A Book, Or So They Say

October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment

There is a book, or so they say, that sits upon a lonely shelf.

Neither large nor small it goes all but unnoticed next to more important volumes as its cloth cover fades slowly from brown to green. Or maybe from green to brown. Maybe not fading at all. The ghost of silver embossment lingers on its spine, indecipherable. A commonplace book in a common place of books, with nothing to mark it out beyond a slight smell of damp.

Occasionally, curious fingers will pick the book up and absently ruffle the yellowing pages that fall open at random to reveal their contents; mediocre poetry or tedious inventories of belongings, rambling short stories or blocks of impenetrable legal text, descriptions of rain-streaked foreign shores or the simple musings of lifeless repetition. Each browser sees something different, yet equally banal, and each will sigh with disappointment before replacing the book and moving to the next. The book’s cover fades slightly more from brown to green. Or maybe from green to brown. The faint lettering on the spine is perhaps less clear than it used to be. Perhaps not.10691829_602645936513035_1040051657_n

More rarely, the book is plucked from its resting place by an inquisitive reader and opened eagerly at the first page. They read the publishing details, curiously blurred, and then the typesetting information (“Set in New Lethean, 11pt”). Their eyes settle on the opening lines and from then on their fate is sealed. As they read, they become thinner and the story of their life unwritten becomes yet another fragment of the book. The frustrated novelist, the list-maker, the writer of unheard songs. All of them stretch into lonely silence until they become so thin they disappear, another tale of the everyday added to the pages of the book’s collection. A tutting librarian finds the book days later, dropped on the floor, and dusts it down before replacing it on the shelf. Nobody notices that the spine’s lettering is now perhaps less faint, perhaps a brighter silver.

Of the book itself we know little more, beyond its existence. It is where books are, where books gather, but where that is could be anywhere. All we really know is that hook, the opening words that snare the curious or the unlucky. And those words are these:

“There is a book, or so they say, that sits upon a lonely shelf.”



April 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

In the dream there are dice. Three black dice with silver spots, sat in a silver bowl. They blur and then stop, landing as each requires.

One is one, the group in itself, and in the whole is strength.

One is four, each party alone, and in the pieces is change.

One is six, their fulfilment, and in this end is a beginning.

All are eleven, the duke of numbers, which holds only itself in itself and no brooks other. And so in the dream there’s a dream-tale of a leader, with his party, set out on a path to the House of Ruin. And so the dice are cast, the scene is set.


January 6, 2014 § Leave a comment

Picture Yourself on a chair, feeling drowsy. The fire crackles slowly as Your head fills with cloud. And Your eyes start to buckle, start to falter and darken. And You’re floating off softly into Space, into Time, into past-felt adventurers of a child. Of a You.


Of a You that was once and was once not long ago now. When Your eyes were much clearer and You saw what was there. And You stood in the garden, saw the things past the hedges. And You stood on the doorstep, saw the thing in the hall.

But they told You that You shouldn’t and You mustn’t so You didn’t and You wouldn’t until You couldn’t and You can’t anymore. And that’s when they lost You. Down the gaps and through the doorways. Out the windows that are open and the wind blows in cold.

Out the window, out the window. Is there something out the window? Always something out the window but it means nothing now. There’s a You by a doll’s house looking in through the window. Looking in at the doll’s room and the doll’s lying there.

And a You feeling drowsy is feeling drowsy no longer because a You feeling drowsy is awakened, with a small sigh. And You’re looking at the window, at the window that is open. When You look up at the window there’s an eye looking in.

There’s a river round the doll’s house and a garden and a mountain but the garden’s full of stones now and the mountain’s hollowed out. And the stones sometimes are moving, sometimes weeping, sometimes moving. And the stones have hollow voices and the mountain leads the song.

There’s a wind-vane on the rooftop, always creaking as the wind blows. With its wings stretched and its claws out and it sits there, watching still. And a man lies in a bedroom, in a cellar, by the cold stones. And they lie there and were lied to and in lying, Truth’s found.

What it is now, what it was then, there’s no difference. Nothing changes. When You’re stood there in the doll’s house, as the wind blows round about. And the old man on the doorstep isn’t leaving ’til you’ve paid him. And You pay him, like they all do, with the first-minted coin.

Hear an organ playing music, playing softly. Never-changing. But You’re changing. Growing dimmer, getting lost in the fog. In the fog made out of cobwebs, music boxes and of old news. Out of whispers, out of soldiers, out of children, out of stares.

So the dust motes start to gather but You can’t even see them with Your dew-slick eyes blinkered by old, wrinkled skin. And the breaths come but sharply. Longer pauses, little wonder. Little hands clutching here-there with their nails black and long.

Until it doesn’t any longer and you couldn’t if You wanted but now it feels like You don’t want it so it doesn’t and it’s fine. For a moment, just a moment, there is sunlight for the first time in a long time and You’re flying through the window and


Article IV

December 16, 2013 § Leave a comment

Article IV, Section 2, sub-section c

(Umbrate compliance required)

As advised and indicated throughout.

It, of course, is, no more (or less) so than any other, a cipher for its own (un)reality and, in most senses, can be regarded as, for the most part, immaterial apart from its layering of (possible) potential which, undoubtedly, is/was/will be vastly powerful (or maybe not, dependent on certain uncertainties).and should be dealt with accordingly – that being, most delicately – for fear of premature ignition and/or extinction in cases where this would be disadvantageous or dangerous (viz. staining of clothing thru co-terminal collapse of intrinsic field spaces and all points in-between/in-beyond)..

Line Arc

Article IV, Section 2, sub-section d.

(Umbrate compliance required)

As ill-advised and abdicated throughout

Agents must be most cautious in usage of the referred as themic disassociation may be instigated under certain circumferstances and, indeed, it is highly likely that arc-rebound effects may be experienced and the deleterious impacts thereof/thereby suffered. Deployment of such devices should only be undertaken on authorisation of a suitable referee (or under one’s own initiative, should it be deemed necessary – see also; plausibility of denial, dismissal [members and dismembers], collateral and public disturbance suppression for explicatory notices).

Article IV, Section 2, sub-section e.

(Umbrate compliance required)

Aisle is visored and a bit tainted, throw out

When engendered by multiple agents, supported by BOXER units as needed, full-line arc throw can be modified to such effect as required. The re-arrangement of both tomic and themic characteristics can be highly desirable should a sector clear be required, for reasons of stability and/or temperance. All agents should be aware of the volume of deployment, dependent on strength and insertion phase. Self-destabilisation is a chronic state, non-recoverable.

Obsidian shapes float slowly in the faded, misty void

August 11, 2013 § 1 Comment

Obsidian shapes float slowly in the faded, misty void. Jagged vastnesses of volcanic sheen, smoothed in places by time and unknowable forces, lingering on the edge of sight. Their orbit, aeon-slow, brings them together, apart, together in the chaotic pendulum-dance of emergence. Yet, despite the seeming infinity this procession endures, it slows and winds down. Erratic movements, missteps, interrupt the dance as the long years introduce decay and tidal forces.


The shapes crack and deform under stress, bending and twisting arthritically. Compression brings pressure, brings heat, brings the sputtering transmogrification of the alembic and the crucible. The simple becomes the complex and the complex combines into more upon more, fuelled by ever decreasing circles of light, until here we are looking out on a form more beautiful for its subtle transience.

And then out, like a bedside candle, it sputters and falls into silence unbroken.

They’re there

June 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

Who are They?

They’re everywhere these days, aren’t They? They say this and They say that but They never really do much, do They? They stop other people from doing things, that’s for sure, but they never do much Themselves. Apart from writing signs. Closing doors. Locking up the very world itself.


So, who are They? They’re not Us, that’s all We know.

Or do We?

Who are They?

Are They You?


May 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

There’s a man by the Choke with a turn-handle organ and he plays as the shadows walk by. There’s a monkey beside him with an old, rusty cup and she dances for the copper they throw.

Sometimes he wonders whether he turns the handle or the handle is now turning him but the song is near ending and the monkey’s stopped dancing so he puts the machine in reverse.

.esrever ni enihcam eht stup eh os gnicnad deppots s’yeknom eht dna gnidne raen si gnos eht tub mih gninrut won si eldnah eht ro eldnah eht snrut eh rehtehw srednow eh semitemoS

.worht yeht reppoc eht rof secnad ehs dna puc ytsur ,dlo na htiw mih ediseb yeknom a s’erehT .yb klaw swodahs eht sa syalp eh dna nagro eldnah-nrut a htiw ekohC eht yb nam a s’erehT

There’s a man by the Choke with a turn-handle organ and he plays as the shadows walk by. There’s a monkey beside him with an old, rusty cup and she dances for the copper they throw.

Sometimes he wonders whether he turns the handle or the handle is now turning him but the song is near ending and the monkey’s stopped dancing so he puts the machine in reverse.

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