Spiderfingers: an earthbound demigod charged with the thankless task of surviving wave after wave of warriors, hell-bent upon his demise. These minions belong to his jealous off-world brethren, a race of divinities who relentlessly seek their access to Earth in order to rule us with fists of iron. For that enslavement to occur, Spiderfingers must die. Who will he use to save the human race? What must he believe in?
… Turning the corner afforded him true relief, Vicky, her father and Samson no longer able to see him, unable to watch his expression as his hand delved into his jacket to discover the broken wire doll. He felt ashamed of his slight step back the way he came, but he'd halted, resisting foolishness, his over reliance on his cheerleader. Besides, he thought, I couldn’t ruin the perfect exit.
Vicky’s arms were too small, nowhere long enough to encircle the tree
trunk stiffness of her father riding Bertha down relatively clear London
roads. It made no sense to twist her
head back, but she did so anyway.
Unsurprised at the lack of chaos god behind them, she turned around
again, her face sunk into the tight rubber padding of her father’s jacket.
He won’t survive out there alone, she thought as the
bike stopped at a red light. Lilith will keep watch but this is the end
of the world we’re trying to prevent. I
could volunteer for help?
Over the rumble of the motorbike, Vicky
heard the scream of a baby. A bawling
new born in a buggy wheeled past them. Was she asleep before we came here? Wondered
Did Bertha wake her up? Her gloved hand moved instinctively toward
the seat. Then it stopped. She had marshalled enough selfish
personalities for a lifetime. Now all
she wanted was sleep.
Hara’s eyes opened, but slowly, taking in the
light of her room, her body held down by the unmistakable tough sheets of hospital
bedding. It was time to figure out who to help, and where they might
“Oh, no–no–no–no,” she muttered, “running
around interfering is the old way, and your body’s not up for it, Hara, dearie
me, no.” She listened out for the beat of her heart. She made it
stop. She got it going again, speeding it up, throwing the machine hooked
to her arm into a bleeping frenzy. She barely registered the swarm of
doctors that descended upon her bed. Talk of a five month coma couldn’t
wipe the glee from her face. All that power, responsibility and knowledge
shooting up her cerebral cortex, astounding. Do not show your face.
Aronson will seek to throw you into the tarn. The totality of
the Earth Mother revealed her infinite wisdom: Your power must be in
the subtle influence of foot soldiers. Your existence must remain
manufactured the sight of a black woman with long coloured dreadlocks, an
albino walking by her side.
No need for running around at
all. Soon I’ll be receiving guests.
alright Mrs Carroll?” A nurse leaned in, a doting hand placed upon Hara’s
fine. If you could though Dearie, fetch us a pen and paper? I have to
write to some old friends of mine.”
Hours stretched into days, which in turn
became weeks, then months, the hot Summer nudged Spring from its place,
evicting brisk coldness like an unwanted guest.
writhed delirious. Lost. Naked.
Alone, in a forgotten tower block unfit for human breathing. The stench of him contained in a self-made
prison he’d plugged with trash and old wood.
Here meant safety, a place not unlike Bellevue, except in Bellevue
there would be no wrecking ball or TNT or whatever men used to knock down
condemned buildings, he thought. His
life relied on the mercy of some unknown date of destruction, a fact which troubled
him. Sometimes he bothered himself into
an upright position, to only flop down to manky, stained, insect ridden
floor. Often he jabbered, wittering
about protecting schoolchildren by not existing. He blotted out the rationale of fleeing his
room, imagining the oncoming explosion tearing him apart.
“I should be
so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky.” He stared down a heap of clothes, colourful
garments to be feared. That
uniform. A costume able to breed
influence, an influence which worked against him: No more Doctor Chimera, he
thought, no supervillain, not whilst I’m naked.
With every bow Steph made, the intent of her
prayer could not have cruised further from the intended respondent.
Each syllable cried out in Allah’s name fell in on itself as the hollow
plastic lies they were. Tonight, she halved the length of her spiritual
charade, the longing for the touch of her thick black pen far too great. She
knew this flash of inspiration would make her late for Milo, but no other
feeling compared to the sight of all that ink cradling her passionate, unhinged
brainstorming. Just wait till I redraft this, she
thought, hand and eye co-ordination pushed to their very limit, just
you wait world. Just you wait!
And this book is for you bad teachers, you
rule makers, you swine, scared ex hippies who learnt how to suck hard on
establishment cock, just so that you could afford to pay rent, keep up with
television shows that featured made-up people you could have been. True
characters, not the ghouls you became, shoving slow burners like me into the
fires of doubt and despair.
aspiration behind C.V’s that unlocked nightshifts behind desks. So many
faders, knobs, buttons, plugins and monitors to keep control of. Just another night of close ups, pans,
front gate, back gate, bathroom B, toilet A, title sequence, cut to break, side
boob. Another night of forever, keeping Real Actors on
don’t forget the controversial spin off, the real time hit that’s got people
returning to television in a way the writers of EastEnders can only wank
about. Playing God: low-brow masquerading as the Most
High. Seven method actors given the task of living in a house, each one
given the challenge to prepare for their prize: a big role in a fantasy movie
funded by the show. A film about a demigod.
days and nights of round the clock rehearsal, because when the red light goes
on and a name’s announced, one of these fame seeking leaches has to live in
character. Tune in for men and women playing Him, the Christian deity and
every week, there’s a new production. Every seven days one gets voted
off. Every scene, they each take their turn, commanding locusts,
organising a deluge, or last week’s mission – my favourite – because sitting in
judgement over an adulterous man with the power to punish him with the death of
his child, now that’s real godly. Playing God: India’s
biggest network has bought the rights for the Hindu version. No one
believes in Pop music anymore, let’s play god instead.
God on the
God on an
ego-trip, because Bartholomew Ward has starred in more plays than the youngest
contestant in the house: Foley Edwards, who’s a jobbing actor. Jobbing,
as in two adverts for insurance and a short history of porn. The opportunity for Foley to cast himself as
a working class hero to Bart’s upper class toff is stark, the Etonian ribbing
Foley about ‘the realities of industry.’ So then, Bartholomew as God, sitting
in judgement of the audience. Foley,
also playing God; deity of the people.
Near enough anyway.
with the glamour model who entered the house on Day Five.
masturbating in the shower, doing the dishes, complaining about the cleaning
rota, players in real time idling up at the camera and wondering: Have I
God, being adjudicated
by Bianca Watkins, her teenage indiscretion forcing her out of High School and
hasn’t read past page eight of a book since. Still, she reads to her son,
if only for her peace of mind. She can’t
spell theatre without feeling uneducated and will watch anything remotely
connected to Simon Cowell, because then, and only then, Bianca gets to look through
the prism of pain his production company creates. Now Bianca and her friends at work can gossip
about the nights they’ve peered down upon the Almighty, criticise his line cuts
and bad attitude. She’ll tune in to watch God read His biography and ask
the question, the one that haunts these desperate thespians nightly: Will
this job role drive me mad?Has it done so already?
So, just in
case you thought you were off the hook, you fuckers who squeezed the life out
of me, or worse – saw me drowning but didn’t reach out to the quiet boy at the
back – fuck you … bastards. Once upon a time, I could have written something
worthwhile. A fairy-tale perhaps, one that a few people would read and
say, “hey, he really understands the subtle psychosis we deny, but address in
our oldest bedtime stories.” Now I push buttons, told what to do in my
ear piece, my link to the real divinity in my life, cos following her commands
means I get to sleep in a warm home and watch TV. How about I tell her to
go fuck herself? Find myself back in the unemployment line, telling them to go
fuck themselves as well? Spend my days writing that children’s novel, using my
television as a stool. Smash the idiot box first, just to curb the habit
of a lifetime. So what if the landlord wants rent, fuck him and his silly
laugh and his ‘naughty-naughty’ plumbing. Fuck the bailiffs and the
police and the arsehole that resurfaces to play the role of dad every few
years. And as you pass me on this street with this pen in hand,
these tattered pages quivering in my clutches, don’t offer pity. This
character was my choice. This narrative is where I play a deity.
Someone else’s little boy can fuck his life up, casually pass the blame when
the fury burns right through his lonely skull, cos in this safe snuggly place, where
I rule over millions, this windless Nirvana where I’ve achieved a state of
all-encompassing forgiveness, somehow struck out all malice – here – in this
Heaven, I am in complete control. All weather and crop maintenance is
stage managed by my hand, and the ongoing applause is fucking riotous. – Spiderfingers Stephanie
till Milo sees this,thought Steph
grinning at Danger-Man, her caress of his tall and flaming hat so
considered. Such affection. After a good few seconds, Steph grabbed her
coat, rushed down the stairs and headed out the front door. She ran into the night.