You could ride the busy Sydney trains for years
and not learn,
until that one, late trip to Thirlmere
when the cool dark of night cloaks the empty world outside,
when the silent emptiness of the carriage wraps around your throat,
when it feels as though you are riding the edge of the void,
that, like buses,
they too have a “stop” button.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “The unknown”
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Rent
The thing about rent is, it’s expensive. $200 will get you a lovely home, if you’re a pair of Reeboks. And when you think about it, what are you really paying for? Keeping the rain out of your hair? More, if you want to have your dry hair near a train station? A weekly travel-pass costs $38. You learn to pack light – really light. Summiting Everest light. Space Shuttle light. Night-shift jobs are easy to find, so you work while the trains sleep. You find a workplace that has showers, and you get real friendly with a laundromat. You sleep your way all across the city. Your home has harbour, mountain and pastoral views, and 200 bathrooms, never more than a stop away, and does your commuting for you. No one thinks anything about a night-shift worker slumped in their seat. You learn how to sleep comfortably with a bag handcuffed to your wrist. Without a TV you find yourself reading Dostoyevsky and Dale Carnegie. Without the Internet you work on your screenplay. With all that rent money you buy a ticket to New York – where the trains run 24/7. You meet the right people who know the right people who went to school with the right people’s sons, and the next thing you know your movie’s being made and you buy yourself a penthouse in the East 40’s and laugh at the idea of ever paying rent.
Then you discover that you can’t get to sleep without the clicking of the wheels and the rocking of the carriage.
So you buy yourself a weekly.
*****
This story continues here.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Nom de plume”
I don’t go to Gloria Jean’s for the tea
not really.
I mean, it’s tea-bags -
I might as well buy my own at Woolworths.
But they always ask for my name,
and never for ID.
“Shazam?” calls out the girl behind the counter
“Shazam?”
Tomorrow, I think I shall be Napoleon.
Dispatches from the Wilds of Proseambique – “Mute”
“Seriously? Man, you have some god-awful music in your collection.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is, I… Wait, what are you doing back there?”
They snickered.
“We’ve been inverting the ratings on your songs for the last hour.”
“You what? Like hell you are!”
He swung around to grab at the iPod. The car ricocheted off a lamp-post. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was the only one still alive, hanging limply upside-down, held in place by his seat-belt.
He had been in a coma for weeks. His mother gently placed the headphones over his ears.
“The doctor thinks that hearing his favourite music might stimulate him, help him find his way back.” She smiled weakly.
Plugging in the iPod, which had survived the crash remarkably intact, she continued.
“Sometimes, I swear you can see his lips moving… Almost as though he’s trying to tell us something.”
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Remnants”
When I inhale,
the delicate remnants of your scent chase my breath,
lingering.
I do not wish to exhale,
for that would be to lose them
and to breathe through my mouth
would surely be
to suck up that sweet, last taste of your lips
and blow it away.
So I am rather in a rush
to learn to breathe
through my ears.
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – “Security”
They descended like a swarm. Before the rubble had even finished settling into the earth, the city was ringed with checkpoints. By the time the fires had gone out, the queues for the subway were miles long; each passenger being searched, ID’d and bomb-sniffed before admittance. The city of Portland struggled to move as the Department tightened its grip; neighbour watched neighbour, barking dogs became acts of terror, double-parking became sedition, jaywalking… jaywalking made you disappear. For two weeks, the citizens held their breath, until finally the news came: Chicago was burning.
Portland had struck.
The checkpoints were gone that afternoon.
*****
This story is inspired by Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother, which, whilst aimed at a slightly younger audience, is still not a bad read. You can download it for free here.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “L0v3″
You may think yourself protected;
locking your heart
behind an enigmatic cipher -
twisted runes that guard your very soul
but where humans fail
this machine will decode
the CAPTCHA of your hidden being
and having shattered your defence,
will assail your heart
with malware of affection
with worms of tenderness
with viruses of devotion
with trojans of passion
with the unrelenting spam of love.
Dispatches from the wilds of I-don’t-use-f*cking-Twitter
Twitter is the crushing revelation that brevity isn’t the soul of wit.
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Blood and Stone
Exciting news! I just received the mock-up of the cover for my forthcoming novel, Blood and Stone. Check it out!
They’ve also finalised the blurb:
Like everyone in the word-puzzle world, Ogden Lylesmith was shocked by the brutal murder of Horatio LeSprat, the reclusive genius responsible for some of the finest brainteasers ever made. So when, two days later, he received a letter from the dead man – a man he had never met, containing only a half-finished crossword, Ogden knew that he was in for a mind-bending race against time – and danger. At the heart of it; a centuries-old Freemason conspiracy, and underneath the Vatican, a ticking bomb.
A vampire bomb.
Whatever happens, one thing is certain: the papacy will never be the same again.
Early praise:
“If Stephanie Meyer and Dan Brown had a love-child, and that child was Chuck Norris, that would be Spencer Harding” – The Chicago Sun-Times
“…Harding manages perhaps the most innovative use of an iPhone as a weapon ever conceived, whilst simultaneously making a comment on Apple’s draconian App Store policies. Brilliant!” – David Pogue, New York Times
“Hell. Yes.” – Tom Clancy
Excerpts:
Ogden was engaged in a friendly debate with his collegue, Wilbur Franks, when the mail arrived.
“I just think,” opined Wilbur “that using plurals in a crossword is unimaginative and lazy. ‘oh, I need a word that ends in ‘S’… I know, I’ll use a plural!’ Buy a fucking dictionary.”
“I disagree. By limiting your vocabulary to the singular form, you reduce the possibilities, and therefore, the difficulty of the…” Ogden stopped, noticing the return address on the envelope before him.
“What is it?” asked Wilbur
“This letter… it’s from Horatio LeSprat.”
Wilbur’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I didn’t.”
Ogden tore open the envelope, inside was a crossword puzzle, half solved.
“Do you think…” wondered Wilbur, as they stared at it.
“7 down – ancient fraternal order. 3 across – plans made in secret. 12 down – nosferatu. 6 across – Paul’s church. 14 down… incendiary device…”
They looked at each other in shock for a moment, before exclaiming in unison.
“The Freemasons have planted a vampire bomb under the Vatican!”
***
Valerie was brandishing the flaming torch, casting light out into the gloomy catacombs. Demonic eyes shone back. The sputtering flame would soon go out.
“Do we… do we have anything to ward them off?” She whispered, for the first time a hint of fear noticeable in her usually cool and collected voice.
Ogden searched his pockets. “Only my iPhone… oh, if only Apple hadn’t denied the ultraviolet torch app for wasting too much power! It would have turned the screen into a vampire-burning machine! …but… wait! That’s it! Do you still have that letter opener?”
Valerie searched her pockets, and found the Pope’s letter opener with the microscopic riddle engraved on the blade. Ogden took it and pried open the casing of the iPhone. “If I can just…” he grunted as he fiddled with the circuitry “…reverse the transistors connected to the display… modulate the polarity of the current… that… that should do it!” he snapped the phone closed, and switched it back on. The screen was blank.
“It didn’t work!” moaned Valerie.
“No no, it did! The screen is now putting out only ultraviolet light – invisible to us… deadly to vampires!” to illustrate his point, Ogden pointed the screen out into the darkness, just as the torch finally spluttered out. The angry hissing of vampires in the dark, accompanied by an unpleasant smell somewhat like burning bacon, confirmed the success of his modifications.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Shiver
Can you really pretend
when the trees whisper
the wind chills
and the world outside your door
disappears behind a veil of oblivion
that you do not shiver?
Do you deny
that when your mind fills the shadows
with the predators from your deepest imagination
and makes every sound a footstep
that you look over your shoulder?
Or that you don’t – for fear you might be right?
Do you not feel
your muscles contract
and the tension ratchet
until you are little more
than a coiled spring of pure terror?
Did you ever really believe
that you stopped being afraid of the dark?
And do you really think
that light-bulbs will save you?
