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######### ############## iSSUE #oNE fEBRUARY - mARCH '97
###### ##### ##
#### #### # fREELY dISTRIBUTABLE iN aSCII/pRINT fORM
#### #### #
#### ####
#### #### # [ cONTENTS -->>
#### #### ##
#### ########## [ INTRODUCTION ................. -1- ]
#### #### ##
#### #### # [ SHEETS ....................... -2- ]
#### ####
#### #### [ WRITERS BURN ................. -3- ]
#### ####
#### #### [ THE BEDROOM .................. -4- ]
#### ####
#### ###### [ DETOX ........................ -5- ]
#### #########
#### [ OUTRODUCTION ................. -6- ]
# ####
## ### <<-- lIST ]
########
#### ©1997 Andy J Campbell / Email ajc@ajco.demon.co.uk
(IMPORTANT NOTE: in the stories, /means/ italics)
°¤x#x¤°~~°¤x#x¤°~~°¤x#x¤°~~°¤x#x¤°~~°¤x#x¤°~~°¤x#x¤°~
-1-
OOOO OO O OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOOO
OOOO OOOO OO OOOOOO OOO OO OOO OO
OOOO OOOOOOO OO OO OO OO OO
OO OO OOOO OO OO OO OO OO
OO OO OOO OO OOOOO OO OO
OO OO OO OO OO OO OOO OOO
O O O O OO OO OOOOO
Jungle Fiction. Daft title, huh?
Conjours up images of monkeys, elephants, giraffes, thick trees,
swinging vines, Tarzan and so forth, doesn't it? Well, to be quite
honest, you wouldn't be too far from the truth. Insert the word "urban"
before Jungle Fiction and you're just about there; what this ascii-zine
deals with, mainly, is the pains, ironies and complexities of life in
the human jungle - the cities and suburbs, gutters and back yards,
kitchens and livingrooms. Here, Tarzan wears trendy sports gear and
swings from the lampshade; perverts, thugs and bullies patrol the
pavements like lions hunting innocent deer; mundane, everyday lives
become the focus of a fictional scrutiny not unlike that of a wildlife
documentary; and unconventionalism is placed on the highest pedestal.
Issue #1 will take you into the confused and desperate world of a
sex-starved teenager; permit you to overhear a racious conversation
between two opposing, amateur writers (and question where the border-
lines of reality and fantasy really lie); drag you into the gruesome back
bedroom of a young girl at war with her own parents; and rub your nose
in the putrid gunk of a slobbish family and their revolting, selfish
mannerisms.
This isn't going to be a pleasant journey. Those who want out now,
please leave through the emergency exits.
Although all of the work here is mine, I would more than welcome any
contributions. Indeed, future issues of Jungle Fiction will illuminate
the talents of Mike Richmond, Mick Carter, Linette Voller and Jordan
Janssen. Please email your masterpieces to me at the address supplied on
the contents page/outro, but remember - the shorter and gritter the
better; no Mills and Boon, cloudy fantasies or dull cliches. If in
doubt, just try me.
Finally, a big thankyou to all who have subscribed to this ezine
(a hell of a lot more than I ever thought; brilliant stuff). Your support
is invaluable and I hope you'll send in your comments and suggestions in
exchange for the hard work I've put into this production.
Now, let's get our boots on. We don't want to be caught out here when
the sun dies down.
Andy J Campbell
-2-
OOOO OOO OOO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOO
OOO OO OO OO OOOO OOOO OOOOOO OOO OO
OO OO OO OOO OOO OO OO
OOOO OOOOOOO OOOO OOOO OO OOOO
OO OO OO OO OO OO OO
OOO OOO OO OO OOO OOO OO OOO OOO
OOOOO O O OOOOO OOOOO O OOOOO
Two days after discovering my girlfriend-of-nine-months had been cheat-
ing on me, I walked into a public lavatory somewhere in the heart of
Stone Bridge and relieved myself perched on the filthy, freezing cold
rim of an aluminium toilet.
The cubicle door was gun-metal grey and scratched to pieces and badly
Avandalized - the kind of door only thieves, murderers and rapists
should have to look at. It had a letterbox-sized rectangle of wire
mesh embedded in the top half, the light from which cast another one,
inverted and lower down, on the opposing wall. `Attention!' declared
a sideways message scribbled in marker pen near the bottom. (I read it
simply because I had nothing better to do, and whilst listening to the
groans of my constipated neighbour and the hushed sniggers of sword-
fighting schoolboys). `Attention! Any males in the area, aged between
fifteen and twenty four (slim, preferably white) wanting their cocks
sucked while they watch my teenage sex videos should call Sam, in
confidence, on -' And there was a full telephone number, which
included the area code. The message ended with the words `very genuine'
in massive, bold letters, thickly underlined in red.
With the sure knowledge that it was over between Katherine and I, and
that my sex life might never be the same again, I started getting an
erection. I stared at the telephone number, patted my trouser pockets,
and found a biro. I extracted it and took the top off... And then
laughed to myself quietly and put it back on. `Don't be so stupid,' I
thought. `It's merely some deprived drop-out's idea of an erotic joke,
put your pen away for God's sake.' But I didn't. I frowned, and
re-read the entire message.
Sam. A rather sexless name, but I cared not. In fact, the idea of a
homosexual encounter seemed to excite me even more. And Sam was
serious. Yes indeed, I could feel it, just as I could feel grains of
sweat beginning to break out on my forehead. That thick, red underline
and those gigantic, attention-alerting letters - Sam was serious, and
I was in such a desperate state of mind I was interested, so I took
the top off the pen again and hurriedly copied the number onto the
back of my hand. I then sat still, my erection, a big, red microphone
between my legs.
It disgusts me now, may I assure you, to think that I had travelled
fourteen miles to Stone Bridge by train with the full intention of
talking to Katherine - perhaps re-establishing our friendship - and
instead, ended up scribbling some pervert's telephone number on the
back of my hand. Sometimes, however, the mind becomes confused and
deprived, and it is during these times that darkness finds its way into
our lives, albeit through perversion, vulgarity or just plain
desperation. Yes - desperation, a suitable word, for prior to
discovering my girlfriend's adulterous activity I had been madly in
love with her, and assumed the feelings were vice-versa. Now, however,
there was nothing, just an emotional and sexual void, wide open to the
greedy claws of evil. And that's exactly what was coming - evil, though
it was to take me some time to recognise it.
Back in the lavatory, my frustrated neighbour discarded his load
with a relieved sigh and the schoolboys screamed with laughter. I
listened to the clatter of their shoes as they abandoned the building,
issuing loud, highly pitched vulgarities which bounced the walls.
I was about to get up to leave when I heard my neighbour whispering
something - it sounded like "Oi, oi kid," - and then he knocked on the
thin wall that divided us, so hard he must have hurt his knuckles, and
I jumped up, and wrenched my trousers up, in one swift dash.
"Oi, have you seen it?"
I stood still, hiding my erection with both hands. The pumping of my
heart was like the bass from a nearby nightclub. I realised I hadn't
wiped myself, and promptly felt what I hoped to God was cold water
trickle down the back of my leg.
"Have you seen it? Oi!"
More horrendously loud knocking.
"What do you want?" I heard myself shout. Much to my surprise, my
voice had a deep, stable, macho ring to it, which boosted my
confidence, enormously. I tucked my erection out of sight and zipped
up, ready for my neighbour's next whispery comment.
"Oi, she's for real, I swear," he gasped, and then broke into a
harsh, disgusting guffaw, which ended with the gathering of phlegm, a
spit and a loud plop. He flushed his toilet, just as I was about to
speak. I heard a lock rattle, a door squeal, and then shoes clapping.
A piece of soggy white toilet roll landed so that the corner poked
under my cubicle. The man's shadow promptly followed it, and then
there was a knock, hard, on the door.
"Oi. Give her a call, kid," he said and laughed, coarsely, like an
old train on a rusty track. "Didjoo hear me, eh?" He kicked the door.
"Give her a call, you wet end."
I didn't answer, and didn't move, and eventually, the man's shadow
slipped away.
Shortly after emerging from the lavatory, somewhat dazed, I stepped
into a phone box, rang Sam's number, conversed with her, hung up, and
stepped out of it again.
I remember recalling at that very moment, standing outside the phone
box, the first time I had woken up in the same bed as Katherine. I had
been on my back, arms by my sides, gazing up at the roof, and she'd
been laid partially across me, asleep, like a quilt slowly slipping
off. One of my arms had been unusable, squashed beneath her weight,
the other, I had lifted, and gently lowered over the clasp of her bra.
I had remained in that position for (what had felt at the time like)
several hours, stroking her skin and enjoying the feel - even though
cotton - of my aroused organ against the inside of her bare leg. She
had stirred into new positions every ten minutes or so, often sighing
against my shoulder, or neck, or face, or gripping my biceps with her
fingers, and I had enjoyed each and every shuffle, almost as if I was
God, and she my creation.
Later, she had awoken, her eyes blinking like butterflies, and she
had kissed me, passionately, and whispered erotic requests, which I had
gladly carried out.
Sex had been followed by further sleep, and then, mid-afternoon,
Katherine had excused herself and left the bed and gone downstairs to
make breakfast. Missing her warmth and yet feeling strangely free to
yawn and stretch and fart, I had exploded myself into a star-shape,
consuming the entire bed, and watched my toes, poking out of the
sheets at the bottom, wiggle, like tiny pink puppets. I had grinned,
and felt happy - more happy than I have ever felt in my life - and
kicked back the covers.
It had been then that I had discovered the stain - a huge, brown
streak on the undersheet, thirty centimetres in length at least, and
glistening wet. Immediately, I had leapt off the bed, my head spinning
so wildly I could barely keep my balance. I had touched my bottom and
examined my hands, and found nothing, not a trace of shit, anywhere;
with my back to Katherine's dressing table mirror, I had twisted my
neck and looked down at my arse and seen two, clean white cheeks. I
had leapt over to the bed again, a whistling noise echoing in my ears,
and I had crouched down and sniffed and delicately touched the stain.
By God, it had been shit, alright - horrible, runny shit, complete
with bubbles, like melted chocolate - and yet again, I had staggered
away, panic-stricken.
"Stee-eve, I'm bringing breakfast up," Katherine had called. And
then the sound of her ascending the stairs had been the ultimate
countdown of terror.
Had I not spotted Katherine's soiled knickers lying discarded below
the bedside cabinet, I think I might truly have committed suicide by
leaping through the bedroom window. I remember near-enough pouncing on
them, and holding them up against the sunlight, and matching the stain
on their insides against the brown slug on the bed - only then had I
eliminated the suicide option. As Katherine had thumped up the last of
the stairs, I had (at lightning speed) placed her knickers carefully
back in their original position, turned and whipped the quilt over
enormous accident.
Finally, when Katherine had opened the door, she had found me sitting
cross-legged on the bed, my hands carefully hiding my penis, and I had
said `good morning', and patted the space beside me.
And now, standing outside the phone box, memories already beginning
to fade, the world around me seemed to be blinking open its eyes, like
Katherine, unaware of its stains, its foul-smelling glitches, and
moving at a speed which threatened to transcend time itself. Build-
ings, pavements, roads, billboards, lamp posts, parked cars - every-
thing was abnormally sharp and colourful and clear, as though I were
wearing a pair of new glasses for the very first time. My heart felt
heavy, my lungs small and tight, and I unintentionally caught the gaze
of every person who passed me by.
I recalled my conversation with Sam, who had, to the relief of my
inner soul, turned out to be female, and told me to remain outside the
phone box so that she could locate me and escort me to her abode.
"Hello, Sam speaking."
Clinging onto the receiver with one hand, squeezing my groin with
the other, I had licked my lips and closed my eyes and tried to think
of something to say.
"Don't hang up," she had whispered. I had been about to do just that.
"Don't hang up, sweetheart. You've read my message, haven't you?"
"Yes," I had replied, rather whimperingly.
"I was hoping you'd call. I've seen you passing here many times. I
think you're incredibly sexy."
I had coughed with surprise and rattled around inside the phone box,
as though I were trapped, and the thing was about to take off. "Can
you see me?" I had exhaled. "Where are you?"
"I'm in a building very close by, and yes, I can see you."
"Where?" I had gazed out over the crystal-clear town, ducking
slightly to peer up into dark, reflective windows. "Where? I can't see
you. Where abouts?"
"Don't look for me."
"Why? Where are you?"
"Stop looking for me, sweetheart, or I'll hang up, and you can go
home to your handkerchiefs. Alright? Stop looking for me."
I had abruptly ceased wriggling around and focused my attention on
the silver push-buttons. "Look, are you for real?"
"Of course I'm for real."
"You don't charge money, do you?"
"Not in your case, sweetheart. You can skip the videos and have it
done in the phone box, if you want."
We had promptly come to an agreement that I was a definite customer,
and that a face-to-face meeting would settle my nerves. And so I had
ended the call and walked outside.
And now I was here, hobbling about like I needed a piss, and wonder-
ing - oh god almighty, wondering - what in God's name I was doing.
Another random memory invaded my mind: sometime after Katherine's
revelation, I had walked in through the front door of my brother's
home and told him, in a dull, emotionless voice, that I was back, for
good. He had held me, and I had cried, and then drifted into my cold,
empty bedroom and collapsed on the bed beside Jinx, my battered,
childhood teddy-bear.
There had been a narrow rectangle of light shining in through a gap
between the curtains (like the one in the toilet door, but without
the wire-mesh), spot-lighting Jinx, and revealing millions of tiny
golden dust particles, floating, hovering and curling. I had reached
out with what had looked like a fleshless hand, and punctured this
warm, divine beam. It had resurrected my dying soul, and I had closed
my eyes and pushed my face out into the light. I had laughed like a
child and grabbed Jinx and parked him on my stomach, and laid there,
in that magical slice of sun, enjoying this new found freedom.
I had felt the freshness, the zest, the longing-for and loving of
beauty we only experience in our childhood, and as quickly as it had
come, I had lost it again.
Childhood: the fading key to such a vast chamber of knowledge,
vanished so early in our lives, and yet what do we do once we have
found our own spiritual path? We strive until death to recapture it,
like a medicine concocted and thrown away, and as childhood itself is
stolen from the blood of our offspring, so our journey becomes longer,
and more dangerous, and the less our so-called spiritual travellers
uncover its raw value.
Innocence is rejected, pushed away, attacked, for it reminds us of
our emptiness, our aimlessness, and makes us yearn for the only true
wealth which we have lost.
Jinx was with me now, as I stood outside the phone box, waiting
impatiently for Sam's arrival. He was small enough to be tucked away
in my back pocket, and he'd been there ever since that magical morning
with the flakes of dust and the sunbeam.
It happened; a tall, slim brunette of no more than sixteen appeared
out of nowhere, crossed the road and caught my gaze. She smiled, and
winked, and I knew it was Sam.
She wasn't `good-looking'. There is no such thing as `good-looking'.
It is simply a term that has been invented by society to describe what
is appealing to the majority, not to the individual. Deciding on
behalf of the whole world whether a person is `good-looking' or not is
as wrong as deciding if they are `ugly'. We have a right to our own
inner-judgement, and nothing more - something that everyone seems to
have forgotten in the nineties.
Sam, who was wearing a baggy tee-shirt and jeans, had an almost
triangular face, with big, blue eyes, and wet lips the colour of
cherries. Her smile was small and neat and promising, and held up at
the edges by strands of short, curly hair.
I was not attracted to her. In fact, I felt nothing, not a trace of
sexual arousal. She was a child for God's sake, a young soul drained
of vitality, and without even a spark of hope in her eyes. There was
no perversion here, only misguidedness, and it was then that I realised
that - through Katherine's betrayal - I too had suffered great loss. My
purity had been banished and, like Sam, I had been unable to resist the
pulling power of the gutter, the enticing darkness of self-indulgence.
Sam and I were held captive in a single chamber, bound by one length
of wire, and about to be consumed by one force of evil.
She came and stood beside me, as tall as I, and reached out and ran
her index finger down the buttons on my shirt. She grinned, and said
she was horny, and asked me where I wanted to do it. She said I could
put it in her mouth, up her arse, anywhere I liked, without a condom
if I wanted. She said she had videos of herself doing it with other
girls, and that I could view them whilst she performed between my legs.
So what'll it be? she kept asking. What'll it be? Come on, sweetheart,
what do you want? I haven't got all day, you know. What do you want?
Smiling, I carefully extracted Jinx from my back pocket. I straight-
ened his head, fluffed up his ears, and held him out for Sam to take.
The girl frowned and stepped away from me, as though I'd pulled a gun.
She then laughed, and took Jinx, and studied him for a moment, and
said, "What's this? What're you doing? What's this?"
"Medicine," I told her.
-3-
O O OOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOO
OO OO OOO OO OOOO OOOOOO OOOO OOO OO OOO OO
OO OO OO OO OOOO OO OOO OO OO OO
OO O OO OO OO OO OO OOOO OO OO OOOO
OOOOOOO OOOOO OO OO OO OOOOO OO
OOO OOO OO OO OO OO OOO OO OO OOO OOO
O O OO OO O O OOOOO OO OO OOOOO
OOOOO OO OO OOOOOO OO O
OOO OO OO OO OOO OO OOOO OO
OO OO OO OO OO OO OOOOOOO
OO OOO OO OO OO OO OO OOOO
OO OO OOO OO OOOOO OO OOO
O OOOO OOO OO OO OO OO OO
OOOOOO OOOOO OO OO O O
You're a kid, right?
"And you're hangin onto the bannister like crazy, everything off the
ground, even your feet, cos the carpet's one huge bubbling waterfall
of lava. And you're losing your grip, okay? And your mum's calling you
for tea, and the dog's sat watching you with one ear cocked and a face
that sez `what the hell're you /doin/ you daft git'. And yet you can't
let go, you /can't/, cos if you do you'll fall and you'll get burnt to
death by the fire stream below. Your muscles are aching, you feel sick,
you're sweating, you've come three quarters the way up the staircase, I
mean jesus, what the hell're you gonna do, eh? Whatchoo gonna do
Simon?"
Simon picked up his coffee, took a sip, put it down. Shrugged.
Sharon leaned across the table.
"The would-be writer wakes up and drops off the bannister and runs
for her tea. The true writer carries on, cos her world is real: if
she drops she'll get burnt, Simon. She /will/ get burnt."
Simon didn't give her the big reaction she'd been hoping for. He
picked up his third biscuit and started nibbling.
"You don't get it."
"No, no, I get it alright, I just don't have anything to say."
"Fair enough," she decided. "Did you bring any work like we
discussed on the phone?"
"No." he replied.
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Bloody hell. I've brought loadsa stuff."
Simon took another sip of coffee. "I didn't forget. I just changed
my mind. I'll read what you've brought, no worries. I like your work,
Sharon, you're good. You never quite manage to capture reality."
Sharon stretched back across the table, eyes glittering. "And you
/do/, right?"
"No," Simon resumed. "I like your work as it is. It's not preaching,
it's not trying to be clever. But, you see, because of that, you're a
cross-between, like me. A cross between Clive Barker and Michael
Crichton, a cross between Dean Koontz and James Herbert. We're wasting
our time, we're the authors between the masters, and yet we carry on,
not because of some desperate desire to succeed, but because we can't
stop. We're hooked. We might as well be taking drugs."
Sharon laced her fingers under her chin, elbows on the table. "And
that's why you never send your work to publishers, right? You don't
want to be a hybrid of existing authors... you get such a kick out of
writing, you're willing to do it for /no money whatsoever/, yeah,
right, I believe you. Profit vs art, what bullshit!
"Everybody's different, everyone's got their own voice, it's not a
waste of time, don't be stupid." She stared at him for a while. "God,"
she cursed and leaned back in her chair. "You're so cynical it pisses
me off."
Simon smiled. "How much shit do you reckon you put up with, per
day?" he asked quietly, adding more sugar.
Sharon rubbed her forehead. "Look, you're straying off the point."
Stirring his coffee: "Am I?"
"Yes, you are," she snapped. "I /don't/ put up with shit, Simon, so
stop giving it to me, and /stop/ pissing about with your coffee!
/Talk/ to me. Pay me some bloody attention."
Simon tinkled a spoon, slid his cup and saucer across the table,
grinned, and put his hands behind his back.
"I'll sit like this, shall I?"
"What..." Sharon broke down into flutters of laughter. "I mean, how
did this happen? How did you get so... so weird, so laid back. I'm a
/writer/, like you, we're supposed to be excited by each other, we're
supposed to be telling tales and swapping notes."
"We're not writers, Sharon, we're time stealers."
"See?" she tittered. "There you go again. Why can't you just...
Tell me... I dunno, tell me what you're writing at the moment,
what the main character's like... come on."
Simon looked up at the roof. A few nearby heads rose and did the
same. "We con our readers into caring for people who don't really
exist," he paused to let Sharon moan and pretend to collapse.
"Simon, /please/..."
"And we stand away from society," he continued. "so's we can point
and shout `hey, look, can you see what's happening?' only nobody really
gives a shit. About the subject matter itself, yeah, perhaps. `S'go
down't pub and yap about it.' And about the author, sure, `what a
talented bastard', but they don't give a shit about /what/ the author
has actually said. `Dead realistic,' they'll say to their partners.
`based on truth, too, god, isn't the world an /awful/ place?' and
then it's ho-hum, back to vacking up, back to sitting on the sofa
sipping a cup of Horlicks.
"Sharon, writer of fantasy, writer of amazing prose, you are a total
genious - you've got it right, you don't /have/ no messages, you're
just here to tell a tale."
Sharon uncovered her face. "You finished?"
"Yep."
"Have you got a job?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "I work twenty hours a week. In a warehouse.
Stock control."
"Sounds exciting," she smiled wryly. "I don't know how you put up
with it. I mean, even part-time... I once got a job working in a
supermarket, you know, nearly turned me into a zombie. Horrible it
was. I quit after about two weeks. Couldn't /stand/ it."
"There we are again, you see," Simon toyed with some crumbs.
"S'where we differ."
"What do you mean?"
"See, I'll go along with a warehouse job for the experience. For the
people. The job's shit, yeah, but the people make it worthwhile."
"No way," Sharon shook her head. "No way, I'm sorry, no way, I just
couldn't handle it. I couldn't."
"I'll tell you something," Simon met her eyes boldly. "I've only met
one writer I don't mind being in the presence of. The rest have been a
bunch of self-centred, self-important, trumped up shirt n collar piss-
heads, who're totally obsessed with the messages they're so desperate
to transmit to society. A society which, if these writers would only
wake up and realise, doesn't want to hear about any of it in the first
place. /One/ writer."
"I /love/ your manners," Sharon breathed. "Well enlighten me, who?"
"You."
"Simon," She looked away. "What... is that a chat-up line?"
"No."
"Well thank christ for that, I'm getting married in two weeks."
"Congratulations. Does he write?"
"No."
"Is he creative in any way?"
"Not really, but so what, not everybody's creative."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I never had a problem. Most people seem to /need/ that balance in
relationships. You spend your time in the company of creatives, you
need a partner who's down to earth, who won't swamp you like I'm doing
with wishy-washy horseshit about literature and its meaning.
"Some others are the opposite way around, you know. Me for instance
- I hang out with men and women who sit at home after a seven hour
shift and do absolutely /jackshit/. People who get paid peanuts and go
out on the town getting pissed every saturday night. I mean, so what,
I'm gonna have a tougher time than you finding a mate, big deal."He
burst out laughing. "Am just kidding, s'great you're tying the knot,
honest it is. Invite me along, I'll be the best man, if you want."
Sharon snorted quietly. "I do have one message," she looked up. "To
transmit, you know, like you said."
"Oh yeah?" Simon shuffled closer. "What?"
"S'kind of about the worlds we create, as writers, you know?"
"Sure."
"That... they're not always so far away."
"I'll drink to that."
"Well..." She scratched her wrist absently. "Did you ever do the
bannister climb? When you were a kid, I mean, did you ever play that
game where the floor's lava, and you've gotta move around the house
standing on chairs and bits of skirting board? Didja?"
Simon nodded. "Course I did, yeah. I used to chuck my sister into
the flames all the time. s'kinda thing kids do, innit. Why?"
Sharon said nothing for a while, just looked down at her hands.
Occasionally at passing people. The odd blink at Simon.
"You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
She got up, moved away from the table, and walked around it until
she was standing right beside Simon, where she crouched down and
began to roll back her long skirt.
"Whatchoo doin?" he nearly choked on his coffee. "Sharon...?"
Her legs came into view. Burns all over them. Skin blistered and red
and peeling like the flesh of a corpse.
"When I was eight," she said, looking into his eyes. "I slipped...
I slipped and fell in."
-4-
OOOOOO OOO OOO OOOOOO
OOOOOO OO OO OOOO
OO OO OO OOO
OO OOOOOOO OOOO
OO OO OO OO
OO OO OO OOO
O O O OOOOO
OOOOO OOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO OOOOO OOOOO O O
OOO OO OOOO O OOO OOO OO OOO OO OOO OO OOO OOO
OO OO OOO OO OOO OO OO OO OO OO OO OOOOOOO
OO OOO OOOO OO OOO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO O OO
OO OO OO OO OOO OOOOO OO OO OO OO OO OO
O OOOO OOO O OOO OO OO OOO OOO OOO OOO OO OO
OOOOOO OOOOO OOOOO OO OO OOOOO OOOOO O O
The wind was icy and seemed to be coming from the house - a jagged shape
in the pencil-smudged sky. Two floors, shining windows, pebble-dashed,
semi-detatched, pretty garden, nothing abnormal, except perhaps for a
couple of confused and raggedly-dressed school children standing side-
by-side beneath its shadow.
"I live here," Joanne said as if she wasn't quite sure if this was
true. I could see her hair blowing around in of the corner of my eye,
lashing and waving, sometimes it even touched me. Strange... Before
we'd arrived at the house there hadn't been any wind. She took hold of
my arm. "Come on, what're we standin around for? S'freezin."
"Will anybody be in?" I asked nervously as we plodded down the drive
towards the front door. The wind calmed. The cold intensified.
"My mum and dad," she said. "They won't be at work yet, I don't
think, why, what's the matter?"
"Nothin," I shrugged. In actual fact, /everything/ was the matter. I
was ten miles from home and about to meet the parents of a strange girl
I'd met in a bus stop less than forty eight hours ago. I was cold,
scared, hungry and tired. "Nothin's wrong," I tried to smile.
"Then buck up, for God's sake," Joanne slapped my cheeks gently. I
blushed. The door opened with a soft tinkle and a slight judder. Joanne
went in. I went nowhere. She came back, grabbed my coat, almost threw
me inside.
"What the hell is /this/?" somebody shouted.
A woman wearing a white bra and a black leather skirt came hobbling
out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over the edge of the lino. She was
plastered with makeup and was trying to fasten a big, golden earring
with both hands. "You're supposed to be at fuckin school!" she shouted.
"Am just gettin my stuff, okay," Joanne snapped, heading for the
staircase, dragging me along like a railway carriage. On my way up, I
stared at the woman. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that...
Thing, that tarted-up, foul-mouthed creature, that prostitute-lookalike
was Joanne's mother. Her /mother/ for chrissake. Mothers didn't look
like that. It was crazy. And she stared back: I was scanned from
trainers to schoolbag to Army cap - it was as though she'd never laid
eyes on a /boy/ before.
"Just get that... little shit out of here before your dad sees him,
alright?"
"His name's Carl, he's /not/ a little shit."
"Don't you fuckin answer me back. Get him out." She bared her teeth
at me before clattering into the kitchen. Joanne muttered something as
we arrived upstairs - I didn't hear it, and I didn't dare ask what it
was. I was so frightened now, I was shivering.
She marched past the bathroom, past another two rooms, then kicked
open the door of what I assumed was her bedroom. We went in and she
booted the door closed behind us, muffling away the noise of parental
arguing downstairs. She flopped onto her knees and began to search
under the bed and for the first time, I noticed she was wearing some
kind of school uniform, different to the sort we had to wear: she had a
dark blue skirt on, and white socks, and a baggy blouse with two egg-
shaped holes in the right-hand sleeve.
Teeth chattering, I looked around curiously. It was weird, being in
a girl's bedroom: having no sisters or other female friends, I had
never been in one before. I suppose I had expected pink wallpaper,
lots of squidgy, mushy, cuddly toys and a few Cindy dolls littered
about the place, perhaps. But there was no pink, only a washy blue and
lots of bare, white walls, and not a poster of a topless man in sight.
She had a wardrobe, a bed, a chest of drawers, a murky window offering
a distorted view across the road, and a bulb on the ceiling with no
shade.
"Is this your bedroom?" I said, wondering if perhaps it was just a
spare room and that she had a proper, pink one somewhere further down
the hall.
"No-o, it's King George the fifth's who's joo think it is?" Joanne
said, dragging carrier bags full of clothes and food and God knows what
else out from underneath her bed. She started throwing things all over
the place, making me laugh nervously, and then she suddenly turned and
gave me a strange look, hair covering most of her face. "Why? Don'tcha
like it or somethin? Joo think it's horrible?"
"Oh, /no/, I- no it's alright," I muttered softly. Of course, I
thought it was as dull as a prison cell. To think that someone as nice
as Joanne had to sleep in a dump like this made me feel angry.
"Bet your bedroom's better than this, isn't it?" she said.
I shrugged. "Well, it's different than this."
"Yeah, sure. This place's a right shitheap." She started drilling
through a pile of clothes in the middle of the floor. "Stinks as well."
She threw a jumper and two socks at me playfully. I didn't throw them
back. She sat up. "You alright?"
"What?"
"Are you cold or somethin? You're shiverin like mad."
"No, I'm alright."
She eventually found what she was after: a small, black book, which I
guessed to be some kind of diary. I remember sighing discreetly and
thinking, `Christ, you mean we came into this hellhole just for
/that/?'
"Kay, let's scoot," said Joanne, kicking carrier bags back under the
bed. She looked at me as she did so. "Sure you're alright?"
"Yeah."
"You look pale."
"Joanne geddown here!" shouted her mother from downstairs, making
both of us jump. "S'that girl from up't road. Move your arse."
Joanne gazed at me, her mouth wide open.
"What does she mean?" I whispered and stepped closer. "What's goin
on? Who is it?"
"Must be Julia," she grabbed my arm again and began to tow me
downstairs.
Outside, I felt sick and dizzy.
"I'm off, alright?" Joanne yelled back into the house and slammed
the door. "Look Julia," she said. "I'm not goin to school, I'm gonna
doss around with Carl for a while, okay?"
"But Jo, come /on/," Julia protested, screwing her face up. She was
small and ginger-haired with narrow eyes and Bugs Bunny teeth. "Don't
scive school /again/. Mr Halstead's always askin aboutchoo-"
Joanne pushed her into the road. "Shurrup! Mr Halstead's a stupid
black cunt and he can fuck off up his own arse," Joanne snapped,
nearly sobbing on that last word. She glanced at me and reached out
and touched my hand. "Sorry Carl." she whispered.
"S'okay," I breathed.
"Just leave me alone, Julia, alright?"
"Am worried aboutchoo, Jo."
"Am alright, I'm just not goin to school today, so leave it."
"But you /never/ go to school anymore. You never used to swear like
that, either."
"So what."
"So I miss you."
Joanne sighed. The three of us began to drift down the road. Cars
droned, kids laughed and screamed and a fire engine raced to a fire
somewhere.
"Is it gettin worse?" Julia said.
Joanne nodded, staring at the pavement.
"Did he hurt you again?"
Joanne nodded.
"Why don't you ring that Childline number that was on TV? I've got
it written down if you want it-"
"I'm not ringing anyone!" Joanne's head flew up. She stopped walking.
"What am I supposed to say anyway? `Oh hello there, I wonder if you
could help me, my dad's...' oh for fuck's sake why can't you just
/forget it/." She punched herself in the stomach, then ran off, crying.
Julia U-turned without saying anything and toddled away, her ponytail
swishing like a pendulum. I looked east, then west, then east again. I
didn't know what to do or what to think. I felt weak and drained and
fed up of being confused.
So I sat down on the curb and started humming.
-5-
OOOO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOOO OO OO
O OOO OOOO OOOOOO OOO OO OOO OO
OO OOO OOO OO OO OO OOOO
OO OOO OOOO OO OO OO OO
OO OOO OO OO OO OO OOOO
O OOO OOO OO OOO OOO OO OO
OOOOO OOOOO O OOOOO OO OO
Although he didn't know it at the time, it was because of his feet that
Dale made the mistake of going down into the cellar and pulling open the
doors of his parents' rotting old wardrobe. He was barefoot and wearing
only a pair of flimsy underpants and by the time he'd realised that he
was a good few minutes away from reaching the shores of consciousness it
was too late; there was an enormous, peanut-shaped, arterial-red blob
inside the wardrobe, with bubbling flesh and four hideous, slit-eyed
faces, like a bag of melted Chinese dolls.
"Shlhut the doorsh," spluttered the blob through all four of its trout
-like mouths. It shuffled its tumid body around, as though it were cold
or unable to get comfortable, before screeching, again in quadruple:
"Arle yuh fluhkin DEAFSH? I shlaid shlut-"
"Okay, I'm sorry," said Dale, grabbing the doors and throwing them in
the creature's face. They collided simultaneously with a weighty wooden
crack which launched parental screams bounding down the cellar
staircase.
"Dad gave you the Twat, didn't he?" (The snapping of fingers.) "Oi...
Wake up. He gave you the Twat, didn't he Staley-boy?"
"No."
"Yeh he did, course he fuckin did, you got a red mark on your cheek,
you nobber. What were you doin?"
Dale dipped a piece of toast as thin as litmus paper into the golden
juice of his egg... Then expertly flicked it into his mouth. "I was
talkin to the blob," he said, chewing.
Barry snorted so hard bubbles of saliva fizzed between his lips. He
slapped an enormous lump of marge onto a slice of burnt toast and said
in a deep, grating voice: "Lyin bastard."
"Am not,"
"Fuckin are. You've lied through your teeth more times than a fuckin
whore's lied on her back."
"Have not."
"Fuckin have."
"Have not."
"Fuckin-well have, lad."
Barry was the only other person at the dining table; Mum and Dad
hadn't come down yet and Tara was still enjoying a multi-day hog of the
bathroom.
"I know what you were doing," Barry decided, fiercely ripping off a
charcoal crust which made a noise like velcro. "You were havin a wank,
weren't ya?"
"It told me to shut the wardrobe doors," Dale insisted in a loud, why-
the-hell-do-I-bother kind of voice. "So I did, alright? Made a bit of a
bang, that's all."
"There weren't no blob," elaborated Barry. He reached down between his
legs, plucked out his Sacred Mayonnaise Jar and began to unscrew the
lid. "And that bang were you, rushin out after moppin all't come off
endya dick." Using a butter knife, he raked a gooey clump of mayonnaise
out of the jar and spread it across his tongue.
"Found out who's been refillin your jar yet?" enquired Dale, in the
hope of changing the subject. He hated it when Barry rambled on about
wanking off and coming; it was foul and embarrassing and he'd do any-
thing to avoid it.
Barry, now looking like he'd had a vicious encounter with a tube of
toothpaste, shrugged, "Don't fuckin care who fills it up, do I. What's
it matter anyway?"
"Well I'd want to know where it was coming from," said Dale, trying
his best to avoid being hypnotised by his brother's repulsively
fascinating eating habits. "I wouldn't just /scoff/ it. What if it's
out-of-date, or it's been poisoned or something?"
Barry shrugged again, now drinking from the Jar as though it were a
pot of runny yoghurt. "Nah," (He paused to swallow.) "Be some girl who
fancies me, that's all."
As Dale watched the mayonnaise glide sluggishly into Barry's pulsating
mouth, he could not help but be reminded of a cement mixer unloading its
contents into a large pothole in the road.
"You're disgusting, Barry," he commented rhetorically.
"K'off," Barry gargled.
Dale did not have many pleasant feelings towards his brother. Nor his
mother. Nor even his father come to think of it. Dale was the silky yoke
in family of egg-whites - bright, gleaming yellow encapsulated by pale,
blotchy blubber. His trim figure made him a magnet for his fat family's
jibes and put-downs, and his tendency to slip so easily into the power-
ful pool of his subconscious often plunged breakfast and mealtimes deep
into the pits of the gruesomely sarcastic.
"You gonna finish that or what?" said Barry, pointing with a sausage-
thick finger at Dale's unfinished egg. "Cos if you're not, pass it here,
will ya? Am fuckin starvin."
Dale handed over his egg; there was something about the lack of yoke
in a boiled egg that he found quite repulsive. Perhaps the jelly-like
whiteness which clung to the interior of the shell (and which, once
scooped out, wobbled on his spoon in the manner of a milky tongue)
reminded him of Barry's ghastly stomach, or the sickening just-out-of-
the-bath flash-glance he'd once had of the boy's epic arse cheeks.
"Where you off?"
"Upstairs to do my email."
"God," Barry rolled his eyes. "You're always on that PC, you."
"No am not."
"Fuckin are."
"Am not."
"Fuckin-well are, lad."
"Just piss off, Barry."
"Don'tchoo be fuckin cheeky wimme. Oi, am talkin to you, Stale... Get
your skinny little arse back here..."
To: Samantha@wrinkle.co.uk Time:09:20am
Subject: The Summer Holidays Suck CC:
Dear Samantha,
Dad Twatted me this morning for going down into the cellar and talking
to the blob, and Barry ate the last of my egg. I know you said about the
white stuff being good for you but I can't eat it. I can't. I'm really
beginning to hate the summer holidays, I don't know what to do anymore.
Barry keeps telling me I spend too long on the PC and that my eyes will
go boggley and spin around like they do on cheap teddybears, but I think
he's just trying to ruin my life.
Speaking of Barry, did I tell you about his Sacred Mayonnaise Jar?
About three days ago he scoffed the lot and left the empty jar on the
front porch. When he got up in the morning and went outside to bring
the milk in, he found that somebody had re-filled the whole jar. It
happens every night, now. He stuffs himself stupid then puts the jar
out on the porch. It's full-up again ready for breakfast without fail.
He's a greedy bastard. He doesn't seem to care who's filling it up. I
suppose a lot of people are like that, though, aren't they. Selfish.
As for Tara, she's moved into the bathroom. Don't ask me why. She
comes out for Mum and Dad, of course, but only emerges for me and Barry
when one of us needs a shit. She won't let us in for a piss so we have
to go outside and do it behind the greenhouse. She says she's trying to
starve herself to death, which I suppose isn't such a bad thing
considering the size of her, but Barry keeps sticking slices of whole
wheat and cream crackers under the door and they don't come back.
Anyway, Dad'll be down in about ten minutes so I suppose I'd better
log on and post this. He gets quite stroppy when I've been messing on
his PC. How's the growths on your neck doing? Any luck with the
antibiotics? I hope you're okay and that you're not bored senseless
like I am. 8-(
Oh, one thing I was going to ask. Where abouts in the country are you?
Your address has got UK in it, so I assume you're in England. I live in
Stone Bridge - it's near Oldham. Maybe we could arrange to meet sometime
if you're not too far away, what do you reckon?
Bye for now.
___ ___
Dale {~._.~} ___ ___ {~._.~} ___
_( Y )_ {~._.~} {~._.~} _( Y )_ {~._.~}
(:_~*~_:) _( Y )_ _( Y )_ (:_~*~_:) _( Y )_
(_)-(_) (:_~*~_:) (:_~*~_:) (_)-(_) (:_~*~_:)
(_)-(_) (_)-(_) (_)-(_)
From: samantha@wrinkle.co.uk Time:11:44am
Subject: De-tox. CC:
Hello Dale,
Received your email this morning at approximately eight minutes
past ten. Thankyou. I hope you managed to post it before that horrible
father of yours made his appearance. Don't forget to wipe this message,
will you?
Your brother's story is a most intriguing one. I'm quite sure,
though, that his greed will one day get the better of him. After all,
you reap what you sow.
The boils on my neck have gotten much worse, I'm sorry to say.
They have now spread to my face - which currently looks not unlike the
surface of the moon after a particularly bad meteor storm. My own
reflection disgusts me. I look like a zombie from The Night of the
Living Dead. I have taken down all the mirrors in the house and refuse
to go outdoors unless it is both pitch dark and absolutely necessary.
:-) I have also begun to order my week's groceries from Tesco's on-line
Shopping Mall to save me the agony of going into town. They charge five
quid for front door delivery, you know.
This `blob' of yours is most alarming. I should try, if I were
you, drinking a large amount of water before you go to bed tonight. Four
pints at the very least. And take off your socks. Right now, go on, take
them off. Now, s q u e e z e the fleshy bit beneath your big toe. Go on,
squeeze very hard. Can you feel all those little balls crunching around
in there like a beanbag? I bet you can, can't you. Yucky aren't they?
They're your body's toxins, Dale, accumulated over years of eating crap
foods and lazing about. And, believe it or not, they're very likely to
be the root cause of your vivid dreams. Don't ask me how it works. All
I know is that your foot's supposed to be like a small map of your whole
body and your big toe represents your head (thus your brain, thus your
subconscious). I read about it in an Indian Reflexology Manual. A good
foot massage helps, of that there's no doubt, but water I think is your
best bet. Trust me. :-)
As for where I'm located, well, you're right, of course, I'm
British. My home is not far away from Stone Bridge, in fact. Not far at
all. Perhaps it would be nice to meet sometime, but definitely not
until my condition has eased a little. After all, I would not want to
cause you further nightmares with my horrific appearance. :-)
Anyhow, let me know how it goes. And hey - chin up, kid. Don't
let your greedy brother get you down.
, ,
("\''/").___..--''"`-._
`9_ 9 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
/Sa\ (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
|mant| _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' .
\ha/ (il).-'' ((i).' ((!.-' x x x
Dale arrived in the kitchen holding four of his father's pint glasses
only to discover that the nozzle of the cold water tap had been consumed
by the end of a luminous hose pipe. Dale's eyes followed this pipe out
of the sink, across the worktop and down onto the lino, before losing
it behind the fridge.
`Arse,' Dale thought. `Dad's outside washing the car.'
Like a great many men who wore Nike pullovers and swished around all
weekend in shellsuit bottoms, Dad had an infinitely more romantic
relationship with his vehicle that he did with the woman he'd married;
`thus it would be better,' Dale decided, tiptoeing back towards the
livingroom, `to refrain from distracting Dad from his soapy ritual and
attempt to locate another tap.' (After all, Dale did not want to down
four pints of grimy liquid from the hot tap.)
Unfortunately, there was only one other source of fresh water in the
house - and access to it was heavily restricted.
Dale knocked lightly on the bathroom door.
"Tara? Tara, I need a dump."
"Bollocks, you had a dump this mornin. Fuck off."
"I need another one."
"Piss off Dale, I'm reading."
"It won't take me a second."
"Then it can stay up your arse, can't it. Go outside and do it in a
bush or somethin. You're not comin in here. Not after't fuckin stink
you made last time."
"I can't go in a bush, Dad's outside. He'll see me."
"So?" She giggled.
Dale was about to knock again when the floorboards beneath him began
to vibrate. Seconds later, Barry appeared across the landing. He was
eating an enormous banana and ogling a small pull-out poster of The
Spice Girls. He glanced at Dale.
"What. The fuck. Are you doing?" he said, turning to move in Dale's
direction like a tank traversing a corner. "What're you fuckin doin
with Dad's pint glasses you great soggy nobber?"
"I need some water," said Dale quietly. "Am gonna de-toxify myself."
Barry screwed his flabby face up until it looked like sack of Best
British potatoes with a mouth.
"Dee-fuckin-whatsify?"
"Shhhh, Barry, what does it matter."
"Dee-fuckin-whatsify?"
"Help me get Tara out of the bathroom, come on Barry, please? I need
a dump. I bet you do as well. Please?"
Barry's face unfolded. He threw The Spice Girls and his banana-skin
down on the floor and gripped his gigantic arse in his hands. "Jesus,
you're right. I'm more fulla shit than a fuckin tabloid. Tara!" He
pounded on the door. "Tara you big bagga donkey spunk get your fuckin
floppy tits out here, now!"
"Piss off Barry, you hypocrite." was Tara's flashy response.
"Am gonna bop you one," Barry growled, his fist pressed against the
door like a block of sticky lard. "Let us in you slimey-arsed slag or
I'll take a shit right outside this fuckin door!"
Dale took a few steps back, still holding Dad's pint glasses; he felt
like a waiter who'd forgotten to pour the beer.
"You wouldn't dare, Barry. Dad'd have you scrubbin the shite outta the
carpet in two seconds flat. Now piss off, both of you."
"You wanna fuckin bet?" Barry crouched down in front of the bathroom
door, grinned at Dale and placed one finger over his mouth. He then
jangled his belt, ran his hands up and down his trousers and began to
make enormously convincing constipated moans.
"You dirty bastard!" screamed Tara. She unlocked the door and pulled
it open; Barry fell inside like a human boulder, laughing and snorting.
That night, his stomach awash with water, Dale decided that he was going
to remain awake until he'd at least caught a glimpse of the person who
was responsible for the continuous refilling of Barry's Jar. It wasn't
that Dale was massively fascinated but... Well, he had nothing better
to do; Barry was sleeping off his titanic supper (and never did anything
interesting anyway), Tara was back in the bathroom, this time with a
pile of Just Seventeens, and Dad had locked up the study so there was
no chance of logging onto the 'net.
Dale settled down on the windowsill with the last half-pint of his
water and pressed his nose against the cool glass. Luckily, his bedroom
window overlooked the front porch (and the untidy garden and the dark
fields beyond it) and because there was a clear sky and a glowing Moon
visibility was nothing short of remarkable.
Between 11 and 2, nothing much happened. A few cats strolled by and
a stray dog took a piss against the greenhouse but there were no signs
whatsoever of human life. Far below, the empty jar sat - like a
miniature stool - on the stone staircase which led down to Dad's
impeccably mown lawn. From this height, Dale thought the jar looked like
a big glass eye... Sometimes even a ball-bearing or a tin-lid.
2:30... The monotony of the night began to whistle and drag. Dale
tried to occupy himself by urinating out of the window and counting the
number of stars and turning the shadows into monsters... But it was no
use. He decided that he got bored enough during the daytime without the
added pain of staying awake all night, so he fished his Batman pyjamas
out from down the back of the radiator and scrambled into them.
He was about to flop into bed when, of course, his final, pessimistic
glance outside revealed a short, humanoid figure standing at the bottom
of the garden. Startled, Dale slid behind the curtains and made a small
crack in the material so that he could follow the intruder, "hidden
camera"-style.
The figure - Dale could not yet tell whether it was male or female
because it was wearing a dark, hooded jacket - lingered at the foot of
the lawn, before casually strolling towards Barry's Sacred Jar. When it
crouched down, Dale held his breath; when it pulled back its hood, he
stifled a shriek of fright against the curtains.
Despite the awkward angle from which Dale was forced to view the
trespasser, he could see quite clearly that it was female, and that her
face was gruesomely deformed by lumps, sores and boils. Alarming enough
though this was, especially under the silvery light of the moon, nothing
could have prepared Dale for what was to happen next.
After glancing around - the way one might expect a burglar to scan his
or her surroundings prior to breaking into a car - the deformed woman
picked up the Sacred Jar, took off the lid, and held it just an inch
below her chin. She then began to prod and squeeze her infected flesh
until the boils and pustules popped or cracked open to produce a liquid
not unlike melted cheese, and proceeded to skilfully catch as much of
this foulness in the jar as she possibly could. Often, this would
involve positioning the mouth of the container directly opposite one of
her ripe sores and then pinching the sore until it `fired' a blob of
gunk which would splash against the glass like a bird dropping.
When the jar was filled upto its neck - which did not take anywhere
near as long as one might imagine - the grisly woman replaced the lid,
gave the mixture a shake, then put it gently down on the staircase in
its original position.
Finally, she produced a large handkerchief from her jacket pocket and
delicately wiped her glistening, wounded face.
Dale, his stomach heaving, did not budge from behind the curtains
until the intruder had finished with her cloth, wandered back across
the lawn, and evaporated into the night.
The following morning, Dale again found himself in the cellar, semi-
consciously creeping towards the abandoned wardrobe. This time, however,
when he wrenched open the doors he was greeted not by the sight of an
angry, bloodthirsty blob, but by a gloomy cubicle of dusty, empty
space... Plus a tub of swarfega and a note from Barry which read
`Happey Wanking, KNobber'.
-6-
OOOOO OO OO OOOOOO OOOOOO OOOOO
OOO OO OO OO OOOOOO OOO OO OOO OO
OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO
OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO OO
OO OO OOO OO OO OOOOO OO OO
OOO OOO OOO OO OO OO OO OOO OOO
OOOOO OOOOO O OO OO OOOOO
So, how was it for you?
I jest you not; I'm so eager to know what you thought of this first
issue that I'm offering a copy of my `pre-millenium tension' long-short
story `The Hidden Agenda' to all respondents. Did you enjoy the stories?
Did you like the presentation? Did the spelling errors piss you off? Did
the ascii logos get on your nipples? Reveal your thoughts, please, and
then prepare yourself for the epic delights of `The Hidden Agenda'.
Oh, and in the meantime, check out some of these wicked home pages. I
particularly recommend paying visits to James Roy and The Quatermass
Experiment. (Got a link? Email me and I'll add it.)
Cheers,
Andy J Campbell
ajc@ajco.demon.co.uk
.
.
:
`-----------.
:
_ .----'
\: _
\/
[wORTH cHECKING oUT -->>
THE QUATERMASS EXPERIMENT
users.ox.ac.uk/~univ0155/ [cool science fiction]
JAMES ROY - ALMOST WEDNESDAY
www.moreinfo.com.au/james/ [great new teenage novel]
JUDI LATHAM'S HOME PAGE
www.mightoak.demon.co.uk [free, good spooky stories]
LEXICON
www.ozemail.com.au/~lexmag [superb fiction cyberzine]
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