They called it the ‘Hand of Galena.’ The great, grasping hand that glittered like obsidian; a monument to the perseverance and prosperity of the town of Galena. The hand reached skyward, rising from the sterile mound below. The monument was built from Caecius Candeo, the dark mineral, which sat in abundant reserve below, and upon which the town of Galena –and it’s fortunes- had been built.
The mineral glistened darkly, twinkling like distant stars against the backdrop of the cosmos, in even the most minimal light.
Each night, as the sunset in the west, disappearing behind the reaching fingers, an elderly man traversed the barren mound, desiccated and cracked, with tentative but determined steps. As he reached the top of the mound and the base of the Hand, his thick, callused hands would grasp the weathered rungs of the ladder, ascending step by step, until he reached the palm. Continue reading →
Lily pads rose from the placid water holes that punctuated the playground. Rusted iron fences flaking with light blue paint surrounded them. To the east, an artificial lake of deep maroon seemed to be shrinking in the sun. The concrete walls ran down to the silt beaches below, as the water’s edge seemed to retreat further and further each passing day, revealing dark sediment, weathered bottles, crumbled bricks, and the occasional carcass.
The lake exuded abundant smells of burning rubber and phosphorous. After the thunderstorms –and the wail of the curfew siren- the lake gave off a bitter metallic smell that irritated the nostrils and burned the eyes. Continue reading →
They’d recruited me in April of 1945. Well, I said recruited, they said recruited; it was just a byword to make both parties feel better about the arrangement. I had a choice, my mind –and all of the secrets buried in that maze of neurochemical pathways- could be weaponised by the Soviets, or it could be dashed to pieces by the firing squad.
Some say that just before you drown, your body convulses in mortal ecstasy. Some say that freezing to death is preceded by the deepest and most tranquil sleep. Others say that the final stages of mortal torture are pure bliss.
I find it spurious that the final moments of the mortal coil could be so idyllic, what possible evolutionary advantage could that have? Still, the point is redundant, for theorising about something for which there are no facts is pure folly. How can anybody know for certain if these stories are true, when the only witnesses to such phenomena have passed?
So perhaps it was just an urban legend, or maybe the rumours are true, but they said that Compound 38 -the gaseous chemical weapon, to which I alone knew the secret of origination- smelled like rusted iron. Continue reading →
I looked down at the town below us. The wind atop the hill was bitter, numbing my face and hands and freezing the rest of my body down to the bone. Pecklow was an old mining town founded upon a series of hills which jutted out of the tumultuous rivers below; a mountainous island upon which only the hardiest weeds grew. The name of the town had originally meant Low Peak, but had become bastardised and corrupted over time. The bridge joining Pecklow to the mainland was an old industrial revolution era bridge of riveted iron, which once had a train track running across it from the days when Pecklow was mined for its rich coal reserves beneath the earth. Continue reading →
The flame dances in the wind, like a liquid wisp, suspended in blue over the ground, swaying vertiginously, back and forth, beckoning me to follow it. I paw at the window lightly, convinced now that the flame is real, and not some off-shot reflection on the pane.
The light casts meandering shadows among the grass of the garden. Without scorching the blades, the flame hovers in a circular motion, as if it has a will of its own. Stopping in place, doubling in size, then shrinking once more, and shooting off up to the top of the garden and dissipating into the blackness of the night. Continue reading →
If a nation’s culture dies, so too does the nation.
These were the words that passed through my mind as I eagerly awaited the train. The London underground was a strange place at this time; a place where the underclass crawled from their hidden tenements and stalked the night.
Nobody knew my habit; by day I was a pretty normal teenager. I generally kept myself to myself, and didn’t ruffle any feathers. By night, I was François McCandle; graffiti artist and vandal.
A wise man once said that graffiti breaks the hegemonic hold of corporate and governmental style over the urban environment, and the situations of daily life. As a form of aesthetic sabotage, it interrupts the pleasant, efficient uniformity of planned urban space and predictable urban living. For us, graffiti disrupts the lived experience of mass culture, the passivity of mediated consumption. Continue reading →
Amos Mallory was –I’d been told- an eccentric; a creature of particular habit and routine, whose needs were simple, and simply met.
I’d been working at the Silverlink Retirement Community Complex for less than a year before I was transferred to the E-Wing; that was where the luxury suites were. Silverlink was no ordinary nursing home; no musty hovel where the sick and elderly were left to die in a dirty room smelling of hot piss. No, Silverlink was a state-of-the-art retirement facility; a complex panoptic building of silver tubes, glimmering metal and dynamic sun-activated solar-smart glass windows. Continue reading →