Archive

The Scale of the Universe – An Interactive Flash Animation

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Yaarr, a brings ye a treasure o’ the scientifical world. If ever ye’ve looked up at the stars, or into the gapin’ mouth of a whale ye’ll no doubt have pondered ye own inconsequence in the greater scheme o’ the universe. Contrariwise, if ye’ve ever emboldened yeself by looking down on a whelk or weevil ye have likely somewhat overstated ye importance.

The Scale of the Universe – An Interactive Flash Animation.

This charming Flash animation gives ye some proper perspective on where ye sit in the matter of the cosmos. She takes ye from the inconceivably dinky to the unfathomably vast (‘cos the number o’ fathoms’d be vast – obviously we’re in the process o’ fathomin’ the bugger. I was not intendin’ to suggest we’d be unable to fathom it. It’s just big ye damned pedant. I wanted to call ye a pendant).

Makes me wonder what kinds o’ terrifying beasties live further up and down ye scale, both at them smaller than me own eye can see and larger than I’d know I were lookin’ at.

The Primeval Entertainment

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Oh the horror of humanity. Their dreadful lowing as they mimble incompetently. The noisome clots of mankind, reeking enthusiastically. Their hateful prattle drove me to a killing spree. But all the murders in the borough could not salve the fire in my mind ignited by their endless empty chatter. Even my habitual practice of mounting their husks in rustic dioramas with concentric alphabetised rings of their innards could not calm me. My hands were bloodied and shaking; I could not even drink to satisfaction. In despair, I fled into the past, to a time free of man babbling without cease.

The time tunnel flared and spun around me. I gripped my time hamster a little too tightly and the universe streamed past, like an over-watered horse. The tunnel whirled and squeezed us out into a puddle of Earth’s past.

There in a world before time was sliced into a dial, numbered, named and made man’s I found love. I met Oo-nag. We met dramatically. I: twelve feet above the ground gazing down through the netting that suspended me. She: spear in hand, clubbing me to a quietude. When I awoke the first thing I noticed were the filthy fingerprints marring my formerly spotless overcoat. Displeasing. However, my second vision of note was the frustrated slapping of fingers and fists in a pre-vocal exchange of thoughts. Using mime, and my  Tesla-shiv I made it known that I was a stranger here, akin to a god and that worship would be both appreciated and the best way to evade further jabbing with my ‘lectrickal stick. These intriguingly foul creatures were clearly some ancient cousin of humanity, though few and wretched in number.

Oo-nag soon came to my attention as the least backwards of these shadowy apes, and I took her as my cave bride. Her name I derived from her bestial expression and the clacking of her knuckles upon the ground. The ceremony was as primitive as one might expect although I did attempt to imbue it with some dignity. True, her features might have been as well-defined as a Welsh slag heap; her hair a jungly thatch of diseased creepers; an odour to shame the working man. And yet… and yet indeed. She was mute, silent save for the odd emphatic grunt as are all of her troglodytic clan. I dressed the apish folk in coat and tails, but to little avail; they ate the hats and chased the tails in circles. We lived together happily, she in her dank cave and I in the luxurious if ungainly two-wheeled apartment which I’d stolen from the future. It was an idyllic life. I micro-waved the animalcules out of the hunted and gathered food while my wife cracked open the ashy bones and gnawed the marrow from them.

I believe that for a time I was happy. They were brutish folk but blissfully silent. The sole exception being their lusty matings. They lacked even skill in that matter – ‘tis a wonder their breed’s breeding bred a brood at all. Perhaps this is why men of my time have their manly parts in a visible region – to avoid such pointless spatterings. Their inept rutting drove me to distraction and I set out to educate them in effective mounting.

Their improbable procreative plumbing directed my task towards diagrammatical education. They had crude finger-painting sludge with which they marred their cave walls. I introduced them to paint brushes and oils, and then I shoved them out of the cave before they ate too much of it. I barricaded the cave mouth so that my creation of their Gentlemen’s Guide to Cave Swiving would be spared their curious interruptions. They grunted and thumped in disgruntlement for the barring of their wretched hovel.

Night had fallen and the sun risen before I finished my works. My illustrations of their prehensile recursive appendages and the proper manner for intimate interlocution with their ab-organed wives was complete. The manimals had fallen silent after some hammering in the night. Clearly they had finally realised the importance of my investigation for the sake of their race. Even though it had required that I retain an ageing mating pair (Mrrrungel and Neh) to meet Mr and Mrs Scalpel. Their exploded organs had been well sketched by my fair hand on the walls of their cave. It would undoubtedly improve their chances of offspring and improve the smell.

I knocked down the wall of mammoth bones, brambles and mud (a superlative barricade emulsifier). I… may have become absorbed in my work… the happy hearth area outside the cave was a bloodbath. Scarlet pools with hairy limbs and tatters of face  scattered about like a dreadfully neglected beach. I stumbled out aghast into the massacre blinking in the bright sun, just in time to see Oo-nag. I hailed her and she turned to me with a quieting finger upon her lips. Silly girl, she hardly makes a sound anyway. I cried out and bounded towards her, bursting with enquiry.

A shadow fell across the plain. Its owner followed – a vast scaly lizard face descended and toothily snatched off my mud-maiden’s head. Her torso blundered, comically animate until it too was hoicked aloft and consumed. This was a disappointing outcome.

Filled with rage I bellowed at the monstrous reptile and jabbed it with my prickling staff, blasting the beast with Tesla’s art. It squealed and fled, its legs on fire. Damn them, damn them all. My work – wasted. This last pocket of proto-humanity snuffed out by beast-lizards – and all because they were incapable of modulating their throaty choking into a simple cry for help. Curse their baffling biology – were they better prepared to copulate I’d have had no cause to sequester their monster-proof cave.

I resolved to slaughter their butchers, those monsters that rendered my sketchings and study worthless. I, a scholar without subject, a husband without lady-apery. And so it is, many aeons later that we no longer have tortoises. My apologies.

The Dancing Adventure

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Allow me to relate to ye the tale o’ Alan and the giant. Burly he were, and rough and tumble in manner except for his feet. Childlike would be the kindest way to describe ’em, for they were minute and soft with the daintiest nails o’ which ye could conceive. Defining his tasks aboard ship’s tricksy – his bulk made him a fine marauder, and his twinkle-toes were ideal for dancing. Every third moon he’d combine the two in ye pirate dance-off contest.

For many years now ye buccaneer’s boogie had been the highlight o’ the seasons held down at Captain Spim’s Honolulu Boogaloo Hut, up Knifer’s Creek way.Gaaargh, twas a dance to the death. Halibut Harry (a man rank with fishy pores) was the judge at the end o’ the springy months when we returned from sea and tossed Alan into ye dancin’ pit. I’d high hopes o’ victory and wrestin’ ye ivory dancin pump back from Captain Aaaarsbeard.

Just before Alan’s opponent leaped into the pit I’d one of me hilarious premonitions o’ doom. Knives and fire danced before me eyes and cruel mocking laughter filled me ears. Less than a second’s fraction later there came a “ho ho ho” and a vast figure of a man parted the crowd like butter and stepped into the pit. Me heart thumped; Alan’s failed. Now he were a brave lad, make no mistake: he’s taken down men as wide but never so tall. Over ten foot tall at me best reckonin’, for his head pierced the open mouth o’ the pit. Perhaps he came from foreign lands where they prized his unnecessary heightitude.

Quickly the jiggy-bout was over. Right out of ye flutey gate (ye tempo was set by a hammers and metal bars and ye melody fluted o’er the top) Alan ran up the giant’s back, his delicate feet carefully placed to ride his knobbly spine. So swift was Alan’s ascent and so dainty his step that the giant barely noticed till it was too late. Tip-tap tippy tap: Alan’s tap-shoe clad feet slammed and punted into his foe’s head and shoulders. Unless ye’ve been slapped about the head with them steely toe-tips ye’ve no knowin’ of the harm they wreak. Virtuoso style Alan skipped and spun to the flighty flute-tune, every step an elegant kick to the skull and testament to his skill.

We were silent as the music tailed away, and Alan’s mount swayed in memory of his pounding. Xylophones burst into life to sound the end of the contest and the giant collapsed. Ye could not believe the roar of approval and applause as Alan nimbly hopped from the falling giant to the pit’s lip and landed in a plie. Zealously we guarded him as we seized up the ivory dancing pump and our rum reward.

The Cloistered Entertainment

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

I was rousted from my slumbering bower by a titanic shrieking. The previous evening I’d taken to bed amidst the trees following an indulgence of absinthe and laudanum. The tree I presume, must have presented the best vantage when surveying the territory for tigers and other beasts which might offer untimely wounding. That said I could not imagine how I’d mastered it; the tree rose up above a less towering but still imposing wall of stone which held within it gardens, paths, dwellings and doubtless the source of the banshee wailing. My clothes, or lack thereof I could not account for. Nor the brassiere and manacles which encircled my slender, yet manly waist.

The act of discovering my near-nudity was sufficient to tumble me hand over toe from branch to leaf and finally to earth with a thump. Praise be the analgesia of opiate drowsing. So I was able to gain footing despite the probable bruising, sprain and fracturation I’d likely endured. From my limb tangle I arose in the presence of ladies. Or at least I thought them ladies, their convent attire did their figures little credit, and their hullaballoo was more vulture than vestal virgin.

Nonetheless I do prefer to shave and dress before greeting clergy, for they are wild and bewildering folk, prone to unnatural abstinence and raving. I realised it would be difficult to make a good impression in my state of undress, and made the concession of shrouding my excitable young gentleman in the capacious hollow of the ladies’ mallow-garb which otherwise batted him. This did little to soothe my morning amour but did serve to shield most of the dapper chap from the greedy eyes of the clucking nuns into whose tree I’d trespassed. They had dimmed their clamour somewhat and ringed me with an air of expectation. I was powerfully aware of my inopportune priapism. There seemed only one way to distract the spiritual harpy maidens.

“Behold,” I cried – my eyes red-rimmed and wide, “I have come unto ye like an owl.” They seemed ill at ease with my pronouncement; their pursed lips of confusion begged for elaboration. “Yea, an owl. For I fly by the light of the moon with wisdom and a taste for mice my weapons. And lo, my head doth revolve at least part-way round.” I was beginning to get through to them. “Does a mouse flee from its winged foe by instinct, or fear of a love unnatural twixt them? And so, fear not my feathered fronds for you have minds and a will of sorts. My feathers are but motes in the skies of chance; this is the beak of a man and to ye I have come.”

It is within the realm of possibility that I had not made myself entirely clear for their ecclesiastical squawks resumed. Such is the nature of revelation. The penguine women clustered about me. Their monochrome garb menaced the polychromatic joy of my hazed morning mind-fever. I had descended too swiftly, and the fruits of my concussion and hangover were overwhelming me. I plunged into darkness as they grew near.

I awoke a second time enchained within the convent. This was either a very bad, or a very good thing. I was grateful that I at least bore still the ladylump-lifter for they’d spread-eagled me despite my claims of owl-hood. The room was spare, much as I’d expected but the handsomely erect cruciform gentleman on the wall was a surprise. I distinguished a chanting from the rattling of my chains (myself of course, striking for freedom). The fervour was with the nuns, though not for their Lord. They had had a dry spell for visitors, or so the crone crouching by the cot croaked into my ear.

It was to be a day of short shocks and surprises; I’d not even noticed her presence till she hissed into my aural canal. Her tone and visage quite competed to deflate my rousing charm against the uncloaked ascetics eager to reject their vows. And yet I could not but endure her ear-tonguing whispers. Nor could I refuse the monastical parade that carouseled through my room all  day and night. It probably would have been impolite. I was fed and watered, that I might prolong their licentious festival. And also soothed with balms, ointments, unguents and creams when rasped too far.

Eventually they wearied of me, though by then I’d fallen into the gap between the twin stools of delirium and epiphany from their monastic moaning and cloistral coitus. My final waking was to being unshackled, clothed and supported in hobbling to the convent wall. There I was eased up a ladder and with a gentle shove thrust over the wall’s edge.

I’d been rudely treated, of that I had no doubt. Due to my periods of exhausted slumber I’d never be sure of the depths of the nuns’ depravity. However, the Papal Bull issued a month later which declared them ‘Satan’s Sweetmeats’ certainly implied that it had been a fine evening.

I’d recently amassed a considerable fortune in the underground city of Nottingham. Their love of the gambling and remedial grasp of counting had quite undone them. I took their pennies and left them to the vile stench of their troglodytic tanneries. On an impulse I snapped up the ailing convent and established the first Grande Maison of Infamy. The ex-nuns’ gratitude has never abated; they kept their beds, and kept them warm. For there are those who seek out such rude treatment.

The Missing Metacarpal Adventure

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Gaargh, No Hands Mick’s one of me oldest mates, and me truest friend. We’ve endured both peril and pleasure together; fondled, plundered and squealed like girls in the face of danger. His life’s a testament to the dangers of ship-board life and his hands if he had any, would finger the poorly completed accident book.

When first we met I was but a scrap of a lad, making me name as a lad-ye-goes-to-when-there’s-a-thing-ye-wants. Aye these were the days before we had words for things and had to adopt the Teutonic habits of paragraph-long job titles.  Me business card was the size of a cartwheel. It hindered me trade but once I’d nailed it to a cartwheel all was well.

One bright day I was plying me trade in the whoring district of Onomatopoeia Peninsula. Twas a trying place where the local dialect supplemented mime with expressive sound effects. Ye ‘ho-ho jiggly-squirt’ (night-lady to ye) quarter drew the sailors and merchants from afar and I was mostly spared the annoyance of orderin’ a mug of ‘glug-glug’ or a sandwich o’ ‘nom-nom gristle-crack’. Here I’d suffer only ye calls o’ what ‘slip-slap’ or ‘glom-glom-gobbly-spurt’ were on offer. There was a constant demand for ales and spirits, powders, unguents, potions, bandages, sandwiches, Vulcanised nether-garb, feathery-tickles and sherbert. All this and more I toted in me cart.

I arrived by Madame Bosombèrt’s Shoppe of Gargantuan Lady Spelunking with a fresh barrel of hog fat for their corsets. Tis a weighty thing, the lard of a pig so I lobbed a stone at the lad lurkin’ in an alley. The prospect of pence drew him out and his manly mitts were ideal for manhandling the oink-grease into the hookery. Mick was an accomplished travelling musician, down on his luck and denuded of music since hocking his cello for lodgings.

We chatted while shuffling the rendered piglet gunk into the ladies’ dressing chambers. Yarr, the sight of ‘em had me itchin’ for a harpoon. Like perfumed whales, lowin’ to one another in the local parlance o’ hoots and giggles. I was banging in the fat tap when Madame Bosombèrt herself bustled in, like a coach bearing down upon blind children. “Oho young Pigheart! Sweet Ignatius,” (she’d a misplaced fondness for me youth), “and a friend.” Her shadow fell across Mick. He flinched like a rabbit beneath an eagle. She snatched up his hands with delight, crooning softly to herself as she pawed his paws, like so: “Aaaaaaarrrrr,” (tis her soothin’ purr to which I attribute me own success with the ladyfolk), “get ye fingers in that grease lad.” Mick was rigid with terror, and not in a good way, him bein’ but young and unscholarly in the lady ways.

His lean fingers massaged hog fat into the mammoth miss’s midriff meat till she declared herself sufficiently slickened to be shod. Mick’s youthful hesitance faded away and he leaped at the chance to gird the girl in whalebone. His nimble fingers played a concerto up the knots and ribbons and he heaved it closed, forcing a pair o’ beluga whales to surface beneath Madame Bosombèrt’s chin. The poor lad could scarce draw his eyes from their creamy goodness.

And so Dextrous Mick the Finger Lad got two jobs in one day; ladies’ girdle-hitcher and carter’s mate. We competed for the monster maidens affections, jealous of their massive love muffins. Gaargh, to press and squeeze them titanic bosoms… Our rivalry was mostly jovial, yet our envy spilled into pranks and mild violence. It caused Mick to poison me rum so I crashed me cart into a handsome lass; the horse hat diminished her beauty and me rib count. Ahar, I hid lobsters in Mick’s britches and later woke at sea bound to an octopus. Aye, they were good times.

O’course the accident changed much of that. On that fateful day Madame Bosombèrt summoned him with some urgency. A fancy customer was making a special request: that they bind together at hip and shoulder a pair of wenches in mimicry of his fantasied Siamese twins. Aye, twas an unusual request, being both creepy and intriguing.

There was no trouble in enstrappin’ the lasses: Mick’s delicate digits kept ‘em gigglin’ as he pushed their kidneys into their lungs. Ye fetish came askew when the gentleman himself, one Arnold Hornthrust demanded that he be belted into his bucking babe bronco. Poor Mick was half into his Carrick Bend when the deviant gent’s desire overwhelmed him and he hurdled the knotted woman bundle erotically. He failed to note Mick’s hands trapped and twisting under his triad o’ lust. The moanin’ and thrashing was only three quarters pleasure as Mick was tossed and ground beneath their bound bulk. With an unhealthy crunch his hands, pressed white and numb against the writhing flesh twisted one way and he another. He was free, but with mitts so misshapen they seemed more crab than hand.

It took me twenty minutes o’ snap, crackle and pop to straighten his fingers out, and half that spent topping him up with rum. His dextrous paws had had a narrow escape and I bound ‘em with strips of pork bone (which I conveniently had about me person) so’s they’d not wriggle at night. Now, tis possible that were a slight error on my part for I’d also neglected to feed Rancid Albert, the mongrel dogmonkey who slept on and urinated from the roof of our cart.

Morning found Mick hungover and stumpy at the wrist. The poor lad was fairly devastated, but I cheered his ill mood with a bottle of rum and the finest implement man’s ever wrought upon this earth – the humble drinking straw. Twas a sad substitute for a fist full of fingers but with that same straw he retrieved his knuckles from Rancid Albert and bloodily avenged himself on Hornthrust, towards whom I directed Mick’s wrath. The colossal courtesans we courted lamented the loss of his fine fingers but he managed to prove himself otherwise dextrous enough: “look, no hands” became his cry in both love and war.

Pirate Pictures (from Nottingham Live)

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ahoy me splendid and not  at all scurvy hearties!

I had a grand time reading at Nottingham Live at The Maze last Friday. I was spinning my tales between acoustic sets upstairs (who were all marvellous) and got the opportunity to read one in ye big room downstairs (All Washed Up – a light tale of merkins and amputation).

While there me dear chap Mr Ralph Barklam captured me likeness in his magic picture box – I presents ’em here in the manner o’ a gallery:

Ye can find Ralph on Facebook and many of his photographs (witchcraft!) through the wonders of Google… he documents pretty much all exciting things in Nottingham.

Other stories enjoyed by ye crowd:

Shankilium – the Alloy of Angry Verse

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ah happy, the New Year has slunk over the edge of the calendar. It’s actually been a good start to the year. I missed Blue Monday entirely and it seems only fitting to catch up with some more bitter verse. Work has that effect. And frankly, if I weren’t writing this stuff down I’d be etching it on people’s foreheads with a sharpened bulldog clip. So yeah, enjoy!

If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

 

Tactile
Touch me,
Touch me.
I’ll kill you:
I’ll take your hands
And place them round your throat.
Not so light now,
Your feather touch
Fat hands.
Touch me.

 

Striving
Oh, it’s all about you
You’re the best you can be.
Too bad
That’s so far
Below the worst
That everyone else
Can be arsed to be.
Oh you…

 

Heart-Shaped Hole
If I cut out your heart
Don’t think
It’s because I don’t like you.
Let’s be clear:
I cut out your heart
So it wouldn’t beat.
It’s more than dislike.

 

Equal
Rude, rude and abrupt,
Condescending
Demanding.
You expect respect,
You don’t command it,
You don’t deserve it,
Rude, stupid and abrupt.

 

Arrogant Twat
Don’t stop believing that you’re right.
Deny the evidence.
Your reason is subservient
To your ego train.
You’ll never know whether
You’re right or wrong.

 

Hand Icing
There’s something in your face.
It looks quite amiss,
Physiognomy out of place.
Oh, that’s just my fist.
Glazed with my knuckle,
Makes me chuckle.

 

Two Plus Two Equals You
That sound,
(That you’re ignoring)
Is the sound
Of me informing you
That you,
Are erroneous.
Your premise,
And your conclusions,
Are false.

 

Team Work
You don’t listen
Because you’re talking.
You don’t understand
That what you’re saying
Is what I said,
Because your mouth is not an ear.
Oralear.

 

Alex Trepan in Midnight Shopping – Chapter 3 of 3 Jam and the Maiden

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

The gloom in the supermarket was broken only by light of the emergency exit signs. The soft green glow reflected off the shards of glass and shells that writhed in the ooze of jams. The crayfish seemed utterly absorbed in their gluttony and Alex figured he’d just watch for a bit and see if a plan presented itself to him. Clearly the shellfish wanted their jam back and were prepared to kill for it.

Alex was growing accustomed to the weird factor, until he leaned on the edge of the shelf and a hand slid on to his arm. That made him jump, but it only got worse when he followed the arm up into the staring dead eyes of the cashier girl, Maybe Alice. A yelp escaped his throat. Not too loud – he managed to suppress it by clamping his hand across his mouth. Not the one under Maybe Alice’s hand, but his right hand: the one holding the shopping basket. Now that was loud.

The sticky crusty mass snapped alert and roiled forwards – they advanced in a strawberry scented wave of tar. Alex fell back, struggling to keep his eyes off Maybe Alice and on the sluggish crawl. Abruptly, the crayfish seemed to give up the chase and coagulated into a dripping mound which rose into the shape of a man. It hissed and clacked at him, its arms made of chains of creatures reaching for him.

“More jam-filled man to eat? Ooh, such sweet meat,” the creature made a horrible gobbling sound and one of the smaller crayfish ran down its throat theatrically, “come to The Crayfish.”

Alex just knew it was capitalising itself. He felt obscurely grateful to have a name for the beast. As one of his mentors in South America had said: “name it, know it, kill it”. Excellent advice. Alex could feel strange tendrils of thought reaching for his mind. It was unlike any connection he’d ever had with another person. It was sharp, clicky and distinctly unpleasant. Its voice crooned into his head as the sound rolled into his ears like seashells being shaken in a bucket.

“Jam, jam, jammy jam-filled man. Come for my jam? Sweet sweety sweetened man make you soft softened edible mandible chew. Take you thoughts and send you out to get more. Have some jam.” It reached for him with its claws and mind, stretching out as more crayfish ran along its arms.

“Sorry mate, I’m more of a Marmite person.” A shriek of rage assaulted Alex’ mind so hard that he stumbled backwards. The mound of shell shuddered and spat angrily, ejecting a pair of jam-smeared crayfish at him. Alex snatched up the fork he’d stuffed into the basket and smashed them out of the air. While pretty damn slick, that may not have been the best possible plan: now he’d really annoyed the chitinous aggregation. It was hissing and moaning to itself, drawing in the two shattered projectiles.

With a garden fork in one hand and a basket full of firelighters in the other Alex felt like he’d been separated from an angry mob. Time to up the ante. He struggled with the child-proof cap of the barbecue lighter fluid – it spun endlessly under his sweaty palms. The Crayfish slid towards him with its gelatinous crawl. Alex gripped the bottle top in his teeth, bit and twisted; splashing lighter fluid down his t-shirt. Alex shook the fluid wildly at the encroaching molasses mass of crustacean. Half full, he threw the bottle at the beast. It stuck to the assemblage’s face. It didn’t seem to notice, but it paid more attention when he ripped open the packet of firelighters and tossed them into the jammy pile, followed by most of the lighters.

It continued to burble about jam in its own hideous way, trying to persuade him to have some too. Alex didn’t fancy that. Dave had had some jam, he didn’t turn out too well. And what about Maybe Alice? Had she been in on the jam ring too? It was getting worryingly close, though it had thankfully not tried flinging its composite crayfish at him. Alex flicked the wheel on one of the lovely transparent green lighters, twisted down the wheel to keep the flame on and turned it up to a huge ribbon of fire. Then he tossed it gently into the stream of fluid between him and The Crayfish.

The aisle went up beautifully. The lighter fluid had trickled into all the crannies of the crustaceaous monster and its every orifice was agape with flame. That distracted the crayfish. Alex dashed off for more bottles of lighter fluid, intent on burning the fucker out before the sprinklers kicked in. As in any good supermarket, the section he wanted had disappeared. Shit. He ran back with handfuls of match boxes and candles instead.

He tossed the match boxes half-open, spilling their igniting tips into the blaze. The candles were more disappointing – they tended to just stick to things and drip. But the lighters were melting and spraying fire, the firelighters were taking hold and the jam that saturated the aisle was bubbling and burning. In that horrid mess The Crayfish had collapsed and were desperately trying to escape their mire of fire. But the gummy filth clung to them like the mud of the Somme. They clawed their way on, as the fire licked at the shelves, tonguing the cardboard and plastic with flame. The flames were reaching Maybe Alice and Alex felt bad about leaving her there to burn with the freaky sea food. He seized her by the arm and heaved her still warm (re-warming?) body from the shelf, to find that there was only her top half left. Oh well, less to carry.

The signs that swung merrily from the ceiling were starting to catch fire and the sprinklers were ineffectually pissing on the conflagration. He headed for the fire exit. With a snap, crackle and pop, a length of crustacean chain flung itself up out of the flames. It scrabbled along the ceiling leaving sticky black stains on the alabaster tiles.

In genuine action man style, Alex kicked at the fire exit bars (it really hurt) and they gave way with surprising speed so that he fell through them and jarred his ankle on the ground. He dropped Maybe Alice and turned to close the doors. They’re really hard to close from outside – apparently it’s good form to leave them open – so Alex was trying to slam them shut when the tangle of blackened crayfish leaped from the ceiling into the gap between the doors. The lead crayfish was massive and gnarly, snapping its pincers at the Alex’ face. Alex smashed the doors together, kicking and slamming them over and over again, a pulp of chitinous ruin oozing out of the emergency crack.

A series of minor explosions inside made him step away from the gooey murder pile into the car park. The fire alarms had been going off for a while now, Alex realised, joined by rising sirens in the distance. He felt no desire to hang around and explain himself, or why there was half a woman outside the fire exit. Absently he checked her supermarket ID badge: Mary. Bollocks. The flames were reaching out of the windows now. Alex was hopeful that any evidence of his entirely justifiable but unbelievable arson would be destroyed. He walked out of the car park, brushing soot off his jacket and failing to notice that the rusty white van was gone. It was now 3 am so at least the ASDA down the road would still be open.

Pub Pirate

Posted on By Captain Pigheart
Pub Poetry - Open Mic Comic Lit

Ahoy me land-lubberised pals! Tis time for poetry and yarn-spinning of a comical nature while firmly ensconced in the embrace of a tavern. Aye – tis time once more for Pub Poetry and for ye residents of Burton on Trent and Nottingham tis a boon time for the soul.

First – Pub Poetry in Burton – this Friday 13th January at the Old Cottage Tavern in Burton on Trent. This is possibly me favourite event of the year. Twas some moons ago when I first read one o’ me tales to a drinking audience at one o’ these shindigs that I got a real love for reading them, and subsequently created Pub Poetry in Nottingham.

Second – Pub Poetry in Nottingham – next Monday 16th January at the Canalhouse in Nottingham. This is the one I compere in me host role from MissImp. I’ll also be sharing the odd tale for ye pleasure while mediating the ambitions of others. Looks like a fine turnout on the Facebook page so far.

They’re both wonderful events praising the funny and silly in poetry and prose. I’m as ever torn between what to read. I’m thinking: A Cold, Cold Night Adventure. It’s probably too late for the Santa’s Elf Adventure but you never know… I might even read some Shankanalia, though it seems a bit harsh for a nice event. Still, there’ll be fabulous ales on both occasions, since the Old Cottage Tavern has the fabulous Halcyon Daze and the Canalhouse the enviable Elsie Mo…

If you’re about it’d be grand to see you there, at either or both. Gaargh!

The Captain at Nottingham Live!

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ahoy music-loving mateys, I’ll be appearing at Nottingham Live’s music event at the Maze on Friday 20th January! Look – me name’s on ye poster!

Aye, pirate stories’ll be spattered amidst the cream o’ Nottingham’s musical talent. It be prodigious. We’re also addin’ a spot o’ improv comedy to kick off ye proceedings in the upper room.

Tis but three of ye modern pounds which is mockingly cheap.

19:30 – 1.00 Friday 20/01/12
The Maze: 257, Mansfield Road, NG1 3FT Nottingham, United Kingdom
 
Here’s some of ye musical talent:
[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/32424850″]
 
[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/32327021″]
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z64iaAh1F8E
 
And of course… MissImp

Alex Trepan in Midnight Shopping – Chapter 2 Prawn Ring

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Dave. It was Dave. The head was Dave. It was Dave’s head. His eyes were still moving. Alex could feel Dave looking at him, with a sharp but fading burst of fear. And the words “brain jam”. Dave’s face settled into a frown of confusion and a small pool of blood and prawns. Dave was the nicest security guard Alex had ever met. After his third visit they’d had a quiet chat to establish that Alex definitely wasn’t here to creep around Alice (almost certainly her name), the check out girl who always took the night shifts; he just had trouble sleeping. After that potentially difficult conversation Alex had bought some weed off him. And now here he was, Dave’s vital juices mixing with a product Alex would forever associate with Kerry Katona.

Cautiously Alex stood up and looked over to where Dave’s head had come from. (He’d assumed the traditional cringing posture when the fridge jumped.) The lights flared for a moment and then slipped inevitably into an unnerving horror film slow-strobe. Alex’ eyes kept being drawn to irrelevancies in the stuttering light – Aunt Bessie’s face beaming creepily over her Yorkshire puddings, Captain Birdseye smirking before being hidden in the thick blackness again. Alex heard a weird clattering noise circle him steadily up and down the adjacent aisles, like wooden cutlery falling down a spiral staircase. Now Alex wasn’t stupid, but he’d cheerfully admit that he wasn’t that bright either. Not bright enough to just walk away. Besides, Dave had always sold at a reasonable price and Alex figured he owed him something. In the flashes of darkness Alex heard a snarl and the clattering receded into the store.

The thing (Alex was trying really hard to persuade his brain that calling it ‘The Decapitator’ would not be in their best interests) sounded like it had headed for the bakery and spreadables section. And so that’s where Alex would be heading. Damn. Anything capable of tearing a man’s head off was bad news. Dave was a big chap too, in the mould of failed police applicant or ex-bouncer looking for an easier life in the store security game. Quieter than coppering, but it kept the kind of action you see around sports discount shops. Dave had certainly enjoyed taking chav shoplifters down. So this probably wasn’t a shellsuit-clad illiterate. And what was the deal with ‘brain jam’? Maybe that’s just how it feels when your mind is dying and all those half finished thoughts and sensations are jammed up with nowhere to go. Alex didn’t know how to feel about sharing Dave’s dying thoughts, but the fear felt like sound advice.

With that in mind Alex took precautions. He debated taking Dave’s head with him, and wondered why it had even occurred to him. He picked up his basket again and chose a circuitous route. Following the typical logic of supermarket layout, between frozen foods and sandwich spreads he was able to pick up a pack of disposable lighters, liquid barbecue lighter fluid, a garden fork and a torch, but no batteries. The fork was really hard to fit into the shopping basket but he managed to wedge the tines (surely they’re still tines even if they are a foot long) through the mesh. He also found sewing kits, recordable DVDs and shitake mushrooms in oil; they were less useful for now, but he noted their locations for future shopping trips. Carefully he crept around the croissants and the fresh crêpes.

The first thing he noticed were the feet. They were two feet (which is usual), but they were two feet, two feet off the ground. The intermittent gloom hesitantly revealed the rest of the body. Alex knew it was Dave from the faux-police epaulettes. And his missing head. Something was holding him up. The lights chose that moment to return; Alex craved the darkness. The, well – there were lots of things that leaped into Alex’ mind but he felt a sudden kinship with H.P. Lovecraft’s apparent inability to describe the nameless horrors in his stories. Alex went with ‘thing’. It took a while to resolve what he saw into sense. The ‘thing’ was a writhing mass of tiny crayfish swarming over each other in fountains of pincered shells, the flow creating a continuously tumbling and rising man. It manipulated the headless corpse like a ghastly toy.

As he snuck (snook? sneaked?) closer, crouching behind a stand filled with cookies and tiny muffins he realised that the collected crayfish thing was talking quietly to itself. It sounded like shells spilling down a slide. In the rattle and scrape he picked out a grinding spech.

“Oh Davey, oh poor Davey, couldn’t help us-selves could we Dave? Mmm, trusted Dave helping yourself to our jam. Oh dear, poor Dave. Lovely jam.”

Okay. Tesco; two in the morning; just Alex and a sack of mental crayfish. He reflected that his life had gone very badly wrong somewhere. The crayfish thing was still burbling to itself while puppeteering Dave’s body.

“Our brain jam. Not for the thieving. Just had to put it in the boxes and let it go. But no… you had to get a taste. Greedy Dave. Bad Dave. Selling our brain jam.” The crayfish waggled Dave’s body back and forth violently, like a child that wouldn’t stop crying. “Stupid Dave. We knew you took it. Shouldn’t have tried it. The jam’s ours. Could have worked out for you but no… Too greedy. No jam now. We’ll take it all back.”

Abruptly the heap of crayfish roared to itself and burst into a flood of scuttling which ran over and under shelving into the next aisle, taking just a moment to rip clawfuls of flesh off Dave’s body as it fell to the ground. They stuffed the clots into their mandibles without breaking stride. They were heading for the preserves. Jam. An almighty crash of glass followed. Alex stepped away from the tattered corpse of Dave. He was slightly glad the man’s head had already been removed. Hard to believe a drug dealing security guard was mixed up with a dodgy jam ring. Do drug dealers get their drugs from crustaceans? He’d never worried much about the chain before.

Alex peered round the corner at the sticky, glassy mess of jars and jam. It looked the tide had gone out and trapped the crayfish in glutinous heaps where they gorged on the goop. Clean up in aisle three.

Short Fiction and Writing Length

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Down there in the bullets are my super-tiny Twitter short stories from last year for @shortstoryday. Apparently it’s every December 22nd, so I guess now you’ve got lots of notice… I only found out about it several days afterwards and tossed a few in anyway. They retweeted one of ’em which was nice of them. It was fun, and tough.

  • A man came to my door. I killed him. Shame.
  • Time bent, and it was yesterday again.
  • The moon wavered above. Their eyes wide, it fell.
  • Surrounded by mermaids I sighed. I could handle perhaps five.
  • Night fell, and with it our hopes. Dawn never came.
  • Her dress was even shorter than her vows.

I usually write Pigheart stories at about 1,000 words. That’s something like 7 and 1/2 minutes when read out loud. It’s a fun length to scribble for and has me brutally editing the entirely unfunny bits. Good discipline I reckon. But I’ve found I want to write longer stories now, but I feel like I need permission. I’m not sure from who. Me I suppose. Granted. The new Galaxy Team and Alex Trepan stuff which has infested my mind of late is tending to be much longer – Goodbye Mister Bimbolino was nearly 6,500! Big stuff for me. We’ll see how it goes. The new Trepan is going to be half that length (I think).

I’ve also found fun in much shorter stories (not Twitter short though!) with the website theshortestfiction.com which I found on Facebook. They’re encouraging stories of <=300 words. It’s a nice length for creating, though I’m not yet convinced you can really do a story in it. They give you a selection of pictures to inspire you and then it’s up to you. There’s a nice mix of stuff on the site and it’s easy to interact with. I’ll probably keep posting them here as well so I can make pretty pictures of my own. (I reposted the first one here, with a Cthulu-ish beast shot and a few more words.) Warning – the 300 word counter is weirdly buggy and it won’t let me have more than 292. It’s a nice way of provoking stories.

You can find my stories here: http://theshortestfiction.com/users/nick .

Do you have a ‘natural’ story length? Do you write at random? Does it all just come to life perfectly for you? Well that’s nice. No seriously, I’m curious…

Alex Trepan in Midnight Shopping – 1 of 3 – Shopping and Shouting

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Alex slammed his front door behind him and stormed into the street, his mind full of other peoples’ anger. Fucking terraced houses. Great for saving a few quid on gas by absorbing the heat of your neighbours but the walls were paper thin and it made everyone’s life your own. Tonight, both sets of couples had enjoyed blazing rows. From the left (25) Alex had endured hours of shouting; the booming tones of the guy and the screechy wailing of his harpy. They had followed that up by throwing stuff. In the right corner (21), Elaine and her current man Kevin (they were all on nodding terms for hedge trimming) had gone from spitting vitriol at the tops of their voices to angry, bitter sex with no noticeable change in tone. You can only turn the television up so far.

Finally, unable to contain the four-pack of anger, anguish, bitterness and bile Alex had simply left the house. The psychic backwash trailed behind him as he walked down the street, clinging to him and irritating cats who prowled through the stream. There were a few benefits to being highly empathic, all negated by living near other people. When Alex was much younger and the voices started he’d thought he was going mad. Eventually he realised that everyone else was mad and he was just listening in. That was after he’d put holes in his skull though.

Ideally Alex would find a lovely chalet on a hilltop, or near a stream. In the middle of nowhere. One day he’d be able to flee all that pointless mental jabbering. Sure, he’d learned a few mantras which helped to block it out, but meditating with mantras blocks everything out and sleeping tablets do that just as well. But Alex didn’t like the next day fuzziness of pills, like walking through a squeaky polystyrene landscape. So instead he put up and made quite a lot of noise to himself about it. Occasionally his talents were actually helpful, though in order to focus on anything other than the general vibe of another person they had to be getting really passionate. Alex was good at winding people up to that point; it’s why he often had a black eye. What he excelled at was recklessness; Alex was unsure whether trepanning himself had preceded or succeeded his ability to do stupid things.

The cold night air helped to shift the useless load of their minds and the headache that had swollen all evening was dissipating. Alex had no desire to return home where the lovebirds were likely fucking each other to death and number 25 were onto the power tools. Deep inner sigh. Deep outer sigh. The roads were dead so he took the opportunity to amble down the dashed white line like a teenager with an iPod. He was startled out of his reverie by a rust speckled white van that came out of nowhere, honked like a bastard goose and swerved across the road and off up into town. The sudden adrenaline boost got him to the pavement in an accelerated heart beat. Great, now Alex was even more awake. In his newly hyper-alert state he briefly noticed the slick of water left in the van’s wake and the faint scent of brine: “hope the dick drowns in it”. He grumbled further about how terrible white van men were, mainly spouting old clichés since he’d little experience in dealing with anyone who performed a useful trade in society.

In theory he could wander the streets like a lost stalker or go a bit further and fall over in a field. All night Tesco was his only hope. When you need to shift someone else’s bullshit only retail therapy will do the trick. Initially Alex had scorned the rise of the twenty-four hour supermarket as further evidence of how depressing humanity had become. The very idea that someone would choose to shop at two in the morning. Absurd. Alex dropped in at least once a week. It was a boon for the insomniac driven insane by twenty-four hour news. It had become a private nocturnal playground for Alex.

The car park was almost empty, save for a handful of staff cars and that bloody van. Hopefully it was just a seafood delivery and the store’s karma wouldn’t be upset. He pushed through the sea of trolleys into the glaring capitalist wasteland. The land was covered in its comforting blandness of produce, populated by desperate brands begging for his notice. He felt like the Snow Queen of Narnia, roving the aisles of excess in search of something new, something special to turn into stone. Ooh, Turkish Delight. He relished wandering the forest alone, finding peace in the gentle buzz of the lights and hum of the refrigerators.

From a distant part of the store came the sound of breaking glass. Alex chuckled to himself at the thought of Mr Beaver being told off by Mrs Beaver over some Dolmio-related mishap. He fought the sudden urge to cheer – this wasn’t a bar. Or if it was, it was the kind with no customers, and no staff either. There was always a skeleton crew lurking somewhere, smoking outside the fire escapes and avoiding the harsh fluorescent glare that robbed them of their diurnal rhythm. But not tonight. Perhaps it was spirits re-stocking time at the far end. Alex didn’t really care though; he’d had his fill of people.

He moseyed past the frozen foodstuffs, marvelling at the life-bestowing properties of Omega-3 in fish fingers and how delightful the lives of chicken breasts must have been before they became chicken breasts. He could never quite avoid the image of the bucket of chicken heads and spines being pounded into nuggets. He was so intent that he missed the next few breakages and the first flicker of the lights. There was an astonishing selection of party foods which thoroughly distracted him, so vile did they seem. He was half tempted to buy some and burn off the adrenaline shakes with grease.

He noticed the next crash of glass though. The vertical freezer rammed tightly with prawn rings bounced up in the air next to him before smashing back down, scattering glass and tiny crustaceans everywhere.  This was not just bad shelf stacking, this was sackably poor shelf stacking. It had frightened the living crap out of him, along with his headache. So that was good. The human head that bounced over the top of the freezer wasn’t.

New Year’s Resolutions

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Gaargh, normally I refuse to partake in absurdity of hoping for improvements in the comin’ year. However, last year took it’s toll in crewmates and less plunder than I’m happy with. So, here be me ten resolutions for 2012. With luck I’ll not fail ’em all.

  1. Lose no further appendages or sensory organs. I’m runnin’ low on both.
  2. Reduce monster-related fatalities ‘mongst the crew by at least one per beastie.
  3. Seek romance twixt sky and sea.
  4. Discover ye cheese thief on board the Grim Bastard.
  5. Invest in the odd experiments o’ Gunther Garment (me sawbones) in hopes of revitalisin’ me leg, perhaps in a frogsome manner.
  6. Eat more pickled limes and stave off scurvy for another twelve-month. Yarr, they’re so vile yet nutritious.
  7. Construct a stronger liquor cabinet, mayhap in the guise of a dragon.
  8. Find a way to see me mermaid love child without resortin’ to drowning.
  9. Stop chasin’ rainbows.
  10. Get a decent unicorn hat. I feels I’ve earned one.

Shankalline Structures – the Salts of Irritable Poetry

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Sure, Christmas is a time for good will and all that. But it’s also a time to look back on the year and consider the reasons for your present embittered state. Most of these will be work related. It’s never wise to give up on those negative emotions. Perhaps you’ve managed to package them for friends and family in the form of a disappointing gift. Well done, your curmudgeonly spirit willl inspire angry verse in them. And so a creative outlet is created.  So here are some more of my poems generated by idiocy and without this Twitter stream to poetically piss in I’d explode. If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

How Nice That You Came To See Me
When I see your face,
A terrible despair
Sweeps through me.
Your visage of impending dumb
Hollows me fearful.
Idiotic portent,
Panacea blade.

Lost in Thought
Bitterly mumbling,
Bumbly stutter witter,
Trifling ignorance,
Blinkered gibbering fuckwail,
Ghost of a clue,
Phantasmagoria
Of foundering thought.

Professional
O the consternation on your face
That moue of confusion
Crumpled puzzlement
How sweet were you a child
And not someone
Who should understand.

Friendship
Jabby stab
Cut your dead weight
From off my back
Hacky slash
Your futile weight parts
Cutty cut
Your body’s eviscerate
Drippy splat
Blood pool.

When I See You I Think…
Your head’s so round and shiny;
Balleseque.
Suited for kicking.
A boot (so shiny) to meet,
With force,
The crackable,
Shatterable,
Shiny skull.

Mathematics of Hate
Innumerate,
Dyscalculate,
Retard fuck,
Your numerals are on the fucking wall.
Can you read them?
Add them up,
Subtract your life,
I’ll fraction your soul.

Aural Imposition
Cough
Splutter
Crunch
Beep
Your sonisphere oppresses my bubble of peace
Your discord
My effervescent hate
Cutyacutaycutya
Not so noisy now.

Pot of Gold
Can you taste the rainbow
Arc of skull colour,
Face juice,
Blood,
And mucous?
Brain jam on the tiles.
Messy little devil,
Hope you’ll clean up now.

My Grandfather’s Book

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

In my grandfather’s attic there was a chest. A simple, wooden box banded with brass. Locked, but no match for an enquiring mind and a screwdriver. Within I found a book, bound in a curious soft leather and containing scrawls of a language I could not read and the hasty, agitated notations of my grandfather. Those I could read.

The book spoke of the Elder Gods who nestled in the dark and cold of space, cocooned in the holes between the stars. They were creatures from outside of our time. They were here before our universe and would return to claim it.

Madness. I placed the book on a shelf and forgot about it.

It didn’t forget about me though.

The dreams began weeks after I’d touched its pages. I would wake up cold with sweat, shaking at the after-images of the ancients unfurling their wings across the horizon, tentacles coiling around the Moon and drawing it to the Earth.

At work I’d collapse as my colleagues’ flesh evaporated in a roar of steam; the building crumbled; the very air howled out of the crevices humanity had hidden itself in. All sucked into the maw of the unimaginable creature drinking the life out of our atmosphere.

I could not bear to sleep, I couldn’t handle work. I returned to the book. Where grandfather’s writing had once seemed legible it paled now into foreign sigils. The formerly dark mysterious script beneath it danced before my eyes, its meaning apparent and awful.

The Gods were returning, my dreams merely a taste of things to come. Our life was an insult to their own. An insult to be repaid in pain and fear.

That night they came for me. They insinuated their way into my apartment, took my body from me and bound it to their will.

The dreams are gone now. I don’t need them anymore. I know what’s coming, and so will you. Soon.

Posted for fun in a 300 word format on: TheShortestFiction.com

Pulp Pirate 4 – Guestisode! Accursed Christmas

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Gaargh, one o’ me proudest lootings this year has been getting to know the pulp wizards of  Flash Pulp. Tis an especial Christmas thrill to get an episode of me own.  I recorded me Accursed Christmas tale for Flash Cast – a story of zombies and festive good cheer, leprosy and pragmatism. Enjoy! I have no words to express me gratitude. I’ll plunder for ye, snare merwenches, frot with dangerous beasts and write ye poetry – name it. Merry Christmas to Flash Pulp and the Flash Mob.

You can listen to it here: [audio http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest002.mp3]

Guestisode #2

Captain Pigheart’s Santa’s Pirate Elf Adventure

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

A haunting jingle hung in the frosted air – the shadow of Christmas darkenin’ ye snow. I gazed up into the sky, wonderin’ if we’d seen the last o’ the malevolent elves who had demanded the return o’ their handicraft. We’d assured ‘em that owing to Santa’s confusion twixt ‘naughty’ and ‘nautical’ we’d been off the nice list for years. I stepped to me cabin and it was Sam Knacker who took the unexpected blow to his face. Gaargh, luck had guided the tumbling box, for Sam were fractionally softer than the icy deck. It flew open on impact; a sudden fountain of unravelling ribbon whipped away by the wind. The ribbon wrapped about poor Sam’s ankle and whisked him overboard. His end was near, so try not to be too concerned.

Gingerly, I booted the frozen papier-mâché mess into me cabin. I laid it upon me desk and parted the jolly fronds with me hook. A squeak of alarm issued from both our lips, though I masked mine with a manly cough. Twas a tiny person, perhaps the height of me peg leg garnished in green felt and glitter. Twere a she (I’ve experience in such discernation) and her little pointed ears twitched nervously. I gave her me reassuring croon (like so) which soothed her. With rum and a woollen mitten to englove her she defrosted and shared her words.

Continue reading Captain Pigheart’s Santa’s Pirate Elf Adventure

Pulp Pirate 3

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

FC47 Spielbergian WhimsyAhar, Christmas is almost upon us and so ye Christmassy yarns’re wheeled out once more for ye aural pleasure. Ye can here Captain Pigheart’s Little Christmas Tale on  Flash Pulp‘s latest FlashCast FC 47 Spielbergian Whimsy alongside even more fantastic articles, pulp film and many other marvels. It’s truly illustrious company and ye captain’s honoured to be included. Plug it in ye ears.

You can listen to it here:

Flash Cast 47

http://flashpulp.com/

http://skinner.libsyn.com/rss

http://itunes.apple.com/podcast/flash-pulp/id367726315

Merwenchery: a Guide to Consorting with Mermaids

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ahar mates, tis ye noble Captain Ignatius Pigheart here to advise ye on matters o’ affection. Ye may address me as Captain Loveheart.

Of What We Speaks

Tis o’course that finest love which a man may feel that I speaks of today. Aye, the feelings that a mere gent of ye kind should be wracked with when ye catch that salty tang in ye nostrils (assumin’ ye’ve not sacrificed ye schnozzle to the arctic fogs, in which case I advise ye inhale deeply and roll ye scents around ye mouth). Tis the pinnacle o’ bestiary perfection, ye mermaid. Aye, for though they be the things o’ folklore and madmen rantin’ in taverns, and sometimes even a drunk’s explanation for why they were found pinned beneath a dugong, they are the most beautiful creatures in the sea. Ye might offer in contest the dolphin, the parrotfish, the deep sea angler. And yet me friends, have they bosoms? Nay, they do not. And that should suffice to explain the feelings that even now must be a-stir in ye breast and manly regions.

Bear ye compass down on a Merwench

First, how may a pirate or louche gentleman such as yerself find, and attract a fishy lass? Tis a troublesome affair if ye heartstrings be not tuned to the scaly whisper o’ her heartbeats. If they be, the very pulse of the sea’ll beat in ye skull, directin’ ye wheelspin and the tilt of ye draught. Tis a warmin’ within for the cold touch of the marvellous merlass.

Otherwise I commend to ye a lifetime o’ crawlin’ the oceans with hope in ye heart and rum in yer belly. There’ll be naught in this life to bring ye joy. Perhaps ye should nuzzle ye temple with ye pistol’s muzzle.

Merladiery Happenstance

Should ye chance upon a merwench while stranded tis a fine opportunity to throw yeself upon her mercy. If ye piteousness and her loneliness be equal upon the great scales o’ romance tis likely ye fish lust’ll be assuaged. Drowning’s a ploy ye might advance upon with some likelihood of success. They’ve a fondness for the lack o’ swimmability in ye common man. They might steal ye last breath for bubbles, but at least ye’ll have tasted her sweet lips. With luck she’ll whisk ye off to her nethersea cave for divers pleasures. Returnin’ from ye undersea realms is a tricky matter. Tis possible ye’ll die there.

Tis a different matter indeed if ye nets once cast draw in a wench o’ piscine persuasion. Ye may find her less thrilled than yourself to be roughly dumped with a slew o’ fish upon your deck. I advise ye make yer apologies and your cabin available to the lady. Your natural charm and handsome features’ll doubtless turn her to ye. There be a certain school o’ thought recommending capture and the loves that may form through fear… Tis not to be borne me friends. Aye, for love comes to ye – she should not wish to escape ye hooked embrace.

Wooin’ at Ye Merlass

When ye encounters a mademoiselle de mer in her habitat naturelle, ye should account yourself with honesty and courage. And yet salt ye bravado with sweetness and an enticin’ manner. Ye fishwench’re a teasin’ folk and enjoy ye romantic overtures. Try a gentle croonin’, tis sure to reassure her that ye be not a shark or crocobeast. They are romantic creatures. If ye manner be the opposite of a be-toothed manatee or pond-barracuda then ye be one step ahead already.

Aaarr, beasts o’ stroking and rubbin’ they be. Ye might consider detachin’ any battle or needlework prosthetics before engagin’ in the writhin’ magics o’ love. Tis considered rude, as with ye land lasses, to pierce ’em by accident. Now ye’ll find a mermaid’s anatomy curious (though tis doubtless the incitement of ye love keening). Being a gentleman I’ll not dwell on the mernethers overmuch, save to note that once ye go fish ye’ll never seek another dish.

Here Endeth The Lesson

So that’s ye lesson for today. I hopes ye manage to cool ye ardour betwixt a mermaid’s fins, but if ye do not – fear not. Ye be but a common man with no features special enough to draw their salted mackereline amour upon ye. There’s no shame in it, and I recommend to ye a night in Lady Taschewitche’s House Of Curious and Unlikely Love. Tis located but a few moments stroll from this hall – mention Captain Loveheart and receive a night’s womanticore attention for a shilling.

Further Readin’, for the Scholars ‘Mongst Ye

The Mermaid Adventure – surely the most romantic wooery ever conducted twixt man and fishgirl.

The Exquisite Mermaid Adventure – some hint of ye consequences o’ lying with a merlass.

An Amourous Adventure – a short re-tellin’ of oceanic conquest.

 

Shankanostrophy – the Imminence of Terse Verse

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

So, work’s been good… As evidence, I’ve only written a few new tiny poems. I like the lack of editing which the Twitter process allows (fitting it in between spreadsheet refreshes and screaming silently at the telephone). I don’t know about you but I get incredibly angry and overheat if I don’t find some vent. Apparently it’s not considered the done thing to shank your cube mates with an HB. If you want this sort of aggressive wordery immediately, follow @shankanalia on Twitter. Otherwise I’ll randomly upload a bunch here.

Warm To The Touch
Your heat makes me sweat,
Dampening me,
Dripping on my anger coil.
Drip drip,
Irritation,
Explosive chemistry,
Heat makes me punch you.

Clarity
No, you’re wrong.
You’re almost right, and you think you’re right.
But you’re not – you’re wrong.
If you’re right then I’m wrong.
I’m not.

Cranial Onomatopoeia
CRACK!
The sound of your skull
As it bounces off the steps.
Yes, I’ve detached your unused brain case
And kicked it down the stairs.
CRACK!

Process
Log off
Log on
Restart
Reboot
Unplug
Replug
Draw sword
Slash down
Hack
Gut
Smash
Stamp
Punch
Kick
Hurl
The pieces make effective shrapnel.

How Nice That You Came To See Me 2
There’s something about your smile,
That makes me shrink away;
There’s something about your laugh,
That makes me cringe inside.
I don’t want to die.

A Match Made In Heaven
My fiery passion ignites your soul.
Sweet tinder heart,
You are fuel to my fire.
Conflagration delicto.
Husky burned love hole.

Own It
Is it you or is it me?
I’m guessing,
Only guessing,
A shot in the dark,
A child in a well,
The stars to a blind man,
Kisses for a troll…
It’s you.

Octagoring
We thought of using a system,
No one’s done this before,
We each created one of our own,
And rejected each others’,
Now we have twelve systems.

 

A Cold, Cold Night Adventure

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ye bitter twists o’ winter wrenched our sails about, shakin’ shard o’ ice onto the crew below. Twas a sound akin to dogs bein’ attacked by the Christmas tree they’ve so recently abused with their gnawin’. For my part I shivered in me cabin, furling yet another layer o’ blanket about me limbs. And payin’ especial attention to me stump ends, for the cold plays a special havoc with the joints which’ve no longer a benden’ segment to whom tis married.

Aye, I’d also  been tappin’ away at me special cask o’ rum. Tis the one we use to preserve the mates from whom Fate has withheld her favour. I grant, tis often their own failings which leads Miss Fortune to toss masts and toothy brutes at them. The latest miscarriage o’ justice was Ambrose De’Lentil. Yarr, we knew him as the drunk in the keel.

When I’d first seized the Good Ship Lollipop from her natural owners (though they’d never treated her right: she’d a coat o’ green and orange with sails o’ chequered puppies. I could have happily sunk her had I not found her wheel so spinny), old Ambrose had been hidden deep in the hull behind a bale o’ rotting tobacco and a stack o’ sodden rats. Twas a fortnight at sea before we noted a drop in the rum barrels, and the end o’ the moon before anyone penetrated the stinking barrier he’d become cocooned within.

He was a twitchy madman, toothless from rum sucking and black faced from chewing ye decayed tobac. It took a team of gaggin’ and retchin’ crew to drag the wretched drunk from out his moulderin’ hole. Me natural inclination was to heave him overboard as stowaway, but me pity caught up (tis a result o’ the moral growth I’ve sported as a consequence of the Isle of Letch’s nunnish sponge baths.) We’d a range o’ cages on deck for the restrainin’ o’ beasties such as we’d fancy eatin’ or tradin’, and Ambrose fitted neatly into the Asian Death Badger cage.

We watched him gibber and caper, drooling rope-like strands of black innards-grue. Twas hideous an’ yet captivating. The lads took to sittin’ about him in a ring durin’ their quiet times. They’d do little but stare, toss him the odd share of rum, and listen to his ranted drivel. On occasion a mate’d toss to Ambrose some bauble or other trinket in teasing. Though some items bounced off the vile hull tramp and lay ignored, or at least unsuckled, others he’d snatch up. His twisted black fingers with their sharply broken nails grasped at string, buttons or nails. He’d hoard ’em in his toothless face hole till he’d enough for his purpose.

Now while he was thus encumbered amusing the crew, Monty and Barry reported a sharp rise in the gnawin’ o’ holes in our barrels of provisions and the spoilin’ of foods. Tis a serious matter, and ye rats’d gotten the better of the vicious cats who’d previously pursued ’em across the ship. The beasts had grown massive and they bristled at man’s approach. We chose lengthy paths around the Lollipop to avoid their bitey trails. Twas a matter o’ much concern to all those of us who desired food and safety from the Doomrats of the Sea.

Ambrose had gathered sufficient ephemera to undertake his own unique magic. The lads were ever more likely to encircle him at night, for the rats were clearly afeard o’ the stenched fellow. His nasty claws wove the junk into tiny statues o’ mankind. With a globule o’ pitchy spit he daubed ’em each and the ship fell silent. Slowly, with minute twitches, as if seein’ a thing move from between fluttering eyelids of sleep, the miniature men came to a strange stuttering life. They picked themselves up and bared their tiny teeth. Ye crew were a mite spooked.

The little men stepped out of the firelight and scattered into the ship’s shadows. I know of not one man who slept a wink that night. Ambrose was content to chuckle to himself; a chocolatey giggle that spoke of a disease ridden body. A horrid sound, and one which we stoppered with rum. Despite our fear, alertness and definitely not sleepin’ we woke to a wall o’ rat carcasses around the Asian Death Badger cage. Aye.

The solution to our rat problem were inescapable. The insane filth-spattered raggedy man from the ship’s foulest corner had a power over them. His creepy soldiers prowled the ship by night and delivered their corpses to him. Me preference were that if ye devil’s work were to be done then it should be done belowdecks where we could forget about him. The Asian Death Badger cage we threw in the sea, infested as it was with the man’s reek – we’d no desire to infect one o’ those graceful beasts when we finally caught it. A trail of fish bobbed in its wake until we caught a fresher current.

And so we plunged on through the seas, adventurin’ and piratin’, and beneath our feet old Ambrose the Keel Drunk would be chewin’, drinking and dispatching his little golem to cleanse the vessel of rats. On rare occasions we’d roll a fresh barrel of rum down to him or a bundle of leaf. The next mornin’, or perhaps the next we’d find a neatly crocheted bonnet or scarf pinned to the mast. Twas a boon as we sailed through the seasons into ye winter.

Tis perhaps an irony that twas ye winter that took old Ambrose from us. The icy poles took his hole to a freezier cold than he’d ever before felt. As we made snowmen and battled polar bears old Ambrose was frostifying in his putrid nest. The woollen goods he made for us never warmed his drunken skin, never touched the cankerous recesses of his body. The icicles pierced him sure as deatwpid-tmp_share.jpgh, filling him with snowflakes.

We only knew it when the rats reappeared (them as had not been munched by the vicious Arctic Puffin and its blood-splashed beak – aye, a terrible foe who claimed four of me crew and a polar bear before we stuffed it with gunpowder and spread its pretty feathers over the iceberg), and the mournful troupe of golemic soldiers were found unravelling in the sun one day far south of the Arctic circle. We determined that grim though he were, he were also a man (prob’ly) who’d given much to the crew, and that perhaps we’d give him a land burial, for to our knowledge he’d never seen the sea but for his sojourn in the cage. Also he was fond of rats and they’d be able to pick his bones clean in turn in the ossuary. We were far from land, so we stuffed him into a rum cask to better preserve his rotten form.

As happens now and then to a man of the sea, the memory o’ the crazy man in the hull faded from me mind. Eclipsed perhaps by the excitement of beasts with jaws and claws reachin’ for me skull, the rum cask with Ambrose inside was pushed further back into the liquor store. One day as ye air grew fuller of ice again ye store was growin’ low and me custom was to acquire a full cask and hide it in me cabin before the cellar were drained, lest I be forced to suffer the world in sobriety.

That cask was the one containing the mortal remains of old Ambrose. I discovered this only by a curious confluence o’ sensory gifts. Ye rum held a subtle flavour – strong hints of tobacco and a mouldened scent; the barrel had an unjust weight and on uncorking the rum belly a wizened finger slipped out the hole. It gave me pause I can tell ye, for a moment. I’d doubts as to the wisdom of consumption, for such would have taken Ambrose in time. And yet I’d faith in the spiritual power of alcohol to purify the putrefying man, and no doubt of how little rum was on board.

I popped on the little ear hats that Ambrose had knitted for me and swigged away at his vital fluids. Aye, it keeps out the chill.

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 5: It Only Takes One

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Clive’s attention was drifting away from Alex. This was a good thing; he doubted there was much he could say that would soothe the powerful feelings of anger and shame that emanated from the embittered amoebic man. Alex hoped their earlier bonding would stand the test of time, or at least the next ten minutes.

The two mutant men’s eyes were locked on each other. The fresher second growing more and more alert, gripping his own leg and jerking them both with desperation. With every second the new clone looked smoother and cleaner – newer and stronger, while the primary, Clive seemed weaker and more tired. The palpable hatred of Clive for his identical twin meshed with the fear that sweated from Clive2. Though that fear was ebbing as he neared biological freedom.

While fascinating and horrible, it was a fine opportunity to creep away. But Alex had left it too late. With an appalling stretch of skin and tendon the men’s ankles and heels snapped free; the recoil of flesh made Alex retch. The mutants faced each other like a creepy pornographic version of the Marx Brothers’ mirror gag. They dispensed with the dancing and face-pulling, instead posturing, trying out their independent musculature. They both looked hard and dangerous. New Clive was tense, covered in a film of some bodily secretion alien to ordinarily-sexed humans. Old Clive still had a horrid fleshy rift down his side where the clone had torn himself free, and a sad murderous expression on his face.

Should he try to save the clone? Alex already had an imminent doom vibe and the thought made it vibe all the harder. But right now it looked bad for them both. Maybe if they ran for it Clive wouldn’t be able to hunt them down… in his super-fast flying car. Yeah, great plan. A deep hum rose from outside the barn. Oh… they weren’t even alone. Somehow, between being dropped on a pile of metal tubes and watching a man hatch out of another he’d managed to forget there was an even bigger jet outside. Alex didn’t know if that was good news, but the as the hum grew to a whine it made the trepanned discs of bone he wore round his neck vibrate. He fell to his knees to vomit an instant before the wall behind him dissolved in a violent shower of pulverised iron and brick, burying Alex in a pile of barn powder.

He felt, rather than heard, the massive footsteps thunder past him, but definitely heard the deep lisping of Man Ho-Tjusk.

“Vat’s enough Clive. Y’ain’t killin’ anovver one.”

Clive’s voice rose to a desperate shriek, “Fuck you elephant boy. It’s my clone. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Dad says no Clive.”

Alex excavated just enough powdered brick to see what was going on. Good view. The twin-things were dead ahead; nakedly glaring at each other. Just to Alex’ left the giant shaggy form of Man Ho-Tjusk rose up in the air, looking like a woolly mammoth on its hind legs. Next to him slouched his Beastlie Brother, Mu-Tant Ra’koon. The smaller, but brutal looking beast man was idly carving spirals into a helium can with his extended claws. On Alex’ other side the hissing beeping Boytronic Wonder toted a weapon that for its brutal compactness and branded lethality (Kills What You Want 100% of The Time) was evidently what had killed the wall.

“Just leave me alone. I just want to be alone.”

“Probably shouldn’t have started knocking off clowns then, eh Clive?” the Boytronic Wonder chimes in, ”could have just stayed at home instead of running off. You know that thing,” he pointed his gun towards the Petulance, “you do realise it’s trackable right?”

“Shut up Boy Toy.”

“I mean at least be smart about it, make some plans. Don’t just run off in Daddy’s car and go on a clown hunt. Don’t make me come and bring you back again.”

“Yeah I alwayth liked the clownth at the partieth Dad threw for uth. Remember Mithter Bimbolino? He wath a good one.”

“Oh yeah, I remember him – didn’t you two eat him or something?”

“Only his fingers.” Ra-Koon smirked at the memory.

“Come on then, let’s get the two of you back to the lab.”

“Stay the fuck away from me Wonder-Bot.”

“Hey, happy birthday new Clive! I wonder what you’ll get?”

“For pity’s sake Boyt’. What number’s this one Clive, twenty-three? Twenty-four? Where do they all go?”

Ra-Koon’s idle question visibly shook the clone, who had been watching his twin/father intently during the exchange, no doubt trying to figure out where he stood in this awkward family reunion. Alex also grasped the implications, they were definitely the same wavelength as his doom vibe.

The clone sprang into action, diving onto Clive with his arms spread and fists balled. Ra’Koon bellowed, “no!” and leaped forwards as the clone reached for his progenitor. Man-Ho Tjusk merely snickered, a curious sneezing laugh that bounced down his trunk, blowing dust off the top of Alex’ head. With swiftness that seemed incredible for a naked man with a hole down his side, Clive spun and seized from the floor a vicious bladed instrument that probably had a medical name. The blade whirled and flashed down at the clone. In a flash Alex caught the clone’s terror at the imminence of death and the miserable, hated shortness of his existence. As the gleaming edge descended towards the clone’s face a blinding bolt of violence spurted out of the Boytronic Wonder’s arms and Clive exploded in a spray of bloody wetness, evenly coating his clone and the insides of the barn.

“Fuckth sake Wonder Boy”

“What? He’s literally, exactly the same as Clive. Dad’ll never know the difference.”

“That’s really not the point. And you know that’s not true.” Ra’Koon looked seriously annoyed, teeth bared at his metallic sibling.

“Whatever. I’ve had enough of keeping an eye on that tool.” The Boytronic Wonder didn’t seem the least bit chastised. “Hey,” he called to the blood-soaked figure, “hey, Clive. Yeah, you. Think you can manage not to be a dick?”

The clone looked shocked, which was no great surprise. Still dripping with the pulp of his predecessor he took a step backwards. Alex sympathised; such casual annihilation of the clown slayer wouldn’t fill him with confidence either, but then nor would being attacked by your own mother-brother-dad-thing. Asexual relationships looked complicated.

“Mmm. Come on, Dad wants to see you.” Mu-Tant Ra’Koon retracted his claws and took the new Clive by the arm and dragged him, bloody footprints and all out of the barn. The Boytronic Wonder clicked, beeped and thunked off after him.

Alex breathed out slowly and started to dig himself out. He stopped when a gruff laugh came from right behind him, blowing the brick dust off his head. He turned slowly, into the face of Man Ho-Tjusk crouched in front of him. The man’s eponymous tusks were inches from Alex’ eyes. They looked at each other for a moment. All he felt from the mammoth man was a mild amusement. The giant man snorted and lifted a massive finger to the tip of his trunk, “Shsss. Lucky little man. Be watching you.” He snickered again and stomped off.

Alex cautiously stood up in a shower of ex-barn particles. The Vortex had vanished from outside, leaving him alone in a big room covered in blood and gas cylinders. An interesting day. He had no idea where he was and no way to get home. Unless… the Petulance… Really? Had caution entirely escaped him? Given his surprising bout of luck that night there was no reason to push it any further. Alex sighed, and started walking. After a few paces he scrabbled frantically through his pockets until he found his mobile phone. Still recording. Excellent. He turned off the sound recorder and granted himself a little hop and heel kick. Maybe he’d have something for Neil after all, as long as he could find his way back to town.

The End

Flash Pulp Stickers!

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Fantastic! My Flash Pulp stickers arrived yesterday in a delightful me-oriented envelope. Thank you 0popanax and the gang! A fantastic start to Christmas. One sticker has gone straight into my current writing book (which is where all good stickers end up) and I’m trying to figure out where best to stick the others. Be assured, the Captain loves Flash Pulp. I guess I’m going to have to record another story for the Flash Casts in a desperate bid to repay you guys.