Unburied Dead

He woke up with a start and flailed wildly for her, again. She wasn’t there of course, she never was. Not that that ever stopped him from checking. It was a habit that even after two years he’d failed to break.

He dragged in the air with an almost indignant gulp and waited for reality to kick into gear and take over his half-asleep mind. Before long the room was slowly coming into focus and so did he. The empty spot beside him in the bed made more obvious by the fact that even now he didn’t dare stray into it for fear of her tired elbow driving him back. Part of the routine battle they’d fought for space, blankets and legroom before inevitably drifting back towards the centre and the warmth each provided the other. Continue reading “Unburied Dead”

London – A Study : Catford

The Catford Cat - A Pagan Abomination

I looked into the darkness, my courage fuelled by the gin handed to me by the last friendly face I’d seen. She’d been an ancient, a stooped and broken woman, lurking at the roadside not as a guardian or a guide, but as a farewell. A last moment of truly human contact for those who’d chosen to walk towards their fate. Those who’d chosen to walk to Catford. A journey from which none return, at least not with the souls they’d carried when departing.Continue reading “London – A Study : Catford”

The Climb

A routine interlude…

It wasn’t a climb out of hell, it was a climb into heaven. That was important to remember because there was no hell, just the climb and then heaven.

After all, look down, do you see hell? Fiery pits and damnation? Of course not. You see what you see in the mirror, a face. A normal, human face. With another beneath that one and another and another – all the way down just human faces. Right down to the bottom. But with nine billion on the climb who could see that far?

And above? Heaven. Obscured by the gently undulating buttocks of fellow climbers perhaps but always up there. The light was enough for anyone to know that. And, as an added bonus, even the most dismal of rear ends gained a certain beauty in that divine glow.

Ballad of a German Shepherd

Nonsense

“You like Pop music? Jack Daniels? Pedigree Chum? I have in my room, come, we party…”

Helga glanced nervously towards her Pimp, a surly blonde haired brute by the name of Helmud. He’d been a shepherd, in better times, better times when they’d run through fields feeling like one being, embracing flocks of sheep in a chaotic dance that she’d hoped would never end. But then the wall came down and his heart had broken. He’d said they’d go to Crufts, he said there’d be rosettes, milk bones, glory – but they’d never made it beyond Paris and that first flourish of wealth.

‘Just enough for a ticket Helga, to London, you shall be best in show again! He only wants to stroke you…’

But there was no stroking, no belly rubs, just a leather collar and a dark room. Even now, as the Saudi Prince flipped a biscuit towards her derisively she could dream. A dream of small fences to be jumped over, poles to be avoided, the howl and growl of competition. But it was hollow now, a paradise polluted by lies. Helmud nodded and the Prince tugged at her lead.

Close your eyes, Helga, close your eyes and think of Bavaria…

The End of Earth

“Well, someone had to say it.”

Those were the last words spoken as the last few remnants of the human race passed into the silent oblivion of death as the non-corporeal yet strangely expansionist alien force surged into their bunker beneath the ancient stronghold of London. London, of all cities, had survived that far less because of its strategic importance or financial wealth and more because a man in Peckham had, some 50 years earlier, started ‘digging for victory’ in his allotment. Creating, single handed, a vast system of tunnels deep enough beneath the earth to keep the then ageing digger and his nearest, dearest and most pressing neighbours. Their survival had been short lived though, the aliens having wiped out the entire human population of the planet in somewhat less than ten minutes. The chimps, however, survived – as did a great many of Terra’s native beings who appeared to enjoy either greater grace or greater use in the sensual faculties of the invaders. Indeed the only non-human extinction experienced during the few minutes of the annihilation wasn’t at the hands of the strangers from space but at the hands of a student from Delaware, USA, who managed to tread on the last specimen of a very, very rare insect species. It’s to be noted, however that the student, a young man of 20 years, felt genuinely bad for the minute and a half that remained to his life, beating himself up for an act of immediate, inevitable and yet wholly intentional violence that made no sense even fractions of a second after it occurred. The aliens noticed that, using certain mind reading tools available to them, but the man’s remorse was deemed irrelevant, their reasons for genocide being rather more to do with their accidentally spreading a virus that they attracted, an impressively unfortunate coincidence which seemed unlikely enough to be ignored by all parties involved.

The last humans were wiped out and their history and culture generously recorded by the non-corporeal beings, who were if nothing else sympathetic to the fate of their matter-bound brethren, they also recorded the most recently extinct insects culture and history, although they conceded that was marginally duller than the humans copy but no where near as intriguing as the vast back catalog of creative, political and cultural concepts and ideas explained to them by the Sloths who, apparently, had been thinking very deeply up in their trees.

A few billion years passed before anything recognisable to the long gone humans as civilization appeared on earth. Left to their own devices, free of overt alien influences, the dogs had done the largest chunk of evolving – first blossoming into consciously associating tribes before going on to form global empires and wondrous space faring parties of adventurers, the first of whom was shocked and impressed to find Laika, the Soviet space dog floating around in an eternal and untouchable orbit trapped in her steel tomb. They concluded, not unreasonably, that any ancient civilization on their home planet was surely founded by their doggy ancestors, primitive though they seemed to the scientists surveying their remains. It was a belief which pushed the canine masses around the globe to ever greater conquests and colonisations around the galaxy, although they came to a final sticky end as, once again, those non-corporeal aliens passed through carrying yet another improbable virus, this time wiping out pretty much all matter based life in the region, whose histories and cultures were then suitably recorded. The few survivors that there were moved to another galaxy, cursing the name of those formless bastards who’d killed everybody and ultimately founded a whole religious system based on the denial of the abstract and a fervent hatred of anything that threatened to be non-corporeal. They got wiped out by a load of fundamentalist Philosophers who held no truck with denials of higher realities.