I have a dream in which I am looking down on a settlement of small thatched huts, arranged in a rough circle with a ditch and ramparts at the perimeter. It is late evening. Through the blue fug of woodsmoke, I can see an old man in dirty, tattered clothes standing at the gates of the village. Two figures, both dressed in loose, hooded robes, stand either side of him.
The man makes a gesture with his arms, and they depart. One walks to the east. The other goes west, into the red glare of the setting sun. The figure heading east walks with a stumbling gait. It diminishes in size as it goes, as if it were melting away. The other is more powerful. It moves with purposeful strides, and in its wake it leaves a thin red streak along the centre of the road.
If I had realised that Dr. Hemstitch had been dead for several years by the time I met him I would have been less enthusiastic about allowing him to kiss my hand. In fact he seemed remarkably active for a man of what I took to be his age, and it never crossed my mind that I might be saying hello to a corpse. He seemed so cheerful, which of course, in hindsight, was no surprise.
Science fiction: there was a war of endless attrition where young women, young men, died in .....-nothing. A strange expanse of media space. A blackness.
They were there and then they are gone. They die. Where they are sent as uniforms, coloured connections between brain, machine and target: they are marching feet, machines clicking, bleeping, whirring, bells chiming red hairs glowing TARGET DESTROYED they are faceless in a void. From whence they will either return hollow, streaked with horror, bagged and boxed in prosthetics, endless bars, or: a newsreel clatters and suddenly they are alive. The proud young applelike faces of this war ranged on the evening’s news like fruit stacked in a greengrocer’s barrow.
It’s a strange thing to kill someone and get away with it. Not to murder and get away with it, though I’m sure that’s quite the feeling all its own. In fact, I’ve been thinking of it more lately. Of murder. Killing someone deliberately. Because that’s what taking a life does to you – it makes you wonder. About a lot of things.
The 'normal'-length podcasts from Tuesday's evening of Blood & Thunder will be up shortly. In the interim, however, here are the ten finest Twitter tales submitted from around the globe to our challenge to write to the theme in less than 134 characters. The podcast with the audience reaction is below. Enjoy. And of course, do retweet ;-)
Longtime contributors Niall Boyce, Jonathan Pinnock & Richard Smyth all have books out which you'd be well advised to buy, then read, then buy for others. All genres are catered for, from novels (Niall's Veronica Britton) and short stories (Jonathan's Dot Dash) to nonfiction (Richard's Bumfodder)
KATY LIAR'S DEBUT NOVEL
Liar Katy Darby's debut novel, a Victorian drama called The Unpierced Heart (previously titled The Whores' Asylum) is now out in Penguin paperback. It's had nice reviews in The Independent on Sunday, Sunday Times & Metro (4*).
OUR INTERVIEW WITH ANNEXE MAG!
They came, they saw, they asked us a bunch of interesting questions. Interview by Nick of Annexe Magazine with Katy of LL: here
