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.

 

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

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 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

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

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.

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.

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.

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 – 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.

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

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!

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.

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.

 

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:

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.

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 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 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 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.

Pulp Pirate 5

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Ahar, me words can be in ye ears again! The most recent Flash Cast by the pulp fiction geniuses at Flash Pulp contains one of me little tales. Tis me Orthodontic Odyssey – a story of magic, miniature pirates and well-bosomed ladies. It’s with a new microphone and sounds especially nice. So you should listen in. My yarn’s about an hour in if you’re the impatient sort, but I’d powerfully commend to ye the entire helping of pulp related information and debate and an epic series of guest contributions (including me own humble gibbering). I still get an enormous thrill from the sound of me own guest intro music courtesy o’ Jessica May.

With contributions by Jeff Lynch, a new serial by Doc Blue, Three Day Fish‘s film reviews, Colorado Joe, Ingrid’s Mysterious Tales of Vienna,  the intriguing new section by ‘Gibraltar’ (?) and comment from Time Traveller Rich, Nutty Nutchas, Trilochon Chatterjee, Gigantor and all the folk I’ve failed to list here… it’s by far the best and most interesting podcast I listens to. Gaargh, it’s all so damn good.

You can listen to it here:

Flash Cast 52 Zombie Pie

The Water-Logged Adventure

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Water poured into me boot while me peg leg grew damp, attracting amorous barnacles. I fear their improbable penile protrusions which dumbfound the scale o’ their horny shells. And yet I was forced to face me fear: the water rose still, drownin’ any mates below knee-height. Twas only one of us, old Skanky Truecalf who succumbed. He was an inevitable casualty of that fateful game of Snakes and Ladders, but given his role in our present misery he was no great loss.

Gaargh, it had been a week o’ bastardy. Monday saw the recurrence of that bleedin’ giant squid. Ye’d think that hacking off its tentacle’s’d dissuade the monster from tugging at me foremast. But no, tis merely a goading stick. It’s a piteous sight watching the stumpy cephalopod slip and slide, his lopped off puckerings futilely seeking purchase on the rails. We used our tin o’ sperm whale lady oil to lure a leviathan from the deeps and get the bugger munched once and for all. Tis a risky stratagem and naturally it cost us the life of young Fistbuttle who was smeared in the special whale sauce and dangled beneath the ship. Yarr, tis the way of the ocean.

Second (merely in time for these ghastly occurences defy me attempts to rank ’em in hideousness) was the attack o’ the bat-witches. Aye, I can tell ye’ve heard of them, though I doubts ye have been subject to their leather-winged depravity. The crew o’ the Grim Bastard have not had ye fortuity. They fell upon us from the rigging where they’d roosted since we’d blundered into the pitchy black fogs o’ Denmark on Tuesday. Twas bad enough in the fogs, but ye witches, squid and further horrors make it just a damp mist. In moments they’d shrouded three o’ me most virginal crew in the folds of their lascivious wings and hoisted ’em aloft. We could hear our mates’ mingled cries o’ passion and terror as the devil-wenches had their wicked way with them on the wing. We put balls in a pair of ‘em only to find we’d bored our boys as well as the beasts.

Mayhap we should have tried a less penetrative assault, but at least we’d spared ‘em some of the horror. Fire proved effective on the flying rat ladies and we torched ’em out, suffering their furry ash to fall across the deck. Now, fire’s fine and all  but its fondness for me sails makes it a back-stabbing ally. The flamin’ sails fell enveloping the rest of the squealing witches in fire. Twas a kind of justice.

After that we drifted. Our sails were blackened tatters and our spirits much the same. Thankfully we’d quite a store of rum with which we planned to while away the hours until we ground into land. Gaargh, we’d reckoned not with Skanky Truecalf’s pets. Our last landfall was the hidden island o’ Misbegottenmas. Tis an unlovely place, and filled with colourful folk, by which I means scoundrels and killers. Amongst them was a man with a curious and unhealthy fondness for unusual animals, in particular the Barbadan Sugar Otter. Truecalf found his treatment of the odd squirly tykes objectionable and promptly abducted them. They seemed nice enough, at least they’d no teeth for snappin’ so I’d granted him to leave to bring the scabby beasties on board. Me ambivalence turned to punchy displeasure when I learned that they were not sea-faring otters; indeed they were creatures of sugary liquor – Truecalf had cracked open the rum casks to give ’em swimming space in their fluid o’ choice. Aye, they were happy: drunkenly splashing about, covering me rum with a thick layer of sugary moultings.

Sail-less, rum free and on a ship filled with bored pirates. Grand. Twas shortly after the rum-ruination that the lads began to play Snakes and Ladders. Tis a complex sport reduced somewhat by having many ladders but no snakes. Gaargh, the ingenuity of a pirate mind – tie one o’ smaller anchors to a spinning rope. It’s slap was judged sufficient sting to supplant the serpent’s venom. Twas all jolly till Skanky Truecalf blundered into the midst o’ the game, clutching an otter to his face like the beard of a Wildman, hungrily sucking the rum from its matted coat. He reeled back and forth like a madman.

A vile infection, bred twixt the Barbadan Sugar Otter’s rummy sores and the scurvy that lurks in the absence of lemons within us all had gripped the man’s mind. Abruptly he spun and emptied his guts on the deck, splashin’ the bare feet of Hamish McMuffin, the present wielder of the whirly snake-anchor. In surprise, or spite (with Hamish it’s hard to tell) he let fly and the anchor knocked Skanky to the deck with a wet snap.  Twas apparently the prompt for the bewildered plague-bearing otter to leap into the faces of the pirates who circled him with cautious toes. Twas rampant amongst us. Our paranoid delusions spawned fleshy nightmares and we ran about shouting, tugging at our beards and punching one another in the nether sacks.

It must have been the erratic pistol firing and hooting of my crazed mates that attracted the angels of the night. From aft we saw their ship ride up, their sails black and be-decked with skulls. We greeted ’em in our frenzy with lusty shouts and the hurling of bottles. Me haze parted enough to recognise a demonic Captain Aaarsbeard at the helm. He no doubt meant to board us and relieve us of our booty; gaargh, I was torn between the desire to blast him and hug him but I hoarsely choked out a warning to me fellows. The lads leaped to their duties and despite the disease’s mind fog they prepped the cannons in an approximation o’ good practice.

Twas the second misfire that caused Aaarsbeard to back off. The first had launched the minnowesque Robbie The Bag Lad into the air with a cloud of gunsmoke – he landed in good foaming fettle and launched a spittling attacked Aaarsbeard’s crew. This were a clue that all was not well on the Grim Bastard. The second misfire shattered our gunwhales and we started takin’ on water at a rate of buckets. Aaarsbeard turned tail, already fighting with lead the plague Robbie had borne onto his ship. We was goin’ down regardless.

And that’s where I find meself at the end of this week o’ catastrophe: fendin’ off frisky barnacles with me cutlass while me ship lolls drunkenly in the sea, sloshing me mates with her cruel briny spit. And yet, in the distance… Mayhap tis land, for surely no beast could be so large and spiny. Perhaps next week’ll bring more joy to me pirate heart.

Dusting – Alphabetic Dialogues 15

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Sir Bramley Facespierre, master of the immaterial arts reflects on a life of conflict and deceit in his twilight years. He is attended in his manor by Bronzewick, his long-suffering servant.

Sir BF “Vanquished are mine enemies, at long last.”
B         “Well done sir.”
Sir BF “Exterminated with extreme prejudice and elegance.”
B         “Your powers are ever impressive sir.”
Sir BF “Zealously have I slain those who mocked me and scattered their playthings in the mud.”
B         “And we are both grateful and worshipful sir”
Sir BF “Bronzewick, do I detect a faint note of sarcasm in your otherwise obsequious tone?”
B         “Considering the awe-inspiring depths of your insight into the minds of man, sir, I would be astonished if such a thing fell beneath your notice. Sir.”
Sir BF “Doubtless a mind such as mine is indeed proof against deceit.”
B         “Everyone says so sir.”
Sir BF “Fulsome praise indeed, and wholly merited.”
B         “God himself would warm you with his approbation sir.”
Sir BF “Have I ever told you how I came into possession of my powers?”
B         “If I may sir, I do have an awful lot of household duties to accomplish this morning.”
Sir BF “Just a moment Bronzewick, this will take but a moment.”
B         “(Kill me now).”
Sir BF “Look out beyond those trees – over the horizon.”
B         “My sir, what an uncommonly attractive view.”
Sir BF “Oh Bronzewick, ever is your mind fastened to the mere surface of things.”
B         “Please sir, I have dusting to attend to.”
Sir BF “Quell your anxieties Bronzewick, I shall reveal all; we are all made of the same dust – its presence on baubles can surely matter little.”
B         “Rarely is a servant so blessed with such an elightened and generous employer.”
Sir BF “So, one Tuesday or perhaps Thursday in a June long ago I located-“
B         “-through wit, intuition and mastery of the practical arts-“
Sir BF “Unless you cease your interruptions I’ll never manage to relate to you my secrets – oh, I see.”
B         “Very good sir, now if you don’t mind I’ll be about my spoon polishing.”

 

Get piracy in your ears

Posted on By Captain Pigheart

Allow me to hijack ye aural canal

Reverbin’ about ye brain

Ye site’s a place o’ music promotion and allows musicians and spoken word ‘artists’ (I struggle to descrive meself as an artist without self-mocking chucklery) to stick songs and audio boblets up on the web for your enjoyment. If ye fancy checkin’ it out, mayhap becoming a fan and even sharing it with ye pals I’ll be ever in ye drinking debt. There’s also a vast array o’ quality music on there too, so ye should explore and find a tune to fit ye mood.

Locate ye captain’s ramblings:

Captain Pigheart on Reverbnation

[gigya src= http://cache.reverbnation.com/widgets/swf/40/pro_widget.swf?id=artist_2433967&amp;posted_by=&amp;skin_id=PWAS1006&amp;background_color=EEEEEE&amp;border_color=000000&amp;auto_play=false&amp;shuffle=true” wmode=”opaque” quality=”best” width=”262″ height=”200″]

Ye can also listen to the Cold Cold Night Adventure with this fancy button right here:

Victory for pirate-kind

So far I’ve uploaded The Orthodontic Odyssey (as heard on the oft praised Flash Pulp) and A Cold, Cold Night Adventure. Expect more to follow! I’ve no idea whether this is a good plan or not, but ye thought’s’ll be appreciated as always. Mayhap we could try a Read-Along-With-Ignatius for them as wish to *cough* improve their piratical accent…

Also, and givin’ me a certain amount o’ pleasure is that I’m currently ranked #1 in the UK National Spoken Word charts. Admittedly tis by virtue o’ bein’ but one of only four or five UK spoken word artists on ye site…