Tuesday, August 26, 2014


For a long time the Order of the Silence scavenged and hunted among the debris and detritus of alien activity on Earth: in so doing they made a lot of things impossible to remember. The next time someone claims to have found a text that proves that Victorian London was attacked by Giant Dinosaurs far larger than the species is known to grow in the fossil record, expect them to suddenly forget the matter shortly thereafter.

From The Book of The Peace.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Door To Null.

The Door To Null.
Roderick, found the leaflet pushed through the wooden gap between his front door and the step, one day – although he had a perfectly usable letter box (of the European sort, in the door itself), as if the fly-poster had been unable to reach up to it, weighed down by some infinite and impossible gravity, or had slivered it in from flat-land or another two dimensional world. 
The leaflet resembled the ads for pizza which were the most common of the things, other than bills, to come through the letter box rather that the gap, more than it resembled the things that most commonly came through the gap, which were dead leaves and pill bugs. But it had a certain resemblance to dead leaves, which was that its colours were autumnal and muted as if it had been lying somewhere slightly damp and dusty for a long time before being dragged around in a pile and pushed through the gap.
The leaflet showed a man – probably a man, for though his head was stylised and he was looking away from the viewer he seemed to be wearing a brownish business suit – gazing at something, and then a second picture in which the back of the man’s head (if it was a man’s head) became even more a smudged fingerprint blur of a thing, as if it was smeared out into the picture so that the man – if it was a man – wasn’t a man any longer with a head that was distinct from his suit or the air, or the thing whatever it was that he was so diligently looking at, but a suit that ended in a kind of fungal bloom of spreading until it was part this, whatever this was, and part that, whatever that was.
Roderick read, the title of the leaflet, as he turned on his coffee maker.  It’s title was The Door To Null.  It began:-
Anyone can construct this mechanism, in the privacy of their own home, or their own brain, if they have a home of their own or a brain of their own. It is a sequence of thoughts or a collection of wood and iron that forms a pattern which is like a sequence of thoughts insofar as such a pattern can be. It is the pattern which destroys patterns, so to look at it is to, cease.  You may say - Well I have a television already. Thank you very much! - but even the most bland and asinine television schedule is tainted with the spore of life, with the lie of action, with the unceasing illusion of movement as accomplishment, whereas to cease is to know true nirvana, and to step for a moment off the great circle of the wheel, whose motion is the endless nausea and vertigo of life and its tawdry whirligig of illusionary progress.  Or you may say – Well I can have a sleep, Mr Leafletter – and this is so, but even the best sleep is troubled by the simulacrum, of a simulacrum, which is the swirl of dreams which are fragments of fragments and make only the sense which might be expected of things which are, not and never can be real, and are only copies of things which are not and never can be real also. Sleep therefore does not heal – so far as anything can be healed – rather it strains the subject in a different way, but that strain is not in itself good even though it can sometimes act against the strains that the false motion of the wheel imparts in the daylight hours, assuming the subject is sleeping at night and moving and being moved by the wheel by day.  Further you may say – Well I’m quite happy as I am – but this is a thing you can say, only as you might say – Well I’m a grey elephant – if you believe you are a grey elephant. For without the chance to cease for a time from the wheel, you can not know what it is to be happy nor unhappy, nor what it is to be a person and not a grey elephant, nor a grey elephant and not a person. You should ask yourself instead, what do I have to do that is better than taking the opportunity to cease?  You deserve the chance to gaze upon the nothingness that is the unpattern and to see that everything only matters to other clumps of matter to whom it matters only while they are in the false orbit of the motion of the wheel.  To cease is to cease to fear. To cease is to cease to decay. To cease is to be, that which is  not being.
Roderick, rested his coffee cup on the leaflet while he watched the news on the television.  The news was about some people somewhere else firing rockets at some other people, and the other people shelling the first people.  The coffee cup made a halo of damp coffee around the head of the second man – the one whose head was part of everything else and like everything else, while also being quite unlike itself.
After he’d watched some more of the news, which was now about a famous comedian having committed suicide, and a famous singer being suspected of child abuse, and a famous duck that could roller-skate being given a chance to immortalise its webbed footprints outside a theatre: Roderick decided to build the Door to Null.  He decided to build it in his garage.  He opted to build the physical shape, rather than to think the thoughts that would make the shape in his mind, although the right inner fold of the leaflet set out the thoughts he would need to think, because although he wasn’t a very good builder, the physical shape seemed simple, and the thoughts seemed complicated – being almost a set of equations and almost a poem - so far as he could tell, having just glanced at them long enough to decide that the carpentry on the left inner fold of the leaflet looked less complicated.
His neighbours told the police they had heard hammering.  But neither they nor the police ever discovered where Roderick’s head had gone. And since it is not possible to hammer off one’s own head, even if you have a hammer and a leaflet, and since the leaflet seemed to have disappeared when the police found the body, after the neighbours had called the police after the smell had got so strong from the garage, no one ever knew exactly what had occurred. 
But those of us who push the leaflet under your doors, want to make it clear, that the two methods are of equal difficulty and effectiveness and if you are not certain you can master the right inner fold of the leaflet, it does not suffice to run at the left inner fold for there is no difference.  As it happens Roderick was successful in ceasing, and to be applauded, but he might not have been, and that would have been dreadful.   

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Note on SCRIPT.

OKAY, It's become a two parter, it was the blessed Giant Carnivorous Space Elephants that did it.

BACK FROM HOLS...Script will be finished this week.....before DW returns....

In the post below, watch as I write a Doctor Who script between 8th July and the Programme going back on air for Series 8....in Real Time.  Why not contribute in the comments: all ideas helpfully ignored or pirated.  In the impossible event of this "LOST SCRIPT(tm)" from Series 10 ever being made: contributors will receive credit and/or money.

Following "James G's" suggestion the SCRIPT is now being amended, DURING writing to include [SPOILER] and his [SPOILERS] engaged in [SPOILERING] (It's in the comments if you can't wait to read the actual script in the post immediately below.

Remember this is your chance to impact *actual*(tm) Doctor Who TV history, by getting your suggestions in this *genuine*(tm) Leaked Season 10 Script.  YOU ARE STEPHEN MOFFAT and if you say jump *I* say how high!

Remember, read THIS SCRIPT:  don't spoil yourselves by reading any others that MIGHT be floating around. 

No misuse of trademarked material intended Voord, Doctor Who, Clara, and Dan, and [SPOILER] are probably trademarked BBC and/or original creators. This SCRIPT is not for profit.  Giant Carniverous Space Elephants are copyright James G, used here by explicit permission.

Simon BJ

Tuesday, July 08, 2014


Series 10, Episode 1

working title : "THE GOSPEL OF THE VOORD"


DURATION: 47’10”

10:00:00 EXT. SKY – NIGHT

A star flares up in a dark patch of sky – turning the night into a bowl of white light. The sound of footsteps running on sand in the whiteness. We can’t see who, or where.



A terrified young hebrew is shaking awake a dark bearded man, who is lying on pile of rugs.


Saraias, Father, wake up for the sky is burning.

SARAIAS (Waking, his voice is slurred and he might be drunk.)

(Waking) I gave you a light in a pillar of Fire, and great wonders have I done among you; yet you have forgotten me, saith the Lord.


Father, there’s no time for prophesy, things are happening NOW!


No time for prophesy, he says, too proud to learn a trade, say I.
Oh my head.



A bulky black shape looms suddenly against the white flaring radiance of the tent's entrance.

EDRAS screams.

ENTER - a figure in a close-fitting futuristic wet-suit,  its head is a narrow wedge.  From it's forehead a blunt antenna rises.  It has no eyes.


Give Me The Keys To Your Conscience.  You Need Sin No More....




It's no use I just can't think of a present for Dad.  What do you think? He likes historical fiction?


What sort of period?  Victorian?  Tudor?  Country-house Austen?


He's gone a bit biblical.  I blame Dan Brown, and all that Holy Grail stuff.  Give him a book with a lost prophecy and a big stone on the front and he'll be happy.

DOCTOR  (from armchair where he is reading)

What about a Dead Sea Scroll?   An original gospel?


How long have you been there?  Is that your armchair?

DOCTOR gives arm-chair a proper look. Camera pull back, we see it is TARDIS blue. 


Their's weren't very comfortable. 

(He jumps up).  Camera pull back further, we see TARDIS is parked at back of book-shop among crime books section.


Help me get this back inside and we'll go see what we can pick up.

DAN (Voice off)

Er, Clara.  Maybe you should have a look at this. 

Clara and Doctor come around shelves, to bookshop's religious section. A life sized card-board display cut-out of a Voord (only partly seen) stands before a pile of books.  Dan is looking at the back of one of the books, he holds it so the photograph is visible to Clara and the Doctor.


Isn't this your dad?

The Doctor takes the book, and looks at the picture..


I've met him haven't I.  Once, at a meal.  I don't remember him having the cold dead eyes of a psychopath. 


I don't suppose he remembers you being an elderly scot's git, either. Give me that. It can't be Dad. 

(She reads from the blurb / biog on the back of the book). Held towards the camera we can see it's called.  YOU ARE READY TO EXPERIENCE KNOWLEDGE: The Hidden Gospel by DAVE OSWALD)

"Learn the recently discovered facts behind secrets hidden in the Apocrypha: You too can be without sin, You too can be without Guilt. Learn to lock and unlock your Conscience with the Sacred Keys."

I don't understand: when did he find the time to do any of this. He barely manages his job, and reading the paper.


It is him though.


Unless he's got an evil twin. Is he important?

CLARA (Annoyed)

He's my father of course he's important.


Nuclear codes important.  Could he fry anything?  No, not a fish supper. Is he in charge of the Boris Bikes or where they put the hover-airport?  We're missing something.  Each of you, take a book at random.  Sorites.




Pick three random sentences and read them out.  It's an old form of biblical prophetic exigesis. Quite mad, but, sometimes...well go on.

CLARA (From her father's book)

"Like a machine the conscience can be programmed: once programmed it becomes unquestioned."

DAN (From a religious book taken at random)

"Then the strangers said, behold we have come among you, to bring the new wine."


"Once unquestioned the conscience becomes, innate and undefeated."


"And they took the son of the old prophet who was called Sairas, and they said unto him:  Hail Esdras for you will become even as we are."


"Once initiated and undefeated: there will be only goodness - and that goodness will have no end."


"Then Esdras cried out saying, 'be gone strangers for you are not angels of the lord but creatures no man has seen upon the earth, and your ways are not our ways."


Voord, holding Esdras by the hair. He is on his knees before it.



TARDIS materialisation sound effect.

The Doctor runs into shot. 


Put that man down now.  This is not your place.


Our place is where there is evil.  For we are Good.
Our place is where there is doubt. For we are Certainty.


Your place is another world and another time.  I can smell the acid of its seas on your rubberised skin. What are you doing here?  What on earth do you think you're doing?

VOORD  (lift's its hands to its headgear, and removes it with a sweeping gesture. It splits around the antenna which remains wired into the Voord's skull like a unicorn's horn.) 

I am the Prophet of the Repentance.  I am the Voord.
I bring the good news that says: evil is ending.
Who are you to resist the Voord?

The Voord is a beautiful young woman, aside from the aeriel protruding from her skull.


Never mind all that.  What the fuck have you done to my dad?



Now I know you're all here for the ALPHA course, but I hope you'll bear with me if I introduce a guess speaker.  The man whose research into the Apocrypha has caused so much controversy in the religious world- who lives in our very own parish.  DAVE OSWALD.


Hello everyone.  I've made a discovery.  A discovery you can share. When my wife Ellie died, I left the church - I walked in the darkness for so long.  I was angry.  With God with the Church even with the Government. Only the love of my daughter, and my family kept me sane....but I doubted God.  In my doubt I looked in strange places.  The Occult.  Oh yes, I confess it freely.  The Scientologists.  Yes, I know - one step down fom the Occult right?  The books of the Bible the Church has long since rejected.  And in the latter I found a set of keys, a hidden methodology, a way to make my doubts vanish. A way to make my temptations vanish.  A way to make us all the good men and women God wants us to be.  And I can show you now.  (He Smiles)  The Key is in us all.  You Are Ready To Experience Knowledge.


DAN,  (tied with ropes back to back with DOCTOR and CLARA)

Well that was telling her.  Very effective.


Her?  What do you mean her?


Ms Honey-Blonde Fetishist From Space, who else.


From Space yes, blonde maybe. Ms - arguable.  When I last met these creatures, they never ever took their masks off, and yet this one just happens to want to shake her locks at us. What did it look like before we saw under the mask eh?  DAN, I need you to do something for me.





DAN (Starts snoring).


How did you do that?  Why did you do that?


Experience...and, experience.  I want to tell you about our hosts - but I want DAN to keep an open mind.  If I tell you both, you'll both be biased.  I'd have told him to stick his fingers in his ears and hum, if we weren't tied up.  As it is baby go bye-bye.


You're talking as if you''re angry that you aren't sure.


I'm not.  I think I met them once - oh so long ago - on a world that was as complex as your own.  A world I only saw a few parts of, and whose history I never quite understood, and yet the Voord impressed me as dangerous.


Right, they're dangerous - check!


Unless they're not now.  It might have been centuries, these might be different Voord.  That's why I want Dan to act as my control.  I don't want to prejudge the 17th century French from a bad experience with some 12th century Italians. Wearing rubber isn't an absolute guarantee of evil.


We're tied up.  It was...she was...grabbing someone by the hair.  It...they've...done something to my father. I'm not inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.


Which is why you're not asleep.  You and me we're biased.  We need Dan to have a fresh mind. He'll need us to have the background.  So - oh centuries ago, probably, on a planet called Marinus, a humanoid species made a machine that re-enforced their morality. Under the influence of the Conscience crime became impossible, war ceased, vulgarity, and spitting disappeared.  Everyone was happy until, a random mutation, or an alien spore, or sheer chance, freed a person called Yartek from the machines influence. Yartek lead an uprising - in the process of which the last Keeper of the Conscience died and the machine was destroyed.  I thought Yartek too had perished.


Ms Fetish seemed to think otherwise.





Your clothes and morals are not those of the culture here.  I am assessing this culture to determine the correct Keys for its Best Outcome.  You will be held until you can be assessed by YARTEK.

(There is a white flash of light, sourceless. Implicity, at this point the Doctor Clara and Dan were captured.)



So Yartek was, what - a terrorist - or a freedom fighter?  You said everyone was controlled by this machine? 


The Keeper of the Machine would have said the former.  He was a kind man, he believed implicitly in the good the machine had done, as did his daughter. But I was never sure. Every regieme believes it acts for the best. However, whatever his initial intent, by the time YARTEK attempted to gain control of the machine he seemed more interested in using it on everyone else than intent on destroying it.

VOORD (entering tent)

That is correct. But since those days, the Yartek has refined his views. He is wise and old and to be obeyed.


Take it from me, you don't want to be listening to old people.  They'll bore you death with what they did in the Time War, and how the cosmos is turning slower, and don't get me started on lumbago.


He said it, and he's ooh over two thousand so he ought to know.


Your age is nothing to the years of wisdom of the YARTEK.  You are not ready to experience knowledge.  You must first be changed.


Right, that's enough. (He stands up, and ropes fall away). Thank you Houdini.  Now listen here Missey, you are in a lot of trouble.  You've interfered with the history of this planet...


And you've turned my dad into a creepy holly-roller.  (CLARA decks the Voord, who falls).

DAN (now awake)

Whoah, Clara - that's not like you.

DOCTOR (kneeling to examine Voord as speaking).

No it isn't is it? Anger, sweary, violent Clara is rather new isn't she.  Quick Dan - what would you say is Clara's relationship with her father?


Er, good I guess - um - wait - aren't they not speaking now, Clara didn't you say that....(he trails off, confused by Clara's blank expression).


What the Voord are doing, here in the past, it's reaching its tendrils forward through time already.  I'm immune at least for now, but you and Clara are starting to have different pasts.  They've found a peculiar weak spot - a place where small changes impact out of all proportion. That's probably why they're piddling about the edges of Christianity rather than going straight for St. Paul or Mohammed.  This is very advanced thinking for the Voord I remember.  Glass submarines. Machines to order and control the mind. Yes.  Any grasp of time technology, no.  Ah, ha - beautiful blonde woman, my eye.

(He pulls a flimsy, sheer mask away from the Voord).

This is a memory-plastic mask, with holographic emitters built in at the nanometre level.  Again, not Voord technology - but I can't help feeling I've....

YARTEK (An ornately robed VOORD entering tent)

Oh my dear Doctor, you have been naive....


Well firstly I thought you were stuck in a time-lock with Rassilon, and secondly - I had hoped that once the drums weren't beating in your head every waking moment, you'd stop with all this nonsense, and if you did escape...

MASTER (for YARTEK is he, removes headgear to reveal [Can we get SIMMS?  Check)

...You hoped I'd get a proper job.  Like you.  Well it may surprise you Doctor, but I have.  The Voord have taken me to their collectively disorganised bosoms.  You left them leaderless - a society based solely on its opposition to something that..........you left in ruins.  Anarchists with a fixation on a Strong Man figure.  They accepted the return of Yartek, as a divine gift.  I am the Voord's Messiah, and soon I will be Earths.


Bending the population to your will again?  Have you learned NOTHING.  You odious little, little man. We were friends once.


Sometimes I wonder why.  It's lucky I have no self-esteem issues.  No, you misjudge me.  Come follow me, walk in the steps of the Master, and many things will be made clear to you.


DAVE OSWALD  (Laying a hand on the head of a kneeling figure)

Say what you want and turn the key.


Say what you want and turn the key.


I want not to over eat, I want to feel loved, I want to know I have value.


You can.  You can turn the key that locks your free-will to what you freely will now.  You can decide once and for all.  The Lock makes us Free!


The Lock makes us free!


MASTER  (Moving among the tribesmen easily, nodding to one here, acknowledging another there.  We see a number of rubber suited Vvord among the crowd)

Imagine Doctor how much good the human race could do, if they only
once – for a generation say – lived in accordance with their own best ideals.
No murder, no adultery, no coveting of each other asses.  No bickering, no backbiting.  No envy.


You have a point to make?


The human race needs the science of the Vvord,  it needs to listen to its conscience. 
I have.  The Locks have set me free.  Free to serve them.




Look up, Doctor, see their glory and be humbled, as I have been.  Turn the key upon your doubt and fear and live in the glory of the ULLLLLLL.


Oh noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!

The camera pans up.  We see that the grey shadows in the background are the legs of massive humanoid Space Elephants the size of Galactus, standing over the whole oasis, their bodies wreathed in technology and haloed with crackling lightning bolts of cosmic space power!


The camera pans up from the congregation to the Altar which is carved into the head of a Massive SPACE ELEPHANT!!

PRIEST:  Praise them, Praise them!  Praise The Pachyderms of Power!!

The roof of the church cracks across and a grey trunk reaches down and pulls the Priest up into nothingness.  There is the sound of crunching.  Human bones and tatters of meat and gore fall down upon the heads of the congregation.


DOCTOR:  Just say no, keep saying no in your heads or out loud, don't let them get into your minds.

DAN:  Why what'll happen, I mean noooooonnnnnoooo nnoooo.

DOCTOR: They'll eat you if you've been naughty.  They're Carnivorous Space Elephants and they're huge, powerful, dangerous, telepathic and self-righteous.  Before the War they were quarantined by the Time Lords, but now they they're loose.

CLARA:  What do they consider naughty..no...no..NO NO....no.....

DOCTOR:  They never forget so they only ever make a mistake once, so they have no compassion for flawed forgetful species: they judge everyone by their standards and they eat the unfit as an act of communion with their even BIGGER SPACE ELEPHANT GOD.  

MASTER:  You see now Doctor I have brought Voord technology to earth, only it can make humanity honourably inedible to the Hordes of UUUULLLLLL.

DOCTOR:   Yes, good try, but its a bit no NO NO NO no no like cutting your head off to cure the toothache, there must be something else we can do.  It's a good job your heads been so full of Rassilon's drums for so long that they can't see what you're really thinking...oh..no...shouldn't have thought that....no NO....NOOOOOO......

A trunk reaches down and snatches the Doctor into the air....

Friday, July 04, 2014

New Brakespeare Voyage review on amazon.co.uk:

5.0 out of 5 stars What is time to a ship made of history?, 4 July 2014
A long time coming, but what is time to a ship made of history?

Big, perspective-warping ideas sit comfortably alongside small, intimate, human moments as the book's two main protagonists head toward an inevitable confrontation.

The pair of opposing, first person narratives guide us through a series of interlocking worlds that make up The Brakespeare. There are as many wonders as there are horrors on this journey.

A detailed understanding of the War in Heaven (the backdrop to the 'Faction Paradox' series) is no more essential to enjoying 'The Brakespeare Voyage' than having to possess a detailed understanding of World War II before reading, say, 'The Book Thief'. Everything you need to appreciate this story is in the book itself.

And when you read it, you will definitely appreciate it.

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Florence Apocalypse: Chapter One Addenda

Caliban McSlaughter, winced as he lowered himself gingerly into his marble plunge bath.  He did everything gingerly, always had, for he had been covered in reddish hair since he was born.  The midwife had let slip a disparaging remark about Ourangutans, and the Menagerie whose beasts had notoriously run riot on Innocence Island nine months before.
His father had her horsewhipped of course, but everyone 'knew' that his mother had been ravished by a great ape nevertheless - the only point of discussion in the village remained whether the ape in question was a relatively innocent if priapic former inhabitant of Borneo or Laird Bogle McSlaughter, the Warlock o' the Glens.

At seventy though, Caliban had to admit to himself that he was more grey than ginger. And no wonder the worry of bringing up those thrice troublesome children of his would turn a Black Cat grey.

The report from Madame Mab's was on his desk, under the handy paperweight of a dead vicar's skull.  (Not quite so oxymoronic as you might think, he had once pinned a live vicar to his desk by the ears, but had found it hard to slide papers in and out under the squirming prelate's hair, and blood had got on the legal documents in all the wrong places.)

It wasn't that they didn't want to do wrong - there was nothing fundementally good about them, he reassured himself, and it wasn't that Madame Mab's wasn't a highly regarded establishment in Evil Scholastic Circles, but somehow the pitiless regieme of sly cruelty, intense competativeness and backstabbing that had proved to be so powerful a driver of Scottish Witchcraft since the Weird Sister's Memorial Behest of 1057 (5063 in the Witch Calendar), had failed Mary, Anne...and the other one, in ways he could hardly understand.
When he got out of the bath he was going to have to do something about it.

He had an inkling of an idea, but it was a drastic one, and based on little more than a folktale, but Caliban McSlaughter knew well how much truth there could be in gossip and village tattle. He had after all the prehensile feet to prove it. 

If he was going to see his children right, he'd have to bring in the Apocalypse.  Florence Apocalypse: Hell's Bottom Nanny.  (Hell as you may have gathered rates people downwards towards Lucifer, not upwards towards God, hence also the School Lowerarch competition at Madam Mabs).

Monday, June 23, 2014

Florence Apocalypse and the McSlaughter of Innocence: Chapter One


The bats outside the Headmistress’ Office, were rotting pungently against the cork of the notice-board. The hand-forged brass pins fastening their flesh to pliable surface, were greened with verdigris a sure sign that the acids in the drying bodies, were eating into the copper in the zinc-copper alloy.
Also outside the office, perched on a tatty black chair too small for her, in a school uniform that also was also too small for her and bulged over nacent puppy fat, Bloody Mary McSlaughter scowled.  It wasn’t being sent to see the Headmistress she disliked.  A girl with her hue of red hair, and the family pride of the notorious McSlaughter clan, expected it.  It wasn’t the bats. She took pride in her ability
to spot the real chemistry behind the greening of the fastenings, and their smell, if anything, merely reminded her of her mother.  No, it was a more existential crisis than this that was fretting her heart – she almost caught herself saying ‘soul’ but stopped herself in time even internally, that sort of language was at least fifty merits, and at the moment her House (Bathory) was Lowerarch Imprimis.  It had come over her during assembly.  Madam Malthusia was leading, and they had been singing the well known song that begins.

        “God’s will can not hold him, nor Earth restrain,
            Hell shall rise in fury, when he comes to reign,
            Clad in Fire Eternal, Satan will Arise,
            Destroying Peace and Goodness, with His Ebon Eyes”.
“Satanism,” Mary had muttered to herself, “can go swivel on it.”  One of the Lower Prefect’s familiars had caught the words as they flew past, faint as they were and hissed its indignation, in a faint spew of spittle. Being venomous, the Toad had combusted the hair of some nearby new girls, and a fight had broken out, but not even the healthy display of violence and ill-discipline (generally encouraged when not actively getting in the way of ritual) had prevented Madam Malthusia
tracking down the culprit.  Hence, now, the hunched waiting for the lecture.
Ten minutes later, she was in the Headmistress’ Office, staring up at her dark unforgiving eyes, and feeling an unusual craving for edam. 
Madam Mab, looked down from her three foot five height, at the quivering school girl.
The Headmistresses’ long standing habit of forcibly turning anyone sent to her office into a white mouse for the initial part of the 'discussion' - considerably ameliorated the effect of her substantial shortness, which even for a Black Witch of the Old Fae Blood was considerable. 
A white mouse with red hair, does not suit a tiny school girls uniform, whatever a particular group of Japanese perverts may tell you.

"Mary McSlaughter, I don't think you have the least idea of the sacrifices your father has made to get you into this school.  Why the goats for Hecate alone, must run into double figures.  Do you think it helpful to express audible doubt as to the underlying ethos of this Great Establishment. Have we not tried to drum into you hateful brats
that when you're about in the so-called real world, these sort of amusing quips can be the difference between the be-fanged and the be fanged.  Just because you're locked in a looney bin (witches have never had any truck with Politcal Correctness and Mab had only just stopped referring to such places as Mad Carnivals round about 1957) rather than burnt at the stake, won't stop you crying out to the powers below when your loose tongue has flapped your freedom to do ill to the four
cardinal winds.  And if you think a black beast will bound up out of the stone slabs and carry you away on its broad back after you've said, what was it, 'Satan can go swivel on it'  I rather think you'll have another think coming young lady!"

"Sorry, Madam Mab,"  Mary said in a dull, sulky, insolent monotone -  as she'd been taught.  "'Sides,' she added, 'It wasnae Satan - Unhallowed Be His Name - it
was Satanism. All this dressing up (by which she included the undressing) and prancing about, and whathaveyou. If you canae drink it, eat it, smoke it or fuck it, whae good is it?"

Madam Mab beamed.  "Oh you will go far, my dear.  That's quite right.  Naturally you hate all the 'community' aspects of organised..."  Her mouth puckered like a parrot shitting...."religiosity". (She'd skirted the term more successfully than her leather dress sense had her hips). "A proper bred-in-the-bone hatred will warm your icy heart through many a long night of evil doing. When you look back on your days here, I want you to say to yourself.  I suffered. Now they can!  Do you understand me?”.


"Right then, duck off (this reference to ducking stools was considered far ruder among Witchfolk than Mary's commonplace swearing) and get on to your next lesson. I think its BASIC HOODOO with Mistress Hexia, better hurry or she'll have you over her knee.  You'll grow back on the way, but you'll keep the tail for a week to remind you to keep your daft mouth closed when it's not sucking the devil's cock."  This cheerful expression, caused a quirk of happy memory to enter the Headmistresses face before it was hidden by Mary’s slamming of the door.
"Chance," Mary grumbled to herself, as she went towards the HEXING range, "would be a fine thing."  Madam Mab's was an old fashioned single sex witches school, with Black Masses for adult staff only, and about the only thing Bloody Mary (from the hair and her beating the pulp out of one of the more investigatively lesbian-tantricists in the school in week one) had in common with her twin sister Anne was a
conviction that a few boys about the place would brighten this dump up no end.

The HEXING range was a twisted grove of trees at the end of the playing field, stunted and gnarled and torn part from the ground by the whizzing discharge of sheer focused hormonal disgruntlement and boiling-over teenage pashes. Madam Hexia was in mid rant, when Mary walked up hands thrust into her belted skirt, head held high in an effort to look cool and tail-free.
"And that's for the man who dumped me when I was fourteen," Hexia snarled - vapourising a small wax target crucified upside down halfway up a warty oak.  A minature wax penis flew past demonstrating that as usual the targets were anatomically accurate, if not actually – as some girls said they were - modelled on real people who had offended the ancient teacher in her long turbulent love life. It was certainly true that a human pop-singer, in his 70s but still sporting leopard skin tights, had recently mysteriously spontaneously combusted precisely at the moment when the her ADVANCED HOODOO class had been competing for the MADAM MIM MEMORIAL Award for Precision Cursing, but despite everything the mystic and satanic insist on stressing, there is such a thing as co-incidence.
Mary's sister Anne waved from the group of girls queuing up to have a go, the silver axe, from which she got her nickname still clutched in her left hand.  She'd basically vowed not to put it down until the next time Undersecretary Borogrove paid a visit to the school after which it was widely expected he'd be taking it away with him, possibly as a token of their on-off, off-on romance, possibly buried in his hied.  Axe-head Anne, and the Undersecretary had a running disagreement about how friendly teen-witches and demons were going to get, and how, and where, and with what equipment.
“What did the ol’ Besom, want?” Anne asked, as Mary slid into the queue beside her, jostling some shivering first years further back.  Mary shrugged, and tried to put a swagger on it, “told her Satan could go swivel, didn’t I.  All this stuff is soft.”  She managed a relatively precise mimicry of Mab’s tone: “ 'Do you think you’ll be rescued from the stake by a black beast with that attitude'.  Like I’m going to be daft enough to get done for witchcraft.”   One of the junior students, was listening rather too closely to this, and Anne buffeted her round the head with her axe, for earwigging, before she could do much more than open her mouth, but the sentiment she had been about to express – modulated suddenly into pain as it was – still managed to get halfway heard. “So whatcha here for thenaaargh”.
            “I’m glad y's asked me that, Paxo,”  Mary said, standing over the downed first year. “As soon as we’re independent, I’m outa here.  I’ve got enough o’ the theory to set up my own business, and there’s going to be a grand set of opportunities come the New Scotland for our kind.”   “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” Anne added helpfully. “Our father’s the McSlaughter you know, Laird Chief of the Clan McSlaughter, and Grand Preceptor of the Islands of Innocence, Widdeshins, Morcarty, and Fielf.  He’s going to be right in there, come the day.” 
“Some inheritance”, the first year spat, levering herself upright and tipping Mary over.  “The dregs of the shipping forecast.  I’m surprised you don’t mention Summerisle and Ul.”  This was fighting talk.  The McSlaughter’s didn’t lay claim to Summerisle, which was still a sore-point since her father had lost it in a poker game in 1955, but Ul, which had sunk at the same time Surtesy had risen in the sixties, and concerning which long bat-mail letters were still flying back and forth between her father and the Sorcerors of Iceland, was still technically theirs if rather too underwater for normal residence.  
            “Now girls!”  Madam Hexia, waddled over and interposed her bulk between the combatents.  “Mary, say ‘curse you’ and let it be.  S’mantha, spit on your hand and give Anne a wallop and lets get on.”
There was considerable political feeling loose in the School that term. The vote on whether or not Scotland should or should not revert to an independent country with all the ramifications thereon, including the effect on the Netherworld, and whether or nor witches would still be facing the Church of England as well as the Church of Scotland, and who exactly would be running the Ministry of Damnation, was enough to split families as well as lips.  Mary saw it as a great opportunity, Anne couldn’t care less unless it got Borogove more power (she liked power. She liked to see it grovel).  Others like S’mantha – upandcoming challenger from the newbugs - were pressing to cut out their own niches in the argument, and then there were those who like Mary and Anne’s other sister probably simply hadn’t noticed it was happening at all.
The thirs sister commonly called “AYUG” which stood for ‘As Yet Un-named Girl” was the youngest of the three, and ought technically to have been a first year like S’mantha, four entire forms below Mary and Anne, but she had stowed away on the boat from McSlaughter Hall on Innocence Isle, with her sisters, and no one had managed to dislodge her from any of their classes.  There was considerable doubt as to whether she was actually learning anything, because she never spoke anything except what was either a rare form of gaelic, or a mixture of animal impressions. Even her sisters made no pretence to understand her talk, though they did manage to communicate with her through a series of gestures. Un-named, and never Un-babtised owing to an incident when her Devilmother had almost been throttled after her attempt to immerse AYUB in Unholy Water, she was at this point in her scholastic career halfway between a student and a school mascot. 

Monday, June 16, 2014

Florence Apocalypse

Florence Apocalypse and the McSlaughter Of Innocence

Satan's Nanny and Hell's answer to Mary Poppins, Florence has been called in by Caliban McSlaughter, hardworking patriarch of the McSlaughter clan who's afear that his brood o' bairns (Bloody Mary, Axe-head Anne, and the As Yet Un-named Girl), aren't getting the right schooling from this modern quasi-secular satanism.

But the Headmistress and the teachers of Madam Mab's Academy for Old Fashioned Witchcraft aren't going to take her poaching of their best students for granted.  What with OF-TWITCH inspections and increasing political interference from the Ministry of Damnations, in the shape(s) of Undersecretary Borogove, things are rapidly coming to a crisis.

With the vote to seceded Scottish Hell(tm) from the rest of the UK-Netherworlds imminent, can Bloody Mary finish her art project and Axe-head Anne corrupt the Minister's son (assuming that *is* what they've beeing doing at the cinema) and AYUG get 'unbaptised' properly without strangling another Devilparent?

Find out in....Florence Apocalypse and The McSlaughter of Innocence....coming soon.....

Saturday, June 14, 2014

The Witches of The Black Magic Roundabout

Zebadee Zorrow brings you Sorrow
Ermintrude Evil serves the Devil
Florence Fear sours the Beer,
Briania Snailena, spreads emphysema,
Mrs McHenry, causes chaos aplen'try,
But worse than these, as wasps than bees,
Douglena Diabolugagubes, steals all the sugar cubes.

Monday, June 09, 2014


A skull smoking a cigarette
Expresses a benign regret,
That having lost its fleshy cover
It's unattractive as a lover,
However debonaire its ties,
However suarve its outer guise,
By which I mean its natty suit,
It can't disguise it's not hirsuit.
It's lost its beard, moustache, and bristle,
It's lost its skin, its flesh, its gristle,
No plump expanse of skin to pinch
No not a tittle, not a sminch,
Recall this, feverish dieting folk,
If you once shift the heavy yolk,
Of fat from off your shoulder you,
May find that you are shifted, too.
For what are we, if just our clothes?
If stripped of homely, adipose.
We are the bone tree and the thin,
Long, lank, dead thing that lives withn in.
Who would be boney as a rake?
Excuse me while I eat this cake.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Site announcement.

At 400 assorted posts, it's time to have a bit of a cull of the duff stuff, and a re-label catalogue of the best,
so if you have particular favourites better copy them, this week.

Simon BJ

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Kaiju - Post Cards (Part 2)

I’ve kept other post cards of course.  Private ones, ones I’m not adding to this cache, not yet.  These are my memories of our problem, in both its practical and theoretical guises.  My sister’s the one who writes on the latter.  In 2039 she was working on the Snowden Omni-Brain, and managed to get a post card to me, now and then despite the security.  Nothing about the bio-computer technology, of course – that was still classified, but her comments on the Kaiju are those of a first class biologist (family blushes excepted).
A picture of Snowden, obviously a tourist post card from a long time ago, possibly one of thousands taken into the Redoubt – there’s no sign on the mountain of the massive entry gates to the GrB Omni-brain Project (an aside, at least we have the Kaiju to thank for the Re-Unification of Greater Britain (that is, the Greater Britain of Eire, the United Kingdom, and Normandy, as it exists now – in 2039 it was still just Christian Wales, Islamic England and Atheist Normandy of course. Scotland was still independent, Wee Free, and conducting Sacrifices around Loch Ness.) My sister writes:  Hi Jack. Lots of lovely work I can’t write about, all hopeful – ha! We think though we’ve got a working theory as to the source of all the exo(tic) lifeforms. It’s really a revival of the Arrhenius Panspermia theory, or perhaps a variation of Hoyle’s idea that life began in the cometry halo, although I’ve added an twist. We think they began as a seeding from space of creatures that develop through a whole evolutionally cycle from microbes to monsters incredibly rapidly. I think, we’re seeing an invasion but not one driven by consciousness, but by an instinctive need to create the greatest monster, a creature born out of ruthless competition that seeing off all others of its lineage then bulldozes flat the native species and dies back – leaving a living biosphere with no top predator species, ready and open for the ‘real’ invaders. My colleague think that’s fanciful, my succumbing to the ‘intentionalist’ fallacy, but there’s no way these variety of giant monsters could *all* have been hiding in the sea. The bio-mass needed to feed a viable breeding population of even a single Rasputinock, or Slaybudee, is on an order of magnitude greater than the total estimated fish stocks of the world’s oceans.(Incidently though we think these are going up, as counter intuitively what ever predation the exo(tics) make upon their numbers is less than the fishing fleets would have made if there where any left.)
to be continued...

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Kaiju Post-Cards (Part 1)

I was seven when they started to appear.  That was in 2017.  The monsters started small.  Wiggling pollywogs in rock pools gradually beating up the crabs and starting in on the beaches.  Animalicules the size of poodles, roaring squeakily as they tipped up un-occupied deck-chairs, and stomped through sandcastles, before being chastised by beach-umbrella wielding matrons.  For a couple of glorious years, a trip to the sea-side became something between a harmless safari and a mildly scary visit to a ghost-train.  I have photos of myself as a boy mock sword-fighting with a Samael Crab, and of beach-combers un-earthing the shed skeleton of a Mu-petasaur.
There was a revival in comic picture postcards along the sea-fronts of Britain.  I remember some of them from my childhood.
A fat woman in a stripy costume, bends down to look at a set of dragon prints in the sand. Behind her a phallus-headed proto-kaiju possibly a Razovoric Worm rears delightedly, as if to penetrate her.  The caption reads “Well I never did, I hope nothing’s up!”
A mild mannered, lank-limbed man round a corner, looks aghast at overhearing and misunderstanding a conversation between two scantily clad woman.  “Our ‘Enry had his out again,” the one in the silver bikini says.  The other comments: “It’s such a monster I don’t know how you handle it, on your own.”  The first rejoinders: “I know it.  We had to have me mam sitting on it for half an hour before it’d go down, last time.”   A scarlet and gold Fleskalus Dawkinsii, peeps out from a window of the B&B behind them to make it clear that its all a harmless jape of nature.
People used to collect them, the post-cards and the bonsai monsters alike. I understand a set of the post-cards along with much else can still be seen in the Museum of Mankind on the Moon – part of our Emergency Cultural Legacy, in case the war goes as badly as it looks like doing now. 
Another thing we had in my childhood was the internet, a way of connecting the computers of the world – there were far more than twelve of them in those days – and unlike the Omni-brains now they weren’t maintained solely inside mountains.  The millions (billions?)  of computers then were connected in all sorts of ways by phone lines and radio waves, and digital signals from satellites. Unfortunately as the Monsters got bigger we discovered they had a kind of natural internet, half migratory homing signal, half mating call, that meant that among the things they ‘liked’ stomping flat, and knocking over (if ‘liked’ isn’t too anthropomorphic) now that they’d grown beyond the sand-castle and deck-chair stage, was any building with an internet connection in it, and any broadcasting station of any kind.  Cable fibre-optics seemed pretty immune, but even for people with those there was a certain nervousness, and a feeling of ‘pushing your luck’ as well as an undercurrent (typically British) that it wasn’t nice to like something that had got that pleasant family down the street squashed, even if you did have it delivered a different way.
Gradually hand written post-cards made a non-saucy comeback during my early adulthood.  Theatres and steam trains too, as it turned out that digital film projection and electric power lines (and rails) also acted a beacons to the increasingly large sea-beasts.
I was twenty, when I got these two post-cards.  I kept them for obvious reasons.  It was July 2030.
A massive armoured figure – part Saint George, part JCB, part industrial cyborg. Fifty feet tall: standing with his right arm out and the thumb of his right hand up in a cheery salutation. In his left hand he holds one of the early LA(N)CE missile weapons. (Laser Aimed (Nuclear) Contained Explosion). The hope was that the Nuclear option would stay firmly in the brackets of a ‘contained’ area.  On the back in my father’s steady hand writing:  We’re got delivery of one of the new Home Guard units now, its not quite as snazzy as the posed picture on the front – its last gen surplus from the Channel Tunnel fiasco, but it still walks and punches, and we’ve got three decommissioned LANCEs in its quiver. Not Nuclear mind you, not after Birmingham, but I understand that the (Noxious) Chemical Emolument approach is working wonders. Pin down one of the great lumps in sticky gell and them bombard it with conventional fire from a navy frigate and up it goes as the napalm component in the NCE catches. Not, I hasten to say that I’m expecting to see any action. We haven’t had anything above a thirty footer along our way, and it’s still possible to walk along the beach if you take rational precautions, not that I can persuade your mum of that. She’s convinced the cliffs going to be demolished by a Monster and our house fall into the sea, one of these days..
A plain grey cardboard message stamped with official franking.  The seal on the front is of the New British Caliphate – there was a propaganda implication that it was the Seal of Solomon – I recall – and that the new Government was going to defeat the Monsters with the power of Islamic prayer as well as good old fashioned British missiles.  On the back in simple printing, not even hand written:  I regret to inform you that your father died at approximately 17:30 on Saturday 6th July 2030. He was manning (the NBC had no truck with what in my youth, the otherside of UKIP and the sea-monsters, had been called political correctness – they placed no women on the front line, even as volunteers) an HG LA(N)CE enabled EXOFORM, when it became necessary for him to engage a Ki-Ravorrous-Ultrapede in direct combat.  The creature was already at the shoreline when it was detected and without your father’s intervention, which ultimately resulted in the death of the creature, it is certain that civilian casualties in the East Bourne area would have been substantial, certainly in the hundreds and possibly in the thousands depending on the migration pattern/intent of the Kaiju. We appreciate that no words at this time can restore your father, nor can we hope to alleviate your initial sorrow, nevertheless I am authorised to award your father the merit of the Sword of Islam Class II, in the hope that when matters are less immediate, this honour, which is all it is within our power to bestow, will assist you in remembering one who was valiant in the finest traditions of the West and the East alike.
....to be continued....

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Brakespeare Apocrapha - from the archive

Word Count (rough)
Chapter by Chapter breakdown

In which the Celestis are invited on a fishing trip, Scarrett’s head is recovered from a time-ship in the far future.
Written in draft
Scarratt is introduced, both in the memories being interrogated by Mirraflex from the head, and in ‘present time.
Neboiath is introduced
Scarratt’s briefing commences, in the web of LInecrux, the web has been chosen because it permits the introduction of Scarrett to the whaling vessels without the ego-destruction of confronting their scale in one step. [This is also useful to the reader.]  A mystery about House Linecrux is introduced, where are they all?
The Faction inducts Neboiath, or is it the Faction, some doubt is introduced. Why do the Priests wear yellow – connection to House Linecrux implied. Neboaith learns more of the voyage, and of the uses made of the materials produced by the threshers.

Scarratt is shown (outside of linearity) the salvaged remains of himself and his ship, an experience he must forget (he is told) except at the deepest levels on returning to basal time. In the Captaincy of the Brakespear Lineacrux is offering him the chance to avoid that future.  Scarratt debates with himself (the head), which Linecrux have acquired from Mirraflex [for an undisclosed favour]. Is the head, him?  It has his memories.  It reminds him of the windows he has himself left in time to fulfil certain promises, including one he has only dreamt of.
















Whaling Ship versus Leviathan, a bridge level view of the ‘War in Heaven’ encapsulated into
a hunt.  The message from The Enemy decoded.
- it is an acknowledgement to Scarrett that the Brakespear is now regarded as neutral ground.
The sessation of the Empire of Battles, a crucial blow to the Brakespear in mid-hunt, or something forseen?  The moment when the galaxies flare, the target the Brakespear, itself, ‘rolling’ so that the rebel galaxy is severed, and “falls” into the ‘gravity’ of the Leviathan.

The Celestis Empire, all twenty thousand words of it, is embedded as a ‘skin patch’ into the hide of Leviathan.  ‘He’ will spread until he establishes control over it, and in turn he will be controlled by Entalodora.  Scarrett rejects her offer of joint control of the Beast, while he salutes her intent, he questions whether mere multiplication of power, on greater and greater scales, can in itself generate more ‘freedom’. She asks what else there is, and he kissing her for the last time, responds ‘duty’.  He does not, clearly mean, to Linecrux or to his orders, but where he conceives his duty as lying is only made clear in the epilogue.

Nebaioth and Scarratt, dine together, the food is laced with their mutual memory-chains. At the end of the meal one of them, must go in the time-ship, back into the spiral to become the head, salvaged by Mirraflex.  The novel ends with one of them making this sacrifice, which is made to the ideals of linerality, and to the future. As the one making it says: “We can not take up the challenge of Entaladora’s manifesto on the basis of destruction.  Linecrux and Mirraflex may have believed that they could rip whole worlds out of the Spiral without consequence, to build their whaling ships, but to us every life has its consequences and we will not avoid our fate.”
By going back, to bear witness to himself, Scarrett enables his own keeping of the promises he made in the flashbacks in chapters 1-5.  [The reader should now realise that we have actually seen these promises kept within the book, for example – the promise to the Goth tribes, not to permit them to end in The City, seen in chapter 4’s flashback, is granted by relocating them to the Ship: they are the wild tribes that prey on Neboiath’s people in Chapter 2.]


This material dated 26/03/2007 is the initial chapter breakdown. At this point much of the structure of the middle of the book is uncertain. The end also changed substantially during writing.