You’ve been inside the mystery long enough not to care anymore that you can’t encompass it. In fact you’ve been inside long enough to prefer a position a little way outside, just left of the door. The view is more interesting. Parallax error runs in the background of everything you see, like a little bit of code totting up Air Miles and Nectar Points and so on. The main thing is that you don’t have to try, although it takes a few decades of trying before you discover that. You have to put in those decades, then one day you just upend an old wooden box on the pavement and start selling your CDs from it. People see you there night and day and they wonder about your life, something that stopped puzzling you years ago. You’re happy at last, give them a few years and they will be too.
Washed within the hoods of cars and one-story homes, three globally renowned scholars arrive at the Book Club. Their names are: Mark Waller, Cokay Food and “Citizen Exceed”. For our one week brain-training protocol, no auto sales experience is necessary. Everything you eat while you’re here–along with the movements you develop–is done with caution. TED talk: during the first morning session “Citizen Exceed”, rated M, will explore a wide array of accessories available in the world today. (Portable to be fixed.)
Here’s a taste of “Getting Out of There”, a new story published as a run of 200 signed & numbered chapbooks by Nick Royle at the Nightjar Press. If you’re quick you might get one.
Hampson came back after some years, to the seaside in the rain, to this town built around a small estuary where a river broke through the chalk downs. Everything–everything people knew about, anyway–came in through that gap, by road or rail; and that’s the way Hampson came too, down from London, midweek, in a rental van, unsure of what he would find for himself after so long. He had options, but since he wasn’t sure about them either, he rented a single room on one of the quiet wide roads that run down from the old town.
The day he moved in, he realised that not all the things he had brought back with him–bits of furniture, endless half-filled cardboard boxes sealed with gaffa tape–would fit in there, so he drove the van to a self-storage under some railway arches where the London Road left the centre of town. It was a bit back from the seafront, the usual kind of place, not very modern, with untreated breeze-block cubicles of different sizes, behind doors that were little more than plywood. He spent a morning carrying things around in there, then looked into the office on his way out. Behind the desk he found a woman he recognised.
“My god,” she said.
We aren’t part of that dispute at all. & we wouldn’t want anyone to know we had seen the pictures. We’re fine thank you, we just don’t like the train. The door isn’t right. We don’t like the door. Everyone else in the carriage is asleep, everyone but us. The train is so slow. The soup gave us indigestion & we don’t like the faces at the window. We are not part of that. We are not part of that. The soup gave us indigestion & we don’t like the faces at the window. The train is so slow. Everyone else in the carriage is asleep, everyone but us. We don’t like the door. The door isn’t right. We’re fine thank you, we just don’t like the train. & we wouldn’t want anyone to know we had seen the pictures. We aren’t part of that dispute at all.