them then surely that's her problem! I am distraught. If Parochial Pentameter is not published then how can anyone understand the true meaning of the poets of Parochia?

Perhaps I should incorporate it into the footnotes of another story.

Huth's Song

2003-06-18T11:52:00.000+01:00

Sleep releases me from it's clammy talons. I awake to a sensation that can only be described as the opposite of sated. I must away to Aldi and score some crispy pancakes before breakfast. It's the only way.

Angelo the tramp is sat on his favourite bollard as I get to the shops. He calls me over and offers me a listen of his new record on the CD walkman he nicked from the Salvation Army hostel in Norwich. I say I'm OK thanks, but he insists. It's that bloody soul tourist Moby (God Moving Over the Face of the Waters) and I just nod and smile, fearing all the time that the man is probably riddled with clooties and not to be trusted. Angelo, that is, not Moby, though you can never be sure.

Inside Aldi the store manager tails me non-stop until I pay up for the pancakes and leave. He has told me before that he doesn't like me going there in slippers and dressing gown but I tell him I don't particularly like going in his shop FULL STOP. Ha!

Back at the flat I bung the oven on and make a cup of tea. I change into my so-called 'jogging' bottoms and the Chris Izaak t-shirt (that Mom had bought me after we'd been to see "Wild At Heart" together). I need to settle to some writing, but it's a Sarah-Jayne day on "Tikkabilla" and so everything must stop for a short while. It's difficult to break away from the TV because I only have four hours until "Doctors", but what's that? My a-cursed muse is calling.

Eschewing the History and Footnotes I dive straight into the opening of Chapter Two.

"Huth sang..."

Perhaps a footnote is in order here, after all. It's the scene where Huth is escaping from the slave caravan, and I feel it's important to give him a bit of depth. He's a tough guy, sure, but he needs to be in touch with his feminine side. Well, maybe not his feminine side, obviously, perhaps his artistic side. I'm going to have him sing an ancient folk song as he dodges the zinc pistols.

footnote 37e: we fight, then die...blasted by the amoebas of hate

Huth's song is one of the ancient war anthems written by Spenzoi Sprekklethrush, the Warrior Balladeer of Tworq. The Tworqs, a peaceful clotheless society who lived on the Phoenix Archipelago in the middle of the vast Alhober Sea on Siresia, had never travelled beyond their islands in all the twelve millennia since their records began. When Ljutjens, the legendary floating volcanic island made from solid pumice appeared over the horizon the Tworqs set sail and overtook it, claiming it for the newly imagined Tworqian Empire. A fabulous future history was envisaged, of the Tworqs sailing from land to land, claiming new paradises for their peace-loving naked peoples. Poets were commissioned, epic tales penned, all manner of media events embarked upon (even going so far as the planning of a small season of artistic propaganda films).
Unfortunately, the Ljutjenscentii, a race of single-celled hate-filled creatures from the Siresian ionosphere, returned from their annual sabbatical in the planet's outer atmosphere and, upon discovering their ocean-going home had been invaded, killed virtually all the Tworqs in the space of fifteen minutes. They moved from the floating volcano across to the Archipelago and overran that too, enslaving the remaining Tworqian population, and destroying forever all but one of the three thousand rather optimistic war anthems.

It is this rare surviving song that Huth is singing as he escapes.

As the pale gold twilight envelops my room I release the keyboard from my grasp and head back to the couch. It's been a critical day, and Huth's character is coming along nicely.

I feel a reward coming on.